Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Ilya's Niece, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Ilya's Niece

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Ilya's niece, Original Child Character(s), Rose Landry, Various Centaurs, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Murder-Suicide, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Grieving, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Uncle Ilya Rozanov, Family Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Accidental Teenager Aquisition, Implied Sexual Content, Contains spoilers for The Long Game, Gun Violence, Homophobia, Blood and Violence, Domestic Violence, Past Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-27 Updated: 2026-05-29 Words: 16,506 Chapters: 3/?

Closer to the Heart

Summary

Ilya's life is perfect. He's the captain of the best team in the league, he gets to play hockey with his husband every day, and he finally has the kind of family he only ever dreamed about as a boy.

And then one phone call from Russia changes everything. His brother and his sister-in-law are dead and Ilya has been named guardian of his 14 year old niece in his brother's will.

It's not even a question of whether or not to bring his niece to Canada. Ilya just doesn't expect that navigating life with a grieving, traumatized, and stubborn teenager would be end up being the hardest thing he's ever done.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

HI.

I'm Eddie.

Please look at the tags! Even though this is ultimately going to be a happy story there are some heavy topics that might not be for everyone. Specifically, it deals with murder-suicide and suicidal thoughts, child and spousal abuse, drug and alcohol abuse, and depressive episodes.

Also, this is set after The Long Game and may contain spoilers if you haven't read it yet.

Hope you enjoy!

The Centaur's dressing room is buzzing with pre-game excitement as they prepare for game three against Boston in the play-offs. Ilya has no intention of losing tonight’s game – he’s going out there to win and his team is, too. 

Nothing against Boston of course, but Ilya loves kicking the shit out of his former team. Just for the fun of it. For the cup. Because he can.

Because these days, the Centuars don’t suck and it’s fucking fun to rub victory in their faces. 

They have a good team this year. Even more solid than last year. Even their 2nd and 3rd lines are fucking phenomenal and Ilya has never been this excited about any team he’s played with so far. 

Except for maybe the stupid all-star game, where he and Shane played together for the first time and not as rivals. He would never tell Shane just how excited he’d been, nor how much fun it was to be his teammate. He thinks Shane knows anyway, because Shane loved it too. It was the first time the both of them saw how different things could be if they weren’t rivals. 

Now he gets that every game. Even if they’re not always on the same line. Between the two of them, along with the rest of their talented team, the Centaurs are no longer the league joke. They already have one cup to prove that and if Ilya has his way, they will have a second very soon.

Boston and Montreal are still lamenting their absence. The fans are too, but Ilya and Shane have both found a home and a family on this team, and Ilya couldn’t ask for a better one. 

Too bad, so sad for Boston and Montreal. Ilya’s having the time of his life and Shane is too.

“If I score a hat trick tonight, will you make out with me on the ice?” Ilya asks Shane, who stands next to him in just a pair of basketball shorts. He knows the answer is no, they're professionals, but it’s still fun to get Shane worked up. “The audience would love it. We will be on Kiss Cam. ESPN.”

“God, keep it in your pants, Rozanov,” Bood says. “Nobody wants to see you two sucking face on live TV.” 

“Isn’t the new car smell supposed to wear off after you get married?” Dykstra asks. “It’s been a few years, man. You should be like roommates now.”

Ilya smirks. They are like roommates. If roommates are also best friends that fuck in every room in the house, including the garage. 

“That says more about you than it does about me, D,” Ilya says. 

Dykstra throws a towel at him. Ilya dodges it and then throws it back. 

“My husband is hot. Look at him. I can’t help myself.” He looks to Shane and flashes his smuggest, most suggestive smile. Shane just mutters his name and rolls his eyes – he’s used to this now but it still embarrasses the hell out of him when it happens. The blush is cute, though and Ilya can’t resist needling him just a little more. “And you are all just jealous. None of you would be able to keep your hands off of him either if you knew what I know.” 

Troy makes a gagging sound. 

“Oh, like you and Harris are any better, Barrett,” Shane mumbles.

"Yes, what was that called again? Mile High Club?” Ilya winks at Shane. “Even we are not so bold.”

"Not for lack of trying," Luca snorts, no doubt remembering this season’s Halloween party at the Rozanov-Hollander home, when he walked into the laundry room and got to see Ilya on his knees with Shane’s dick in his mouth. 

Shane’s cheeks are bright red. Ilya pinches one of them, admiring the way the blush makes his freckles stand out. Ilya can tell he wants to say something, but he’s learned it only makes the teasing worse.  

“We should start getting dressed,” Shane says, but not loud enough for anyone to really hear him. “And stop sexually harassing your teammate.” 

Ilya ignores that.

“Was in my own house, Haasy. No one asked you to watch.” Ilya pulls on a compression shirt and tucks his chain beneath it. “But Shane is right. We have game to play in one hour and we are making him blush with talk of private things.”

Bood cackles. “It ain’t that private. Especially on the road.” 

Shane just shakes his head, looking like he wants to sink into the floor. Ilya wants to push him up against the wall and kiss him until he forgets how to speak in full sentences but he’ll save that for later.

“No one told you to listen, Bood.” 

Ilya’s phone starts buzzing and he glances at the number displayed on the screen. For the third time that day, an unknown Russian number is calling him. He frowns at it, assuming it’s probably his brother with a new number, since no one in Russia calls him anymore. They have not spoken since just after the wedding two years ago and it had been nothing more than a veiled attempt at asking for money. Not even a congratulations. 

He assumes this will be the same so he sends the call to voicemail. It immediately starts ringing again. 

“Is everything okay?” Shane asks in Russian. 

“Is my brother, I think.” 

Ilya dismisses the call again, only for it to start ringing immediately. 

“You should take it,” Shane says. “It might be important.” 

Now very irritated, Ilya answers, ready to give his brother an earful for not taking the hint. His brother is family, and Ilya loves him because has to, but he does not like him for so many reasons. Treating Ilya like a bank is only one of those reasons. 

“Why the fuck are you calling me?” he answers. 

There’s a pause. Then: “Ilya Rozanov?”

Not his brother. Not a voice he recognizes. 

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I am Ivan Volkov, your brother’s lawyer.” 

“What has he done?” Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose, aware that Shane and the others are watching, though Shane is the only one who understands what he’s saying. “And how much money does he want from me?”

There’s a long pause. “You were not contacted?” 

“About what?” Ilya gets a bad feeling. The way he did when he stepped into his mother’s room the day she died. 

Something is wrong. 

Shane must see something in his face because his mild concern turns to serious worry. Ilya holds up a hand and pushes his way through the locker room and out into the hall. There are people out here, but he’s not sure he wants Shane to see him fall apart if this feeling in his gut proves to be correct. 

“Your brother and his wife… They were… killed.” 

Ilya grows cold. Goosebumps break out all over his body. He swallows around the instant knot in his throat as the word killed sinks in. 

Killed as in dead. 

“How?” Ilya hates the way his voice breaks so much the word is unintelligible. He clears his throat and tries again. “How were they killed?”

This pause is even longer, stretching out into what feels like minutes. 

“Tell me!” Ilya shouts into the phone. “What happened?!”

“Your brother shot his wife. And then himself." 

Ilya can’t wrap his brain around that. Murder. Suicide.

Oh God. His niece, Oksana –

Without warning, pain explodes inside Ilya’s chest and he sinks to the floor, his back against the wall. Tears stream down his face and he wants to scream.

He understands the feeling of maybe wanting to die. When he was at his lowest, maybe he thought about it, but he can’t imagine wanting to take someone else with him. 

“My niece. Is she okay?” his voice is barely a whisper. “Fucking tell me.” 

“Yes. She is fine.” The lawyer clears his throat. “That is why I’m calling. Your brother has named you guardian in the event of his passing.”

“I – what?” 

“You are the only family she has that can care for her, Mr. Rozanov. There are alternatives, but they are not good ones.” 

Ilya lets out a heavy breath and closes his eyes. “An orphanage, you mean.”

“Yes. That is what I mean.” The lawyer pauses. “She has family in Germany but they have not been in contact with your sister-in-law for many years and they are only cousins. There is also a great aunt but she is not in good health.”

Ilya’s first instinct is to get on a plane right now and go get Oksana. He will deal with the consequences later. She must be so scared there, all by herself. 

“Where is she now?”

“She is with her great aunt and her nurse at the moment.” 

So she is safe. That is a relief. He doesn’t want to think of her in one of those temporary facilities that are like a jail for children.  

Shane peeks out into the hall, curiosity and concern written all over his face. When he sees Ilya sitting on the floor, he steps out, but Ilya holds up a hand and shakes his head. Shane comes anyway and kneels on the floor beside him. 

There’s no question of what he needs to do now, but the logistics are too much for him to process. It’s more complicated than just getting on a plane. 

“Okay,” Ilya says. “I must make some calls. And some plans. I can call you back at this number?” 

“Yes. The sooner the better, Mr. Rozanov. Funeral arrangements should also be made.” 

Fuck. 

Ilya has not considered that. Though Ilya paid for his father’s funeral, his brother made the arrangements. He got no say in how or what because he wasn’t there. Now he must do both and he doesn’t even know where to start. 

“Okay. Thank you. I will be in touch.” 

Ilya sets the phone on the floor and folds in on himself. That crushing weight he felt when his mother passed comes crashing down on him and he suddenly can’t breathe. 

His brother is dead. His brother, who never had any love for him, is dead and Ilya realizes that there is a small part of him that hoped that someday they might reconcile and know one another as brothers and not enemies. He’d hoped that someday his brother might forgive him for being the rich and talented faggot that overshadowed him his whole life. 

A fantasy maybe, to think of it, but sometimes he did. Once his brother retired, once the resentment finally left him. That can’t happen now and Ilya will live the rest of his life knowing that his brother hated him.  

“Ilya?” Shane’s hand slides across the back of his neck and the last of Ilya’s composure cracks. 

Shane’s arms go around him and Ilya leans into it, desperate for something to hold him together. There are no questions. Shane just holds on, rocking him back and forth on the hallway floor like there’s no one around but them. 

“Geez, guys, really?” Wyatt says. “You gotta do this now? Oh – shit. That looks serious.” 

“Just tell everyone to finish getting dressed,” Shane says. “I’ll be there in a minute.” 

Ilya has to get a grip on himself. There are things to do. He presses his face into Shane and focuses on the scent of him, on his warmth, on the comforting sensation of his fingers gliding through his hair, and it fills him with gratitude and love to have Shane there. 

“What happened?” Shane asks. 

Ilya can’t even say it in English, even though he knows the words. His mind is back home, on Oksana, on all the things he must take care of. 

“My brother,” Ilya finally says in Russian. “His wife. They are dead. He killed her. And then himself.” 

“Oh my god, Ilya,” Shane murmurs and his grip tightens. “I’m so sorry.” 

Ilya allows himself to be comforted, but only for a moment. He pushes Shane away, not unkindly, but if he allows this, he’ll end up sitting in this hallway crying in Shane’s arms for an hour. There is a game to play and there will be time for this later. 

Shane takes Ilya’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away his tears. It almost makes Ilya break. 

“What do you need from me?”

“You can win this game for me.” 

“That’s not what I meant. Do you want me to go get my mom? She can help you sort through whatever you need to do,” Shane says. “Lawyers. Travel visas. Hotel. Whatever you need.”

Ilya has not thought of these things. He’s not a Russian citizen anymore. There may be problems with travel since he’s now considered a traitor. He’s also married to a man and all of Russia knows it. It could be very dangerous to go. 

“Yes. Yuna will know what to do.” He takes a deep breath and puts his game face back on. “I will need to speak with Coach, too.”

“You got it,” Shane says. 

As Shane walks away, he’s never been more grateful for Shane Hollander and his wonderful family. 

Ilya is in Coach’s office, scrolling through available flights to Moscow when Yuna bustles in, all business. She stops and takes one look at Ilya and he actually sees her heart break. He must look pretty bad if Yuna is looking at him like he’s a wounded puppy.  

She opens her arms and Ilya goes into them, struggling to keep his shit together. He’s over the shock, but this is a lot. He keeps thinking about Oksana and what she must be going through, all alone with only a sick, elderly aunt to look after her. He can’t stop thinking about what his brother must have been going through if he thought murdering his wife and killing himself was his only way out.

“I’m so sorry,” Yuna says. “We’ll get this sorted out, okay? Just tell me what you need and we’ll go from there.” 

“Okay.” Ilya pulls back and wipes his eyes. “My niece is priority, yes?”

“Yes, of course,” she says. “David is calling someone he knows who can help us with the legal end of it. And I know someone who can handle emergency visas for us in the morning. Once we have those, we’ll book a flight, okay?” 

This is good thinking. There’s no use booking a flight if he can’t get into the country. If he can’t get into the country, then he isn’t sure he will be able to do anything. 

That is just another thing to stress about. 

“We?” Ilya asks. 

“Yes. We.” 

“Who is we?” 

“You, me, and a lawyer I know. He’s not Russian but he’s familiar with Russian law, so he can help us navigate any snags we run into.” 

“You know someone like this?”

It hasn’t been that long since Shane talked to Yuna and Ilya can’t believe how quick she’s gotten the ball rolling. He shouldn’t be surprised. Yuna is a force of nature, as David likes to say. And when she wants something, she makes it happen. 

“An old classmate. He helped a few of the Russian athletes that defected a while back when they wanted to immigrate to Canada.”

“So I didn’t have to marry Shane for passport?” Ilya asks with a straight face. “You have betrayed me, Yuna.” 

Yuna rolls her eyes and struggles to hide a smile. “Okay smartass.” 

Ilya grows serious. “You do not have to go with me.” 

He wants Shane to go with him, but that isn’t possible in the middle of playoffs. The team can afford to lose him, but not both of them. It’s also dangerous. They could be arrested if they forget the laws, even for a second, and Ilya doesn’t think he can abide by those laws anymore. He’s too used to holding Shane’s hand in public. Too used to showing his affection.  

“This isn’t something you should go through by yourself,” she says. “You should have family to lean on.” 

Ilya gets choked up again. He’s so grateful for these Hollanders, who welcomed him into their family without question and have given him everything his own family never could. The stars must have been shining on him the day that Shane Fucking Hollander caught him smoking next to a no-smoking sign and had the audacity to tell him he couldn’t smoke there in his own polite Canadian way. 

“Okay.” It’s all he can manage without crying again. “So we know more tomorrow.” 

“Yes. I wish it was sooner, but…”

“Is late. I understand.” Ilya rubs his sore eyes.  'I must plan a funeral and I have never done that before. I don’t know what I need to do.”

“Okay. Why don’t you get your things and I’ll drive you home. We can get some take-out and David and I will walk you through what you need to do.” Yuna types something on her phone. Frowns, and then looks to Ilya. “Any preferences?”

Ilya isn’t hungry, but he should eat. “I don’t care. I just want to get this done.” 

It’s after midnight when Shane gets home. The high of beating Boston 3-1 is dulled by the knowledge that Ilya is hurting and he couldn’t be there for him when he needed him. He drops his bag beside the door and kicks off his shoes and heads upstairs, where he finds Ilya in his underwear staring at his half-packed carry-on bag with a blank expression.

“Hey,” Shane says. He goes to Ilya and wraps his arms around him from behind. All the tension leaves Ilya’s body and he turns around and hugs Shane back. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” 

“No.” 

“Do you want to talk?” 

Shane expects that Ilya will want physical comfort more than he wants to talk, but Ilya sits down on the edge of the bed and rubs his eyes. 

“Yuna and David are in the guest room.” 

“I know. Mom texted.” 

“I don’t know what to do.” 

“Mom wasn’t able to help?” Shane sits down beside him. 

“They both helped. I will need to start making calls soon, but I meant Oksana. My niece. My brother named me her guardian and we have no other family.” 

Shane doesn’t know why he assumed Ilya’s brother’s wife had family in Russia who would take her in, but he did. That would be the best case scenario for Oksana, who probably didn’t want to leave her home for somewhere she’d never been, to live with an uncle she hadn’t seen since she was little. 

“Oh.” 

“Yes. Oh.” 

“How old is she?” 

“Fourteen.” 

They sometimes talked about kids, but it was always in an abstract future kind of way. Once one or both of them retired. Not while both were expected to travel for two weeks at a time. That didn’t make sense. 

“I think I will have to quit hockey.” Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to, but there is no hotel for teenagers and she will need her family.” 

Shane stifles a smile, imagining dropping her off the way they used to with Anya, who mostly stays at his parents while they’re gone these days. David took a liking to her and more or less insisted Anya stay with them when Shane and Ilya are on the road. 

“We’ll figure something out, okay? Season’s almost over and… we’ll figure it out.” 

Ilya drops back on the bed and closes his eyes. He looks exhausted.

He moves Ilya’s bag and places it by the dresser, then strips down to his underwear and climbs into bed. Ilya crawls in beside him, wrapping his body around Shane’s with a tired sigh. He smells clean and his skin is warm and Shane wants nothing more than to pin him down and make him forget his broken heart for a little while.

“I feel terrible for her,” Ilya says. “She must be so scared, Shane.” 

Ilya would know what his niece must be feeling. Their circumstances were different, but that didn’t mean the loss felt different. Except that she’d lost both of her parents at once and in such an awful way. 

Shane combs his fingers through Ilya’s hair and wishes he had some magic solution to this that would allow Ilya to continue to play. One that would also allow them to give Oksana a safe place to land. At present, nothing reasonable comes to mind and he’s too tired to put his mind to work on that task. 

“Your parents were a big help. Too much goes into funerals, I think. Big stupid production,” Ilya says. “But I will keep it small, no reception, no dinner.” 

“You don’t think his friends want to go?” 

“I don’t care if they do. They can have their own party.” Ilya settles fully into Shane with his head against his chest. “No one goes to funerals when…”

Shane doesn’t need Ilya to elaborate. “That happens here, too. There’s a stigma about it.”

“What is stigma?” 

“It’s like…” Shane searches his weary brain for a definition that isn’t too complicated. “A mark of disgrace? People don’t want to be associated with that kind of thing.” 

Ilya knows the word disgrace. It was all over Instagram after they were outed. All over Russia when he defected. 

“I’m tired of thinking about this,” Ilya says. “How was the game?”

As if Shane doesn’t know that Ilya put the game on in the background while making his plans. And if he hadn’t, Yuna did. 

“We won. We’ll win the next one too.” 

“What did you tell them? The team.”

“Nothing. Just that it was a family thing. Do you want me to tell them about it?” 

“You can tell them. It is not a secret. Someone will post online anyway, so the truth is best,” Ilya says. “Do you think it will look bad?” 

“What? You taking care of your family? Of course not.”

“No. I mean my mother and my brother both… the foundation. Will it look like I didn't help my own family?” 

Another thing Shane hadn’t even thought of. “No, Ilya. Don’t even think that, okay? Their choices don’t have anything to do with you.”

“I know. But –”

Ilya doesn’t finish the thought. He heaves a sigh and Shane feels the warmth of Ilya’s tears dripping onto his skin. It sucks that all he can do is hold him. Shane would give anything to take his pain away. 

Oksana Rozanova stares out the window of her great-aunt’s bedroom clutching a cup of tea that she secretly spiked with some objectively terrible vodka. Behind her, on the bed, Aunt Bettina struggles to breathe. Every now and then, she mutters something in German.

It won’t be long now. Even though she’s still breathing, Bettina is already dead, the way Sana’s father has been dead for a few years now. Her mother, too. Different causes, different diseases, but living dead just the same. 

Sana understands this because she feels the same. Alive, but barely. 

This room is like a tomb and it smells like death, too. The way her home smelled of death beneath the scent of blood and gunpowder just two days ago. 

Sana closes her eyes against that memory, but her mind won’t stop replaying it over and over again. Her father snorting cocaine off the kitchen table, his eyes wide and crazy. Her mother’s blood, everywhere. Dripping down the white cabinets. Puddled on the floor. 

Maybe once the bruises heal, Sana won’t feel the back of his hand across her face anymore. Maybe once they are buried, she can forget that he almost shot her, too, before turning the gun on himself. 

She sips her tea and watches the street below, trying to shut it all out, trying to find peace in the movement of the people on the sidewalks going about their normal, boring lives and in the pale green buds of new leaves on the skeletal trees. 

“Oksana.” She turns to the door, where Mr. Volkov, her brother’s lawyer stares at her. His suit is expensive. Worth more than everything she owns and she hates him for that reason alone. “I have news.” 

Sana sets her tea on the small table in the corner and sits down in one of the chairs, covered in faded floral fabric and edged in frills like something from a doll’s house. Everything in here looks like it was chosen by a little girl. The comforter on the bed. The curtains. The paintings on the wall. 

She motions for Volkov to join her but doesn’t offer refreshment. It’s not polite but Sana is past the point of being polite. 

“What is it?”

“Your uncle has made the arrangements. He will be arriving in Moscow shortly.” 

Sana hasn’t seen her uncle in a very long time. She remembers him being funny and kind, like a big kid himself getting down on the floor to let her put barrettes in his soft, curly hair. She remembers him bringing her gifts from the states and talking to her when all the other adults ignored her. He had such a light in him. He was so vibrant and full of life in a way that the people around her were not. 

All she’s heard of him since are the bad things her father talked about when he couldn’t pay the electricity or afford a decent bottle of vodka or a baggie of cocaine. 

Ilya Rozanov, her rich uncle who defected from Russia to marry a man and play hockey, while ignoring his very poor family in Moscow. If he cared, he would have helped, instead of buying new cars and embarrassing the family with lies about Irina Rozanova’s death. 

A narrative that is supported by Ilya’s long silence. He used to send birthday cards in English with money in them. Or packages with gifts. That all stopped after grandfather died. 

“Arrangements are being made for you to go home with him. To Canada.” Volkov looks so pleased with himself Sana wants to scream. 

“And what if I don’t want to go to Canada?” 

The lawyer is taken aback, then offers her a hopeful smile. He spreads his hands out like he’s performing a magic trick. 

“It’s a wonderful opportunity, Oksana. Your uncle is very wealthy and Canada is a very beautiful place.” 

“You sound like you approve of this traitor.” She almost uses some of her father’s more colorful language for Ilya, but she is not so sure she believes Ilya should be condemned for loving someone. Abandoning his family, maybe, but not if it was for love. God knows, Sana doesn’t know what that kind of love looks like anymore. She’s not even sure if it’s real. 

“I didn’t say that.” It’s clear he doesn’t share the sentiment, he’s only trying to appease her. “But you must consider your options. They are few, Oksana. And it’s only until you turn eighteen. Only four years and if you wish, you can return to Russia once you are old enough.”

Return to what? she wonders. 

Will she come back to Russia and marry a man like her father and have children she doesn’t want and spend the rest of her days as unhappy as her mother was? What sort of life is that? 

Sana is smart enough to know that she has no power here and she is too young to make her own choices. She will go to Canada and everything and everyone she knows will be thousands of miles away, with an ocean between them. 

“And when will the police speak to me?” Sana already knows the answer to this question, but she still asks. “They have not taken my statement.” 

The lawyer doesn’t answer. 

“The case is closed then,” she says knowingly. “What will it be, officially? An unfortunate home invasion? Retaliation by the mob?” 

“Oksana –”

“No. I don’t care. It changes nothing and it will not stop them from lying.” 

That hangs between them for a torturous moment, while Bettina struggles to breath on the other side of the room. There’s no sound but the soft hiss of the machine that keeps her alive. 

Volkov clears his throat. “Ilya will be here this afternoon. The funeral will be tomorrow. He wanted me to ask if you have something to wear.” 

At the apartment, she does, but Sana does not want to set foot in that place ever again. She’ll lose her mind if she has to go there so she shakes her head no. 

“We will find something, then.” 

“I don’t want to go to the funeral.”

“Now is not the time to be difficult, Oksana. You must pay your respects. He was your father.” 

“He shot himself in front of me.” Volkov visibly winces at her cold, flat delivery. “I have paid all the respects I will ever pay. If there is nothing else, please excuse yourself. I am tired of talking.” 

Volkov leaves, reluctantly. She’s sure there is more he wants to say to her. Perhaps he wants to call her a brat or something worse, but he holds his tongue and leaves quietly. 

As soon as he’s gone, her bravado leaves her entirely and she slumps in the ridiculous pink chair, simultaneously feeling ancient and also impossibly young. 

She needs something to focus on, a distraction of some kind. She could read to Bettina, who doesn’t understand a word of what she’s saying, but she doesn’t want to hear herself talk. Instead she takes another sip of tea and turns on the VPN she’s not supposed to have on her phone and connects to a server in the Netherlands. 

From there, she calls up Ilya’s Instagram. 

There are thousands of pictures and thousands of comments on each one. Many are of hockey and other hockey players but Sana isn’t interested in these. It’s the other, more personal photos she wants to see. 

She needs to know if her uncle Ilya is still a bright light in a dark room or if he really is the awful monster her father has made him out to be. 

All she sees as she looks at the photos of Ilya with his husband is a man who is happy. He looks like the man in her memories.  

Sana inspects the pictures of Shane Hollander carefully, trying to find any sign that he might also be a monster, but all she sees is a beautiful man with a kind face and warm brown eyes. 

It is easy to tell that they are in love and Sana can’t help the resentment that boils up in her chest. Sana’s parents never looked at each other that way. When her father was angry he often said that her mother was just some whore he knocked up and married because he wanted to do the right thing. That Sana was the burden he carried for his mistakes. 

This is a miserable place and a miserable life and Sana isn’t sad to be leaving it behind. 

Maybe she will hate Canada, too, but maybe it’s better to be miserable there with her rich uncle, instead of dirt poor and all alone here in Moscow. 

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Sana has spent her morning watching old hockey videos of Ilya while she waits for him to arrive. What she sees on her screen contradicts everything her father said about him. For years she’s heard what a lazy and incompetent he player is. Couldn’t cut it in Russia and played for the most inferior teams in the US and Canada, both of whom hate him. Nothing but an attention whore, to make up for his lack of skill.

From what she can tell, this isn’t true. Even when he was young, he was very good. First pick for the draft, currently considered one of the best players in the professional leagues, beloved by his fans, advocate for mental health and inclusion, children’s hockey coach in the summers, two-time cup winner. 

There are so many videos that prove Papa was lying. 

Sana doesn’t know much about hockey. Her father never watched it, probably out of spite. All she knows about it is that it is a brutal sport where men get their teeth knocked out and head injuries are a common occurrence. This is corroborated by videos of Ilya with his lip bleeding, grinning as he holds up a bloody tooth. And videos of Ilya laughing as he slams his future husband up against the boards with so much force, it knocks the wind out of Hollander. And Ilya gleefully swinging his fists as he fights another player. And smirking as he talks to reporters with his eye swollen shut. Waving to the crowd like he’s the princess of Canada as he’s ejected from play.

 One thing her father said is true, she supposes. Ilya does seem to love attention. 

Watching these videos gives her a very bad feeling. She might be leaving one violent situation for another. Ilya might not be the gentle, funny man she remembers. He could very well be an abuser behind closed doors, like her father, who smiled and laughed and doted on her in public, but applied the back of his hand liberally in private. 

Papa wasn’t always so terrible. When she was little, he was very sweet to her. His little girl, his only child. He'd handled her like she was something precious. 

He changed as she got older, or maybe he just liked her less as she got older. He drank too much. He’d stay up for days doing drugs and playing cards with friends, and his mood after would always depend on how much money he lost.

She was six the first time she saw him hit her mother. Nine the first time her father hit her, bloodying her nose for dropping a plate of rolls on the floor. Then full of apologies for hurting her. Not that it stopped him from doing it again. 

Her mother wasn’t much better. She’d been a joyless, cold woman who liked her cocaine and her vodka better than her child and she was never happy about anything. Sana can’t remember her mother ever going out of her way to protect her. Sometimes she was the one doing the abusing. Vodka made her mean and critical and Sana always fell short of her expectations.

She didn’t hit as hard as Papa, though. 

Sana learned to tip-toe around it, to be neither seen nor heard when they were like that. She sought escape in her art and in the company of her friend Niko and when she couldn’t do either, she daydreamed of getting out, going to some beautiful Caribbean island or maybe somewhere in Thailand, a place with palm trees and beautiful waters, somewhere far, far from here. 

Now that she’s really leaving, it’s to a place that was nowhere on her list of destinations. Canada is just as cold and desolate in its own way, just with a clean and tidy veneer. 

She moves on from the old videos to some of the newer ones. These are different, now that Ilya and Shane Hollander play for the same team. There is no more brutality against each other and they seem to be very in sync when they play together. Not enemies but a team. 

That gives her a small measure of hope that she’s not walking into a war zone, but it isn’t quite enough to shut down the voice inside her head telling her to be cautious. It would be better to stay in Russia than live through another four years of violence and screaming matches. 

In the pictures they are happy, but Sana knows that who people are behind closed doors is rarely the same person they are when others can see them. 

An hour past the time Volkov said they would be arriving, he finally breezes into the room, followed by three people, two of whom she does not recognize. 

The first is a woman, obviously of Asian descent, who looks and smells expensive. There are enough similarities in her face to Shane Hollander to assume, based on her age, that she is Ilya’s mother in law. The other is a man in a gray suit who looks like a politician. 

And behind them is Ilya, looking somehow exactly the same as she remembers, but also larger and taller than she remembers. When he spies her, he breaks into a huge, toothy smile and holds his arms open for her like she is still six years old. 

“Oksanochka!” he says. “Come give me a hug.”

Sana stands firm, unwilling to forgive his long silence so easily. His smile falls as she looks him over critically. He looks expensive, too, in his black cashmere sweater, wool overcoat and tailored designer trousers. 

“Don’t call me that. I am not a little girl anymore.” 

He must have assumed she was still just a child, the sweet little thing he remembered, and not beaten down and almost grown. Her lack of excitement disappoints him, but if he expects her to be overjoyed he’s come to rescue her, then he’s living in a fantasy world of his own.

“Yes. I see that.” He frowns darkly and steps closer. His expression turns murderous. Sana flinches under his gaze, expecting a slap for talking back. When he speaks again, his voice is dangerous and pitched low. “Who did this to your face?”

Sana just looks up at him, exhausted all of a sudden. What would he say if he knew? What would he do? Volkov would not have told him the truth. Not about what really happened. 

And what could he do about it now? 

“Was it your father?” 

“Is nothing,” she says. “Just a bruise.” 

Ilya’s hand comes up and she instinctively takes a step back. If he hits her, she will take her chances with the children’s institutions.  

He looks scared. And sad. 

“I am sorry, Oksi.” 

“You should be. You abandoned us.”

The shot lands exactly the way she wants it to, but the second it does, she wishes she could take it back. 

“I will tell you about it sometime. What happened. And then you can decide if you want to forgive me or not.” 

Sana has nothing to say to that. It’s hard to forgive what she doesn’t understand. An explanation won’t make a difference. It won’t change anything or take back the last seven years. 

The others are staring at her like she’s a lab specimen in her childish black dress. No wonder he thinks she is still small. She’s dressed like a little doll. 

She didn’t get to choose this terrible dress, and it doesn’t really matter what they think. This is not a dress she will ever wear again. 

Maybe when she gets to Canada, Ilya will let her burn it. 

“So. What now?” she asks. 

Ilya’s face settles into something a little more neutral, though his eyes remain sad and fixed on the bruises. 

“Oksi, this is my mother-in-law, Mrs. Yuna Hollander, and Mr. Evan Lefevre, our lawyer,” Ilya says. “They are here to help things go smoothly.” 

Mrs. Hollander smiles and holds out her hand. Sana hesitates a second, but then takes it. The woman’s grip is firm, but her hand is soft and it feels pampered, as if she never forgets to use expensive lotions and exfoliants. 

“Hello Oksana,” Mrs. Hollander says. “You can call me Yuna.” 

“I am pleased to meet you, Yuna,” Sana says in halting, careful English. “I am Sana.”

Sana detects some relief in Yuna’s smile. “You speak English.”

“Only a little.” She understands Engilsh much better than she speaks it. The words feel strange and heavy in her mouth.

Sana sees more of Shane in her face now. It’s the smile, which Sana may or may not have been studying almost obsessively for the last twenty-four hours, trying to figure out what exactly was so special about Shane Hollander that would make Ilya turn his back on his family. He’s nice to look at, and physically fit, but the pictures don’t tell her much more than that. 

The man introduces himself next. He is very Canadian with a polite smile and he greets her in garbled, clumsy Russian. His hands are soft, too, but his grip is weak. 

Ilya is studying her with his sad eyes and Sana hates it. Like she’s a poor, starving puppy he’s going to save from the streets. 

She studies him back, but sees little resemblance to her father. 

That, she thinks, is good. She doesn’t want to be haunted everyday by Papa’s face. She would like to forget what he looked like and maybe never think of him ever again. 

“What is plan?” she asks in English. She might as well get in some practice. She will probably need it. “Do we go to Canada now?”

“You and me will go to the funeral and Yuna will pack your things from the apartment. The rest we will have shipped,” Ilya says, also in English. “And then we go to the Canadian Embassy and get your visa. If there is no trouble, we will be on a plane to Montreal tonight.”

Sana hasn’t even had time or the will to say goodbye to her friends yet. Some have not even reached out to her yet. Maybe she understands why but she also does not and now she’s leaving and she won’t be able to see or talk to any of them before she is gone.  

“How did you make this happen so fast?” she asks.

Volkov gestures at Ilya. “Money.” 

“That is how it works here, isn’t it?” Ilya asks in Russian, his eyes flashing, his tone combative. “A bribe to make things happen?”

Nobody says a word and things get very tense for a moment. That violent anger she sensed in Ilya earlier is back and she freezes, afraid to make any sudden moves.

It’s Yuna Hollander that breaks the silence and the tension. 

“Is there anything you want me to make sure I pack for you, Sana?” Yuna asks. “Special things?”

“Yes. My pictures, please,” she says. “On the mirror in my room. Also my….” 

She doesn’t know the word for sketchbooks and asks Ilya for translation. 

“You’re an artist?” Ilya asks. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“I draw sometimes. Also paint.” 

“Your grandmother did, too.” Ilya swallows hard. He looks sick. “You look very much like her.” 

Her father often said the same and he occasionally used their resemblance to accuse her mother of cheating. Once or twice, he said that he didn’t believe Sana was his daughter, but Ilya’s. 

Looking at him now, she can understand why. They share the same eye color, the same shape mouth, and they both have the same light brown hair, though Sana’s is not curly. Enough of a resemblance to make a paranoid, coked-up man extra paranoid. 

The math does not add up, so it can’t be true. Sana was born in late October. Ilya never visited in the winter. Pointing that out never convinced Papa otherwise. 

“What do you draw?” Yuna asks as if she’s very interested to know. 

“People,” Sana says. “But I paint the sea, too.” 

“Why the sea?” 

“The colors are very beautiful.” 

“I think so, too,” Yuna says. Her smile is kind, and very like Shane’s. “Do you take art classes?”

Sana had submitted work to study at the art institute, but she’d been denied. Not good enough. Uninspired subject matter. Technically imperfect. No discipline.

“No. Just internet.” 

“Well, I’m sure that’s something we can talk about doing,” Yuna says. She looks to Ilya, who nods and favors Yuna with a tight-lipped but grateful smile. “We should go, though. We have a lot to do if we want to leave tonight.” 

Sana would like to skip the funeral and go straight to the embassy. The sooner this happens, the better. Like ripping off a bandage.

There is no getting out of it. All she has to do is get through it. 

There are very few people at Alexi and Yvettaliza’s funeral. A couple of colleagues, an old friend and his wife. Not at all like when his father passed, when a hundred people showed up to pay their respects. Ilya doesn’t know if that was because his brother was not nearly as well-liked or respected as their father, or if word has gotten out about how he died. 

Could be both. 

It doesn’t last long, either. Twenty minutes, maybe. A few generic words said by a priest. Oksana declines to speak, and so does Ilya. His feelings for his brother are too complicated and he suspects Sana’s are, too. 

None of his brother’s friends speak either. 

His brother had always been surrounded by other boys just like him growing up, always the life of the party as an adult, and that continued well after he’d married Vetta. He’d thrown wild parties and drank until the sun came up, with all those so-called friends who were all so eager to use the drugs and alcohol Ilya’s money bought. 

When the money stopped, Ilya would bet all those good friends of his stopped coming around so much.   

What was Alexi like in these last few years? Still wasting all his money and time throwing parties for friends who only took and never gave? Had he turned even more angry and resentful once Ilya cut off his financial support? 

Ilya has regrets, and guilt, too. None of that can be fixed now. There will be no resolution that will leave him with a sense of peace. All he’s left with is a knot of loose threads that he’ll never be able to untangle and a growing sense that this is his fault for forcing what was left of his family to fend for themselves. 

Beside him, Sana stands quietly with her hands clasped in front of her. Her battered face is made of stone. She hasn’t cried, as Ilya expected she might, and that worries him. Not once has she mentioned her parents.  

He has a lot of questions that he’s too afraid to ask her. Volkov was very tight-lipped about the details of their deaths which have been reported in the news as an act of retaliation by a drug dealer that Alexi arrested two years ago. A tidy and tragic story to prop up the police, propaganda to hide the truth. He suspects Volkov only told him the truth because Sana might contradict it. 

None of his brother’s friends or colleagues greet him once it’s over. One or two shoot him dirty looks as they file down the path back to their cars, no doubt resenting that there is no free food and drink for them to enjoy at Ilya’s expense. 

They still hate him here, as they always have. Ilya used to take that so personally, though he never showed it. He chose to throw it in their faces instead, taking every insult in stride and cracking jokes. 

He understands now why they hate him; Ilya had the talent and drive to get out, to make something of himself, and he seized the opportunity to live a better life than any of them ever dreamed of. They hate him for the fact that he broke all the rules and laughed in the face of what was expected of him. They wanted him to carry all of Russia on his shoulders, to be the nation’s pride and joy and bring glory back to Russian hockey. 

When he failed to do that, he became the butt of the joke. 

Such a disappointment. Such wasted talent, he could have been great. Couldn’t handle the pressure because he was weak and lazy. Defected to Canada like a coward. Married a man like a deviant.

Ilya could have loved this country if everything wasn’t all about perfection and discipline, with no room to fail, learn, or experiment with different ways of doing and being. Everything in Russia is too black and white and Ilya prefers life with a lot more color. All those shades of gray in between are reserved only for those with the power to lie about it. For most people here, you either win, or you are disgrace. You follow blindly and without question, or you go to jail. 

Look and act like a good Russian boy, marry a nice Russian girl, be our hero or we will make your life miserable. 

He used to think this experience was uniquely Russian, but his time in the US and Canada made him see that it isn’t so unusual. It’s just quieter and more subtle in North America, not so obvious on the surface. He knows dozens of players who grew up in small towns among people with small minds, where non-conformity was seen as a crime against the community. It doesn’t matter if it’s a big city like Moscow or small town in Georgia, the experiences of those who are different all share the same sense of not belonging, of being ostracised and shamed for individuality. 

The rules and consequences might be different, metaphorically death by a thousand cuts rather than by firing squad, but not so different that Ilya can’t relate. The pain of being shunned by one’s own people is universal.

A young man in a suit steps out from behind a tree and holds out his arms to Sana, who goes into them without hesitation. Ilya stops walking and hangs back, allowing Sana to have her moment with her friend. 

The boy is maybe her age, and his physical features remind Ilya of Sasha a little. Ilya can tell by the way they hold onto each other that they are close and that reminds him of how Svetlana was the only one who comforted him after his mother died. 

There were plenty of condolences of course, so tragic, Irina died too young, what a terrible accident, but no one who gave him the kind of support he desperately needed except for Sveta.  

Ilya wishes Sana would allow him to be the one to offer that, but he doesn’t have the right to decide for her. He cannot force her to trust him with something so traumatic when she doesn’t know him anymore, and that is his own fault.

So, he allows her this moment and turns away from her and her friend to look at the tomb where his brother and sister-in-law have been laid to rest, right next to his father, and tries to remember a time he and Alexi got along. 

Before his mother died, he thinks. Before Alexi started speaking to his mother the same way his father did, complaining about the food, or the state of the house. Before he started treating her like an incompetent maid. 

That was a very long time ago. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s a text from Yuna, letting him know they’re on their way to the Embassy and will meet them there. He does not want to cut Sana’s time with her friend short, but he also doesn’t want to get stuck here another day. Though he’s been assured that he is safe here as a Canadian citizen, he doesn’t want to take the risk of them coming up with an excuse to keep him here. 

“I’m sorry, Oksi. We should go,” he says. 

Her friend offers him a weak smile and presses a kiss to Sana’s forehead. Then he steps aside to offer Ilya his hand. 

“Nikolai Alexandrov,” he says in a soft, almost musical voice. “I am Sana’s friend.” 

“Ilya Roz-”

“I know who you are,” Nikolai interrupts. “And what you have done. Such a disappointment to the people of Russia.” 

It doesn’t sound like an accusation or a condemnation, though his words could be taken that way if overheard. It’s calculated, his word-choice purposeful. Curious, Ilya cocks his head at the boy, matching his steady, knowing stare with one of his own. 

“Brave,” Nikolai says. His eyes flick to the ring on Ilya’s finger. “Wearing that here.” 

Again, Nikolai’s words don’t convey the homophobic undertones they imply, and Ilya is smart enough to read between the lines. This boy is like him. 

“Yes. Maybe they arrest me for it. Maybe they send me to Siberia and cause international incident. Free Ilya, all over the internet. And then I get to tell the world how terrible it all was on Instagram once I am returned to Canada.” 

“You would not be the first.”

“It would be very bad optics for them.”

Nikolai snorts. “I like you.” 

Sana huffs and rolls her eyes, but he sees her struggle not to smile. 

“I’m sorry, but we should go, Niko.” She goes up on her toes and kisses his cheek. “I will message you as soon as I get there, okay?” 

“You better.” He hugs her again. “I will miss you, my friend.” 

Nikolai leaves them and Sana watches him go. Ilya watches her wipe away the first tears he’s seen since he arrived. 

“I think we did good,” Rose says. She slides her arm around Shane’s waist and Shane leans into it as they admire the freshly re-decorated guest room, where Ilya’s niece will be staying. “It’s giving me a Florida Airbnb vibe.” 

“You don’t think it’s too Airbnb? Like, more Florida retirement community?” he asks. “For a fourteen year old, I mean.” 

“I think she’ll love it,” Rose says. “I would have loved this when I was fourteen.”

Shane isn’t sure she means that, but he takes it at face-value. He didn’t know her then, so he can’t say one way or another if it’s true or if she’s just trying to make him feel better. 

When Yuna texted that Oksana was an artist who loved the colors of the ocean, and with Rose in town due to a short break in filming her latest movie, Shane got an idea and ran with it. They’d hit up an art supply store first, then a homegoods place, and they had spent the morning switching out Ilya’s tasteful but very masculine guest room decor for something softer and prettier. 

He’s grateful for Rose’s help. Shane has no skill when it comes to interior design himself, and for years he paid someone to make those choices for him. More recently, Ilya’s been the one making those decisions and Shane’s been happy to let him. Ilya’s got a good sense of style and color, and Shane trusts his choices far better than his own. 

At least everything in the room seems to coordinate nicely – all the soft slate blues and sandy creams mingle well with the understated seashell motif. On the dresser is a bowl of scallop shells and the art prints on the walls depict calm seas and sand dollars and gentle waves. 

“So the desk is going over there, right?” Rose points to the empty space next to the bed where a huge, heavy and entirely unnecessary armoire used to be. “Do you think we should move one of the prints above it? Or leave it for her to put up her own art?”

“I think it’s okay for now. She might want to change it, anyway.” He pictures the walls being painted a vivid pink or purple and covered in k-pop idol posters and fairy lights, like in the Pike girls room. 

Shane’s stomach tightens in anticipation of their arrival. Ilya’s only been gone three days but it feels like it’s been three weeks. 

And to think, three days used to be nothing to them.  

“Are you nervous?” Rose asks. 

“A little. Mostly for Ilya. I know he doesn’t want to retire yet, but…” 

“It’s a tough choice.” 

“It isn’t, though. Not for him,” Shane says and shakes his head. Ilya has always been one to give more of himself than he gets in return. “She’s the only family he has left and that’s more important to him than he lets on.” 

Shane feels selfish for dreading Ilya’s likely retirement. It means they’ll have to return to the way things used to be – long absences and thousands of miles between them. He’s gotten used to sharing hotel rooms with him on the road, and going home to the same place every night when they’re in Ottawa. 

Looking back, he’s not sure how their relationship not only survived the distance, but somehow managed to grow into something so incredible in the midst of all that distance.  

They should have been doomed from the very start. The toll those years took on them, on Ilya in particular, left behind some scars that have only just healed. Shane is worried about reopening those old wounds. He can withstand it, but he’s not so sure Ilya can.     

“I just wish there was some way, you know?” Shane says. “That he could have both, but it’s not like we can drag a teenager along on the road with us.” 

“I wish I had a solution for you. But you never know. Might work out for the best.” 

Shane doesn’t see how, but he nods his agreement. Things have worked out before, and better than he ever expected. For now, his job is to focus on making this transition as easy as possible for everybody involved and he’ll support whatever decision Ilya makes. 

“So, I guess we’re done in here until the desk gets delivered,” Rose says. “Why don’t we get some take-out and watch Miles’ new show? I haven’t seen it yet and I promised I would and I feel like a terrible friend for putting it off.” 

“Yeah, we can do that.” Shane’s not in the mood for TV but it’s a good way to pass the time. “What is it again?” 

“It’s called Quantum Genesis.” She shrugs. “It’s about a detective named Genesis Williams, who keeps getting sent back in time to stop a crime from happening in the future. Every time he fails, he has to start over. Kind of like Groundhog Day, but sci-fi and not funny. And no Bill Murray.” 

That sounds mildly intriguing, though Shane doesn’t know how a premise like that would stay interesting for long. Might make a better movie than a series, but what does Shane know? He watches movies and TV to be entertained, not to analyze plot structure.

“Sure. Sounds great.” 

Rose beams at him. “I was thinking sushi, but pizza also sounds amazing.” 

“You’re not worried about fitting into your costume this time?” Shane teases.

“I’m in a puffy jacket for most of this one, which hides big lunches really well.” She pats her stomach. “I don’t need to look pretty.” 

“Remind me what this one is again?” Shane asks as he heads for the door. “More terrible superhero stuff or something different?” 

“It’s a horror movie, actually. Lots of running around screaming in the woods while being chased by teenage cannibals.”

“Sounds thrilling.” Shane’s not a huge fan of horror movies. Not because they’re scary but because they never make much sense. The characters never make logical choices. “Can’t wait to see it.” 

“It’s either going to be a masterpiece or the worst thing you’ve ever seen.” 

“You don’t know?” 

“I go back and forth. At least this cast is fun and I don’t have to sit in a make-up chair for four hours to shoot three whole minutes of screen time. They just smear some fake blood and dirt on  my face, stick some leaves in my hair, and I’m good to go.” 

“You know you love it.”

“I really do,” she smiles. “Even when it is dumb. But enough about that. I need food. What speaks to you? Cheesy, cheesy pizza or sushi? Or something else completely? Thai food, maybe?” 

“I’m not picky, but my dad’ll be here in like 30 minutes so order enough for three.” Shane hands her his credit card, which she, predictably, gives back. 

“You get the next one.” 

“You say that every time. And I’m a big boy. I can buy my own lunch.” 

“Buying things for people is my love language. Just let me have that, okay?”

“Fine,” Shane says. “You win.” 

Rose never lets him pay for anything. She never has. 

In the living room, Shane turns on the TV and searches for Miles’ new show on streaming while Rose places an order for pizza and breadsticks from an authentic Italian place up the road. Ilya says it’s the best place in town, though Shane tries to limit his bread intake, he’ll admit it’s pretty good. 

Across the room, Anya looks at the door forlornly, as she has since Ilya and his parents left three days ago. Shane picks up a dog toy shaped like an alligator and gives it a squeak. 

That perks her up. She trots over, tail wagging and snatches it from his hand. For a few minutes the room is filled with frantic squeaking. Shane smiles and watches as she rolls onto her back on her dog bed, feet in the air, happily chomping on the toy. 

Shane wishes he was so easily distracted from his worries.

When they arrive at the airport in Montreal it’s late afternoon. Sana is exhausted from the long trip and the emotional strain of keeping her feelings and anxieties in check. She was too keyed up to sleep on the plane and spent much of their time in the air in a state of mild panic – she’s never been on a plane before and was sure that every bump and sound was the plane crashing. 

When she admitted this to Ilya, she expected him to laugh, but he didn’t. “Is scary sometimes, but I have flown a thousand times. The pilots know what they are doing.” 

That doesn’t reassure her. 

The sip of vodka he allows her takes some the edge off her anxiety, though. But if he thought it might help her sleep, it doesn’t. 

Now they’re in Ilya’s car with another two hours before they arrive at Ilya’s home. She looks out the window in the back seat, watching the landscape pass in silence. Signs of spring are more obvious here than in Moscow. It seems cleaner and brighter here, too, the colors more bold and the sky clearer. 

Maybe that’s all in her head. Maybe she’s letting hope for something better get in the way of her common sense. It’s far too soon to be banking on any of this changing her life in a good way and she can’t afford to let her guard down just because it’s pretty here. 

“We’re going to have to change venues for the Ottawa camp this year,” Yuna says. “It’s too small for the number of applications we’ve gotten.” 

“This is good, yes?” Ilya says. “We have many players interested in coaching this year, too. Even Marleau wants to help.”

“Does that mean he’s forgiven you for leaving Boston?”

“No, not even a little.” Ilya laughs. “But he is good player and he likes kids, so I think he will be a good coach.”

“I’ll reach out to him, then.”

Sana doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but she assumes it’s about hockey. There is a lot of talk of hockey and business between the two of them, which is not enough to keep her interested in listening. She doesn’t understand half the words anyway. 

She is so scared of what is to come and of what her life will look like from now on. A part of her wants to open her mouth and scream and cry and break things until she’s purged every last bit of her fear and pain. Maybe then, she won’t be so afraid, maybe then she’ll be able to manage that tiny but terrifying bud of hope building inside her heart. 

Sana doesn’t cry or scream. She holds it in, stuffs it down, and reminds herself that her parents would be angry if she lost control. These people would also be angry after all the trouble they’ve gone through to bring her here. It would look ungrateful and childish and Sana is no longer a child. 

“Oksi. Did you hear Yuna?” 

Sana realizes she's dozed off and sits up straighter to look at both of them, so at ease with each other, and shakes her head. 

“Sorry. No.” 

“There are art classes at the Arts Center in Ottawa,” Yuna says. “There's a beginner oil painting class starting in a week. Is that something you would like to do?” 

Sana would like that very much but she doesn’t want to say yes because of the cost. Oil paint is much too expensive, though she’s always been interested in trying. Just because Ilya is rich doesn’t mean she wants to take advantage. 

“Is… a lot of money,” she says. 

“Don’t worry about money,” Ilya says. “Do you want to do it? Is okay to say yes.”

Sana nods. “Yes. I want to.” 

“Great,” Yuna says. “I’ll get you signed up.” 

“Thank you,” Sana stomps down the hope that swells up to the surface again. One nice thing will not guarantee her time here will be nice, but it is something to look forward to. So long as it doesn’t come with a price. “I do not have paint for this. Is very expensive.” 

“We will get what you need,” Ilya says in Russian. Then in English. “No worries.” 

Ilya’s life must be so easy here to have no worries. Sana has so many of them. Too many to count. 

Those worries grow when they turn into a neighborhood full of large homes and big, old trees. Ilya slows in front of one house where there is a hand painted sign that says We Love You Ilya!

“That’s so sweet,” Yuna says. 

“They are my biggest fans.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Yuna asks. “I’ll have you know, I am your biggest fan, and don’t you forget it. Oh, did you see? The Cens have started selling a Rozanov-Hollander jersey with both your numbers on it.”

“Yes. I saw. Twenty-four-eighty-one. Is cute. Shane almost cried.”    

“And now I don’t have to choose which one of you is my favorite.” 

Ilya laughs. “I thought I was your favorite.” 

“I love you both equally. Most days. ” 

In the rearview mirror, Ilya’s sad eyes get sadder, but he reaches out and squeezes Yuna’s wrist. “I love you, too. You are good mom."

Sana’s heart is in her throat when they pull into a driveway with a gate that slides open. The house beyond, made mostly of glass, is so big, Sana can’t believe only two people live there, but maybe Yuna also lives there with her husband. It would make more sense that way. 

Ilya parks in front of the house, next to an expensive-looking sedan, and turns to her. He looks almost as nervous as she feels. 

“Welcome home, Oksana,” he says seriously. “Are you ready to go inside?” 

Sana is not ready but the only way through this is to keep moving forward. She meets Ilya’s stare and takes a deep, slow breath. 

“Yes. I am ready.” 

Chapter End Notes

Ohmigawsh guys, thank you so so much for all the kudos and comments. I did not expect this to get the response it did so thank you to everyone who left kudos, comments, subscribed and bookmarked! 💚

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

This update is way overdue. Sorry. Got sidetracked by other ideas and wound up writing a 140+k fic and started another AU instead. Whoops. 😭

The house is not at all what Sana expects. Instead of the heavy gilded furniture and ostentatious decor favored by the wealthy in Russia, it’s eclectic and almost minimalist, with mid-century furniture and large abstract paintings on the walls that shouldn’t go together but do. It feels sparse, yet there’s something about it that also feels well-loved and lived in. The afternoon light that spills in through the huge windows adds another layer of warmth to what should be a stark and clinical space.

She stands just inside the door with her heart lodged somewhere in her windpipe while Ilya takes Yuna’s coat and then hers and hangs both on a set of pegs next to the door. A man’s voice and a woman’s laughter bleed into the foyer from somewhere deeper inside the house, heightening the terror building in her gut. 

It’s surreal, suddenly finding herself halfway across the globe, in the company of strangers. All she wants right now is to rewind time, all the way back to when she was eight and still believed the world was a good place and stay there forever.

Yuna offers her a reassuring smile, but Sana can’t find it in herself to smile back. It doesn’t even matter that she can’t. Shane Hollander peeks around the corner, smiling as he comes toward them. A cute medium-sized dog follows behind him and barks in excitement at the sight of them, its tail wagging furiously as it scrambles across the tile toward Ilya. 

He goes to his knees to give the dog some scratches, his smile huge and happy. “Anya! I have missed you!” he tells the dog, who Sana assumes is Anya. “Were you a good girl while I was gone?” 

“She’s always good, but we had to say goodbye to her alligator toy this afternoon,” Shane says. “I turned my back for five seconds and suddenly the squeaker was dead and there was fluff everywhere.” 

“I will find her a new one,” Ilya says. 

“Maybe we should let her work through the other million toys she already has first.” 

“Is not a million,” Ilya says and stands back up. For a second, Ilya and Shane just look at each other. Sana gets the feeling that an entire conversation is happening here without a single word being spoken. The silence between them is charged, carrying the weight of an impending fight, but if either one is angry, neither show it. 

Shane Hollander is even more handsome in person than he is in pictures. Sana supposes she can see the appeal. He is very attractive.  

“You guys are back early,” Shane says. 

“Ilya was driving,” Yuna says and gives Shane a peck on the cheek.  

“Breaking traffic laws, you mean?” 

“Speed limits are stupid when there is no traffic.” Sana holds her breath as Shane places a kiss directly on Ilya’s lips without shame or hesitation. That is going to take some getting used to. “And there was no traffic. And now we are home early. You’re welcome.” 

Shane pulls back, shaking his head but smiling. “So, are you going to introduce me, or do I have to do it myself?” 

“Oh. Sorry. Shane, this is my niece, Oksana Rozanova.” Ilya says it stiffly and formally. “Oksana, Shane Hollander. My husband.” 

Shane’s smile broadens and he offers his hand. “I’m so happy to meet you, Oksana.” 

He says it in Russian. Decent Russian, for a non-native speaker. That’s a surprise.

“Sana, please,” she says in English. “I don’t like Oksana.” 

“Why? Oksana is a good name.” Ilya’s looking at her, his expression unreadable. “What is wrong with it?”

“Is boring name. Is seven Oksana’s from school. Two in apartment.” 

“Boring,” Shane says with a funny little laugh. He shoots a look at Ilya that Sana also can’t read. It’s knowing, but amused. Ilya just smirks back. “Well, I guess that’s genetic.” 

Sana doesn’t get the joke, but she doesn’t think she wants to, especially if it’s something bad. It doesn’t seem to be at her expense, though. 

She notes that Shane’s eyes are very expressive – a warm chocolate brown and very soft and pretty. She thinks she might like to draw them to see if she can get the shape of them right.  

“Come on in,” Shane says. “Dad and Rose are in the living room. I’ll go grab the bags while Ilya makes introductions.” 

Sana follows Ilya to the living room where an older man and a familiar-looking young woman are sitting on a huge couch, watching something flashy on the largest television Sana has ever seen. Anya follows behind, sniffing the cuff of Sana’s jeans curiously.

“David, Rose. Come meet my niece.” 

The pride in his voice is unexpected, but Sana doesn’t have a chance to process why he would be proud to introduce her to them. She’s too shocked by the realization that the woman is someone she has seen in fashion magazine spreads and advertisements for luxury brands and in movies. 

Sana doesn’t hear the introductions because there is an actual Hollywood star standing in Ilya’s living room.  

“You are Rose Landry,” Sana blurts out before the woman can introduce herself. 

“I am! It’s so nice to meet you,” Rose says and she seems to mean it. “How was your flight?” 

“Long,” Yuna says. She gives Rose a kiss on the cheek. “So good to see you! Will you be in town long?”

“Just a couple more days. Didn’t want to go back home to LA and it’s been too long since I got to see Shane, so, here I am.” 

“I hope we can fit in dinner before you leave.”   

Sana turns to Ilya in shock. “Why the fuck is Rose Landry in your house?” she asks, switching back to Russian. 

“You think hockey players only know other hockey players?” His smile is crooked and amused.

She knew hockey players in North America were famous, but not famous enough to be friends with real movie stars. She did not know that Ilya was that famous and it’s kind of blowing her mind. 

As Ilya moves further into the room, Sana stays near the doorway, watching, observing, to see if there’s anything here she needs to worry about. Tensions below the surface, or signs that this is all a show for her benefit, but she sees nothing alarming. The mood is easy and relaxed.  

If she’s reading the room correctly, they are all very close. They know each other and are comfortable with each other and that feels even more foreign than seeing all the signs on the way here written in English and French. 

The dynamic throws her off. Her family has never been like that. Not for as long as she can remember. Sana can’t honestly say she even liked her family, and especially not enough to sit around a living room laughing with them like they were her friends. She barely knows – knew – her parents enough to like them. 

Her father only seemed to enjoy partying and gambling, and though he was the son of a high-ranking and highly decorated police officer, he never lived up to expectations. Her mother was a complete mystery to her. All she knew was that she’d been born somewhere in Germany, near the Polish border, spoke Russian as fluently as a native but with a hint of a German accent, may have been a sex worker at one point – if her father’s drunken rants were to be believed, that was – and that she’d been pregnant and very young when she married Papa.  

In spite of the warm welcome she’s been given here, Sana feels like an intruder. These people love each other and Sana doesn’t know how to behave in the face of that. She also can’t keep up with the conversation. They speak too fast to keep up and their words overlap and blend together into gibberish. 

For a second, she feels forgotten. 

Invisible. 

Then, Shane slides up next to her with a soft and apologetic smile. 

“Why don’t I show you to your room?” he asks in Russian. 

“English, please,” Sana says. 

“Jumping right in, eh?” Shane smiles. “Come on. It’s this way.”

Sana follows in a daze, trying to process how strange this all is. It feels crazy that Shane’s parents are perfectly fine with Ilya being their son-in-law, something that would never be okay or even allowed back home. And there is a famous actress in the living room, sitting among them like she’s part of the family. Her father was entombed yesterday and now she is in Canada, the fabled land of nice people and maple trees and she doesn’t think she’s ever going to feel at home here.

And none of it feels real.

“This is it.” Shane opens a door at the end of a hallway on the other side of the house. “I hope you like it. Me and Rose decorated it yesterday – well, mostly Rose decorated it, but we can change it if you don’t like it.” 

Rose Landry decorated her room. Sana can’t wrap her head around that. Maybe she’s too tired. Maybe she’s still on the plane, dreaming the way she and Nikolai used to dream of being famous when they were little. They would move to Los Angeles and become a pop star duo, Sana and Niko, and they would have millions and millions of fans all over the world. 

Neither of them could sing to save their lives, thus ending any hope of pop star fame, but the stage names survived. They were still a duo. Only now, she was on the other side of the planet.

The room is large and very beautiful, like the way she imagined hotel rooms might look in her fantasies about Caribbean getaways, with light-colored wood furniture, slate blue walls, and seashell accents. The entire back wall is glass, with a view of a large back yard and a river beyond. Not very tropical, but still very pretty. 

On the wall beside the bed is a desk with stacks of art supplies – sketchbooks, drawing pencils, colored pencils, paint brushes, unopened acrylic and watercolor paint sets, and several thick hardback art books.

Sana stares at them, shocked that they put in so much effort for someone they do not know. 

“You did this?” she asks. “You and Rose?” 

“Yeah.” Shane turns shy, unable to make eye contact. He rubs the back of his neck and focuses his gaze on a framed print of a sand dollar. “I figured you wouldn’t be able to bring your art stuff with you.” 

Sana wants to hate Shane Hollander for supposedly being one of the reasons her family struggled for so long, but he is making it very hard to do that. Shane is so earnest and he’s practically pleading for her approval with those soft brown eyes of his.

“Is very nice,” she says. “Thank you.” 

“I wasn’t sure what to get, so if it’s not right, just let me know and we’ll get what you need.” 

“No. Is… perfect.” And it is. More than perfect. Maybe a dream come true, or close to that.

“Oh, we got you a phone, too,” Shane says and gestures to the nightstand, where a brand new phone is charging. “It has an international plan so you can keep in touch with your friends in Russia. And I put our phone numbers in for you already.”

Sana is very close to crying. She did not expect any of this, least of all for Shane to be this generous or sweet.  

“Thank you,” she barely manages to get out.

“Okay, your bags are here,” Shane says and points to the suitcase and carry-on Yuna packed for her. “Plenty of room for your things in the dresser and the closet, which is here.”

He opens a door next to the dresser to reveal a walk-in closet that’s big enough to be a small bedroom. Her meager belongings will look pathetic in there. 

“Bathroom is through here,” he opens the door on the other side of the dresser. The bathroom is the size of their living room at home. He wanders in and points out bath products, a brand new blow drier, towels, and a fluffy blue bathrobe that hangs on the back of the door. “I’m pretty sure Rose covered everything you might need, but if we forgot something, let us know and we’ll get it for you.”

Sana’s suddenly overwhelmed. It’s a lot of words to translate, yes, but it’s not just that, it’s the generosity and the thought and care that went into it. It’s that she’s suddenly questioning her whole life and everything she thought was true. 

Not everything her father said was a lie, but there’s growing evidence that so much of it was.   

It doesn’t help that she’s barely slept or eaten anything in days, or that the long trip has left her feeling disoriented and confused.

“I think that’s everything,” Shane says. “You probably want to get cleaned up, so I’ll leave you to it. We’ll all be in the kitchen. My dad’s making dinner, so join us whenever you’re ready.” 

“Okay.” Sana’s stomach twists, both starving and repulsed at the thought of food. 

He leaves her alone, closing the door softly behind him. Sana gets a pang in her chest, a need for something she does not have a name for, and for the first time in a very long time, she starts to cry for real. 

Dinner is almost ready and Sana has not joined them yet. Ilya decides to check on her, in case she’s fallen asleep. 

If she has, he won’t bother her. He doubts she’s gotten much rest and he can only imagine what kind of hell she went through before he arrived in Moscow. He suspects it was much worse than he’s been told, and much worse than she’s let on. He recognizes behaviors he’d adopted himself as someone who grew up in an abusive household – the hypervigilance, the way raised voices or loud noises seem to spook her, the way she flinches or cowers when she perceives anger. 

Not to mention that terrible bruise on her face. If Alexi was still alive, if he was the one who did it, Ilya would happily return it to him, tenfold.  

The door across the hall from her room is open and the light is on. He detects the sweet, floral scent of shampoo or something similar in the air as he approaches and pushes the door open. 

Sana is standing in the middle of their trophy room, staring at the photo of last year’s cup win. She jumps when he clears his throat and turns around, cowering a little under his gaze. 

“Sorry. I should not be in here.”

“Is fine,” Ilya says, unbothered. He’s proud of this room and happy to show it off. A part of him wishes his father had lived long enough to see it, though that never would have happened. “I don’t mind.”

Her eyes follow all the framed pictures of his and Shane’s respective teams over the years. Boston. Montreal. Ottawa. All-star teams. Charity games. Olympic teams. All the way back to the juniors, both of them with soft, boyish faces and bright smiles. 

“Papa told me you were very bad at hockey.” 

“And what do you think?” Ilya gestures at all the awards, trophies, medals and ad campaign photos lining the walls. “Am I terrible?”

She doesn’t answer him. She’s looking at the old CCM photo of them laughing at each other. It’s still one if Ilya’s favorite photos. 

“How old are you here?” she asks. 

“Nineteen.”

“And you loved him then.” 

“I did not know it, but yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“I was young and stupid and I did not know what love was then. Only my mother loved me and that is a different kind of love.” 

The gaze she turns on him is sharp and cutting in its intense sadness. It slices deep into his bones, right to the marrow. 

She’s been hurt. Badly.

He remembers when she was little, how gentle and sweet Alexi had been with her. It was the only time he ever saw his brother show that side of himself. How he’d doted on her, too. Praising her childish drawings and singing songs with her and allowing her an extra cookie behind her mother’s back with a finger laid against smiling lips.  

Ilya remembers the complicated mixture of admiration and jealousy he’d felt at the mutual adoration between them. He’d so badly wanted that for himself. To have someone in this world who loved him purely and honestly and without question.  

“Papa said he hated you.” 

“Yes.” It hurts to hear it out loud, but it was never a secret. “He hated me. Since we were boys.” 

“Why?” 

“Many reasons, I think. I will tell you about it sometime. Not today.” 

She moves on to the wall of framed advertisements. One half is dedicated to Shane, the other to Ilya, with just a handful of them together. She studies them with great interest, her gaze flicking back and forth between one side and the other. 

“They pay you to do this?” she asks. 

“Yes. Is good money.” 

“Interesting,” she says seriously. “They make Shane sophisticated and you sexy.” 

Ilya laughs. “You are fourteen. What do you know about sexy?”

“I know what I see.” 

She points to Shane’s Rolex ad. He’s in an expensive suit, no tie, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, which Ilya finds sexy and sophisticated at the same time. Then she points to Ilya’s own watch ad. He’s not wearing anything except for the watch and a very small pair of black boxer briefs.

“They put him in a suit. You are in your underwear.” 

Ilya laughs again, but he’s surprised by how perceptive she is. He’s never noticed the marked difference between their respective campaigns, he’s only ever noticed how good Shane looks in whatever they dress him in. 

“He is too,” Ilya points out. “In some of them.”

“Yes, but the light is different. The poses, too. Shane looks like he will fight you. You look like you are seducing someone.” 

She’s right about that, too. In most of the fashion shoots, Shane looks aloof and sometimes angry. Ilya knows that’s because Shane is not a big fan of doing photo shoots. He’s said he always leaves them feeling like he’s wasted time he could have spent doing literally anything else.  

“Is it fun?” she asks and turns back around. “To do these photos?” 

“No. Not really. Takes all day, lots of standing around. Very boring.” Ilya shifts forward, his stomach rumbling at the scent of David’s roast chicken wafting into the room. “Why are you interested in this?” 

She shrugs. “They are good references for drawing.” 

A forgotten memory surfaces of his mother at the kitchen table, sketching an image of a figure skater, using a newspaper photo as a reference. It takes him by surprise to remember that, but the bigger surprise is how much it hurts him. And how angry he is all of a sudden that she’s gone.

That is not something he can unpack right now. 

“I would like to see your drawings sometime. If you want to show me.” 

Sana nods and turns her attention back to the trophies. She brushes a fingertip over Shane’s Rookie of the Year trophy, then Ilya’s first MVP award. 

“I do not want you to quit hockey for me, Ilya.” 

The way she says it is a fist to the gut. As if she’s not worth quitting for. 

“I cannot leave you here alone.” 

“You could take me with you.” 

“No. I couldn’t,” he says.

There is no way Ilya would allow her to be surrounded by grown men that way, even if he knows his team would protect her like she was one of their own. Road games are no place for a child, especially not a girl her age, and Ilya is not willing to take the risk of something terrible happening to her. He would want to die if someone hurt her.

“I would not be in the way.” 

“It wouldn’t be safe for you.”

“I can take care of myself.” 

 “I’m sorry. We can’t.” 

“So you will give up your career for me. And then you will blame me for it.” 

“I am the one making the choice, and this is not your fault. I don’t want you to ever think it is.” 

She turns her face away from him, her jaw clenched.  

Anya nudges the door open and wiggles into the room, headed straight for Sana, eager for attention. Sana goes to her knees and wraps her arms around the dog. Anya is happy to oblige. 

“You do not need to worry about me, okay?” Ilya says. “I will be fine without hockey.”

Sana doesn’t acknowledge him. All of her attention is on Anya. 

“You can talk to me, if you want,” Ilya says. “When you are ready. I will listen.” 

“There is nothing to say,” she says. 

Ilya doubts that very much. He suspects there is a lot to say, she’s just not in a place where she’s comfortable saying it. He can’t imagine how traumatic this must be for her, and he’s not going to push, but he’ll leave the door open for her to talk when she’s ready. 

He also plans to give Galina a call. He’s not sure she deals with children at all, but with the language barrier, she’s his best option. 

“We should eat,” Ilya says. “You haven’t had anything all day.” 

Sana nods and gives Anya a scratch behind the ears. The lick on the chin she receives in return is enough to break the stony mask she wears. She smiles and continues to give scratches. 

“Okay. I am going to the kitchen. Come when you are ready. Close the door behind you.” 

Sana takes her time following, Anya at her heels. 

“You are a traitor,” Ilya accuses the dog. “You are very lucky you are cute or I would be very mad at you.” 

Anya just wiggles, happy to have his attention. 

The breakfast table where they usually eat is much too small for the six of them, and it’s a bit too cold to eat outside on the deck, so Shane broke out the nice dinnerware and the placemats, even the little electric candles in glass jars for ambiance and set places for everyone in the formal dining room, which rarely sees use these days. Any time they have guests over, it’s usually pretty casual unless it’s a dinner party. Those are rare these days, since nearly all their friends are hockey players who prefer beer and barbecue to fancy French cuisine.

It’s nice. Cozy, in spite of the empty chairs. 

Ilya looks tired as he picks at his plate, seeming lost in thought while Rose consults Yuna about some make-up endorsement her manager is pressuring her to sign onto, in spite of her insanely busy schedule. Sana’s watching Rose with wide, star-struck eyes, likely unable to even follow the conversation, but rapt anyway. 

The bruise on Sana’s face is horrific in this light. It blooms a dark, greenish-black against her pale skin. Shane doesn’t want to think about how it might have happened. 

All this has to be overwhelming for her. The traumatic and tragic circumstances that brought her here, all these new people, this new place, Ilya the only familiar thing around. 

Ilya, who is quietly going through something of his own as he moves bites of chicken and roast potatoes around his plate, hasn’t said more than a couple of words since he sat down. 

“You okay?” Shane asks. 

“Fine. Was a long trip.” 

Shane doesn’t trust this answer. Ilya doesn’t always come out and say what’s on his mind. Sometimes it doesn’t even show, but when it does, like it does now, it’s usually something major weighing him down. 

I think I will have to quit hockey.

For the last couple of days, Shane’s been wracking his brain to come up with an alternative that would allow Ilya to keep playing, but nothing has come to mind. Ilya is too good to quit now and he still has a lot of good years of play left in him. It feels unfair to cut that short. 

It’s not even about the money. Between the two of them, they have more than enough to live comfortably the rest of their lives. It’s about the joy Ilya gets from playing and Shane has seen first-hand what happens when he loses that. 

Maybe Ilya will find a new purpose in taking care of Sana, but Shane is scared of what happens if he doesn’t.

Maybe Ilya is just tired. It’s been a rough week for him and the turn and burn trip to Russia had to be exhausting. Not to mention how horrible what happened was.

Though Ilya’s relationship with his brother has been non-existent these last several years, Shane isn’t so blind that he doesn’t know there’s a part of Ilya that has always wished they could mend the rift. 

“Sana, would you like to go shopping with us tomorrow?” Rose asks, snapping Shane out of his worries about Ilya. 

Sana looks stunned. “Sorry, what?” 

Ilya translates for her, seeming unaware her shock has nothing to do with her ability to understand the question. 

“With you?” Sana asks. “Shopping?”

“Me and Yuna,” Rose says. “We’ll pick out some new things for you, maybe get manicures?” 

Shane is touched that Rose would volunteer to do that, though he doubts it will be a chore for her. It’s a known fact that Rose loves shopping. It’s also a fact that she has an excellent sense of style. 

Sana looks at Ilya as if she’s asking permission. He shrugs one shoulder. “Is okay to say yes.” 

“Yes. Okay. I will shop, Rose Landry.” 

Shane has to hide his smile behind his hand at how dumbfounded Sana seems by this development. It’ll be good for her to get out and see the city.  

Ilya mouths his thanks to Rose, then digs his credit card out of his wallet and hands it to Yuna.  

“Get whatever she needs but do not let Rose pay for anything,” Ilya says and sends Rose a stern look. “I know she will try.”

“At least let me cover the manicures,” Rose says. “And lunch.” 

“Fine, but that is all.” 

“Yay!” Rose says. “Girls day!” 

“If we’re going to be spending the day shopping, there’s no reason you can’t go on the road, Ilya,” Yuna says. “I can stay here at the house while you two are gone so that Sana can get settled. It’s only a few days.” 

“I can’t ask that of you,” Ilya says. 

“It’s really no problem,” Yuna says. “It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other. And we can look at getting an English tutor while you’re gone. Maybe do a little sightseeing.” 

Shane can tell Ilya really wants to say no. He also knows that Ilya really wants to finish the season. It’ll drive him nuts to have to watch his team from the sidelines, especially if they make it to the finals. He doesn’t need to tell Shane that for him to know it.

“Yes, please,” Sana says and looks at Ilya. “I can do this.” 

“Sana –” 

“I want you to play hockey, Ilya.” Her tone is razor sharp, almost a command.

Ilya puts both hands over his face and sighs. Shane suspects he’s struggling to decide what the right thing to do actually is. He wants Ilya to play hockey, too, and without feeling guilty about it. 

“Okay,” Ilya says after a long silence. “We will try it.” 

“Great. Then it’s settled,” Yuna says. She seems really pleased, as if she’s already adopted Sana as her own. “I’ll keep you updated while you’re gone, let you know what I come up with as far as tutors and whatnot.” 

“Thank you,” Ilya says. There’s a bit of defeat in his posture that Shane doesn’t like, but again, that could be exhaustion. He picks up his plate. “I’m sorry. I should get some sleep. Thank you for dinner, David.” 

Ilya squeezes Shane’s shoulder on his way back to the kitchen. Mom sends Shane a worried glance, then returns her attention to Rose and Sana, presumably to finalize their shopping plans for tomorrow. 

“Why don’t you go check on him,” Dad says. “We’ll take care of cleaning up.” 

Normally, Shane would argue about that, but he is concerned about how Ilya’s handling everything. Even if he’s too tired to talk about it, Shane wants him to know he’s there if he does want to unburden himself. 

He takes his own plate to the kitchen and washes and dries it before heading upstairs. Ilya’s just getting out of the shower when Shane steps into the bedroom. Exhaustion is written all over him – in his weary eyes, in the slump of his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. 

Wordlessly, Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist and draws his head into his shoulder. Ilya’s skin is warm and damp from the shower and he smells of timber and cedar from his shower gel. His hair is still wet, moistening the collar of Shane’s t-shirt. His arms go around Shane, clinging to him in a way that says a lot more than words ever could.

For a minute, they just stand there, wrapped around each other. Shane doesn’t have any sage wisdom or advice to give, and he doesn’t have any comforting words or condolences to offer. This is all he’s got, as inadequate as it is. 

Ilya pulls back, breaking the embrace, to kiss Shane on the mouth. It’s a heavy, exhausted thing, sweet and reverent, without urgency. Though it’s been almost a week since they’ve had sex, due to both the playoff schedule and Ilya’s impromptu trip to the other side of the world, Ilya probably needs rest more than anything else. 

“You should get some sleep,” Shane says. “Early flight tomorrow.” 

“I need to pack.” 

“In the morning,” Shane says. He guides Ilya toward the bed. Ilya sits on the edge of it and draws Shane to him, arms sliding around his waist, his cheek laid against Shane’s stomach. Shane runs his fingers through Ilya’s damp curls to massage the base of his neck. 

“I think he hurt her,” Ilya says tiredly. “My brother.”

“You mean the bruise on her face? I was wondering about that. Did she tell you how she got it?”

“Am afraid to ask,” Ilya says. “She does not want to talk about it.” 

Shane gets it. Ilya doesn’t want to re-traumatize her if he doesn’t have to. 

“Are you okay?” Shane asks. 

“I don’t know. I have not made sense of it yet,” Ilya says. 

He might never make sense of it. Ilya at least understands his mother’s death, and can relate to it in his own way, but to Shane, this feels very different. More violent, more visceral, more desperate, maybe. 

“I’m sorry, Ilya.” 

“Me too. Mostly for her,” Ilya whispers. He takes a deep breath and pulls back. “Are you coming to bed?”

Shane tucks some of Ilya’s unruly curls behind his ears and cradles his face in his hands. “Yep. Just gotta go say goodnight to Rose and my parents.”  

“I will wait up for you.”

“In case you don’t,” Shane says and kisses Ilya softly. “I love you.” 

“I love you,” Ilya echoes. 

By the time Shane says goodnight to everyone and returns upstairs, Ilya is sound asleep.