Ethereal

October 2022

Ilya opened the door, holding it so Anya could enter first. The little dog, a tiny ball of brown fur, darted down the hallway in search of Shane, whose presence in the kitchen was announced by the clinking of plates and the cheerful sound of an out-of-tune whistle. Ilya locked the door behind him with a soft click, leaving the biting late-afternoon cold outside. He placed his mud-stained shoes on the doormat and hung his heavy coat on the rack, stretching his aching shoulders as he shed the weight of the fabric.

Entering the kitchen, the sight waiting for him was homey and welcoming. Shane was by the counter, focused on the task of building a generously proportioned sandwich. Slices of fresh bread, crisp lettuce, and layers of roast beef were piling up under his deft fingers. Anya was already at his feet, her tail wagging like a crazed metronome as she watched her favorite human's every move, hoping a piece would drop her way.

Without turning around, Shane commented in a teasing tone:

"Her paws are dirty. She's going to leave footprints all over the floor."

Ilya approached from behind, sliding his arms around his husband's waist in a familiar, cozy embrace. He rested his chin on Shane's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body against his own.

"She's a dog," he reminded him with a lazy smile. "And today, she chased a squirrel. It was an epic hunt. The squirrel won, but she fought bravely."

Shane laughed, shaking his head as he generously spread mayonnaise on the bread.

"Good lord. There should be a way to mute the news channels on TV. Or at least put them on pause."

Ilya frowned against his husband's shoulder.

"Why? Something interesting?"

"Just today, about three different stories on the situation in Russia and Ukraine." Shane glanced away from the sandwich for a moment, shooting the blonde an expression heavy with restrained concern.

Ilya sighed, a low sound carrying more exhaustion than surprise.

"Ah, yeah. I know. Alexei tried calling me a few times today."

He slowly untangled the embrace, as if the mention of his brother had raised an invisible barrier between them. Shane turned partially to watch him as Ilya opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. The glass was cold against his palm, a welcome contrast to the heat rising on the back of his neck.

"And did you answer?" Shane asked, his voice soft, non-judgmental.

Ilya raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling into something that fell short of a smile.

"Why would I do that? I already know what he's going to say. That things over there are getting more expensive, that the winter is harsh, and asking if I can send more money." He paused to take a sip of water, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "And I bet he'll still use my nieces against me. Put one of them on the phone to talk to Dyadya Il'ya, asking for Christmas presents in July."

Shane finished assembling the sandwich, closing the mayo jar. There was something different about his movements, and Ilya noticed immediately. His blue eyes widened, and he brought a hand to his mouth in a theatrical gesture of shock.

"Hold on." Ilya pointed at the jar Shane was putting back in the fridge. "You're not eating diet mayo? Shane, love of my life... who are you and what have you done with my husband?"

Shane turned, a mischievous smile shining in his eyes.

"Fuck off!" he laughed, but without any bite. He closed the fridge and leaned against the counter, watching Ilya with affection. "I've been loosening up on my diet, okay? Decided life is too short for tasteless mayo."

Ilya stepped closer again, now resting his hips against the counter next to Shane. A genuine smile, small but present, softened the lines of his face.

"I'm glad," he said simply, the phrase carrying more meaning than the words could express.

In the living room, Anya had already abandoned the kitchen and curled up on the rug, snoring softly after an exhausting day of squirrel hunting. And, for a moment, the outside world—with its heavy news and unwanted calls—seemed very, very far away.

The two migrated to the living room, the natural transition from the kitchen to the coziness of the glowing TV. Anya, as if obeying an invisible command, trotted after them on her short little legs, spun twice in her red bed, and plummeted into a deep sleep in a matter of seconds, a soft, rhythmic snore escaping her snout.

Shane sank the remote into his palm, and soon the television sprang to life with the familiar glare of ESPN. He settled onto the couch with the expertise of someone who had done it hundreds of times, lying back and fitting his back against Ilya's chest, settling into the space between his husband's legs as if it were the most natural place in the world. The half-devoured sandwich rested in his hand, a masterpiece now slightly dismantled.

Ilya leaned back, an elbow resting comfortably on the arm of the couch, and pulled his phone from his pocket. His eyes scanned his Instagram feed with a lazy boredom, his thumb swiping the screen in automatic motions while his other hand found rest on Shane's shoulder, fingers absentmindedly playing with the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

The game on screen was the Toronto Guardians against the New York Admirals. The blue and white of the Guardians contrasted with the red of the Admirals on the brightly lit ice of the arena.

"Uhm, Scott is playing." Shane pointed with the sandwich, his voice muffled by a chew. The camera angle captured the perfect moment: number 21 gliding to the center of the rink, the broad shoulders and upright posture betraying years of experience. Scott Hunter, captain of the Admirals, a living hockey legend, was preparing for the faceoff with the concentration of a meditating monk.

Ilya lifted his eyes from his phone for a moment, a smirk appearing on his lips.

"Doesn't want to retire, does he?" The tone was mocking, but affectionate. "Hunter's pushing forty, reaching the end of the line. Any minute now he'll want to play with a walker."

Shane laughed, a warm sound that vibrated against Ilya's chest.

"Jeez, Ilya." He patted the blonde's leg lightly, without any force. "He's our friend. That man has more titles than a lot of kids out there. And he still scores backhand goals."

"He scored a backhand goal once, five years ago, and you guys never forgot it." Ilya rolled his eyes, but the smile remained.

The phone vibrated in his hand, the screen lighting up with the name "Alexei" in bold letters. Ilya sighed, his thumb hovering over the screen for a moment before swiping to the side, silencing the call. The name disappeared, replaced again by the endless stream of stories and posts.

"He doesn't give up," Shane commented, without taking his eyes off the TV, but with a hint of disguised concern in his voice.

"No, he doesn't." Ilya went back to scrolling. He found an absurd meme of a cat inside a shoebox and forwarded it to Svetlana with a quick text: "this is Anya trying to fit in small spaces". Minutes later, his sister-in-law replied with a string of laughing emojis and a video of her own cats being clumsy. Ilya reacted with hearts, a momentary warmth replacing the annoyance of the ignored call.

A period went by in the game. Shane had already devoured half the sandwich when he spoke again, licking a string of mayo that had escaped the corner of his lips and run down his finger.

"My parents are probably going to want to know if we're just having dinner with them for Thanksgiving or if we're staying a few days prior." The question came out casual, but Ilya knew Shane well enough to notice the expectation behind it. His family loved when they showed up, and Shane's mother was already planning meals weeks in advance.

Ilya shrugged, the movement making Shane settle more comfortably against him.

"I don't mind either way. I'm going to eat your mom's food regardless." He felt Shane's laugh vibrate in his own chest, a good, homey feeling. "But I think it's better if we just have dinner there. Anya disappears too easily in your parents' garden. Remember last time? She almost dug a tunnel to Narnia after a rabbit."

Shane laughed louder now, shaking his head.

"True." He nodded, still laughing. "Snoring little brat."

Ilya lightly squeezed his husband's shoulder, a gesture of affection disguised as a reprimand.

"Don't talk about our four-legged daughter like that."

In her bed, as if she had heard, Anya let out a particularly loud snore and twitched her paws in the air, probably dreaming of squirrels or the sandwich Shane hadn't shared with her. The two exchanged looks and smiled, an easy, silent smile, while on the TV the referee blew the whistle and the puck glided across the ice.

[...]

| Sveta | Почему твой брат мне звонит?
(Why is your brother calling me?)

Ilya read the message on his phone screen as he wiped his lips with a towel, the residual taste of toothpaste still in his mouth. His brow furrowed immediately, a wrinkle of concern and irritation appearing between his eyebrows. He unlocked the device with a quick flick of his thumb.

| Ilushka | Ответили?
(Did you answer?)

| Sveta | Конечно, нет, я даже не знала, что у него ещё есть мой номер
(Of course not, I didn't even know he still had my number)

| Ilushka | Не обращайте на это внимания, он скоро сдастся.
(Don't pay attention to it, he'll give up soon.)

| Sveta | Я сделаю это. Спокойной ночи.
(I'll do that. Good night.)

Ilya shoved the phone into his sweatpants pocket and rested his hands on the edge of the sink for a moment, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. The bathroom light created shadows under his eyes, outlining the exhaustion he tried to hide during the day. Alexei. Always Alexei. The older brother who had never learned to solve his own problems without dragging everyone else down with him. And now he was involving Svetlana, his childhood best friend.

He sighed, ran a hand through his blonde hair still damp from the shower, and pushed the bathroom door open. The hallway was dark, but light from the bedroom escaped through the crack, a silent invitation.

Upon entering, the sight waiting for him made something squeeze gently in his chest—and drop to less noble regions.

Shane was in bed, leaning against the headboard, his prescription glasses firmly positioned on his face. Thin, dark frames that highlighted his brown eyes now fixed on some book—Ilya recognized that red and white cover. A biography of some hockey player, or maybe a tactics book. Shane was obsessed enough to read anything related to the sport. He was shirtless, his light summer tan contrasting with the pale sheets, wearing only gray sweatpants, comfortable, relaxed, lying on top of the covers as if he were waiting.

As if he were waiting for exactly this.

Ilya stopped in the doorway, leaned his shoulder against the frame, and tilted his head, a slow, predatory smile curving his lips. His eyes roamed his husband from head to toe in a lingering, deliberate path that made exactly what was going through his mind crystal clear.

"Hollander, Hollander..." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth repeatedly, a theatrical sound of fake disapproval. Shane looked up from the book, his eyebrows raising behind the glasses. "Those glasses... Uhm..."

The sound that escaped Shane was a mix of a laugh and a sigh.

"Ilya..."

The name came out as a warning, but there was no conviction in it. How could there be? One year of marriage, almost eleven together, and Shane still felt his stomach flip when Ilya looked at him like that. He still felt the heat rise up his neck when the Russian approached with that feline, predatory slowness, his blue eyes as dark as the winter sea.

Ilya moved forward. Every step was controlled, purposeful, his bare feet silent on the carpet. The light from the bedside lamp created dancing shadows on his back, on the defined muscles that the recent shower had made even more evident. Shane tried to keep his pose, tried to look disinterested, turning his eyes back to the book as if reading were more important.

Liar.

The truth was that Shane could never be disinterested. He would never tire of this. Of Ilya. Of the Russian's body against his, pressing him into the mattress. Of Ilya's lips attacking his with a hunger that never waned. Of the familiar, delicious weight of his husband over him, of the heat radiating from his skin, of the way his large hands found the exact spots that made Shane lose his breath.

The book slipped from Shane's fingers when Ilya reached the bed, kneeling on the mattress. The cover hit the floor with a dull thud, forgotten. Ilya's hands found the sides of Shane's face, his thumbs tracing the outline of his glasses frames before sliding down to his jawline, down to his neck.

"You wear these glasses on purpose," Ilya murmured against his lips, his voice husky, low. "You know what they do to me."

"I have no idea," Shane replied, but the goofy smile that insisted on showing betrayed the lie.

Ilya didn't answer with words. He leaned in and captured Shane's mouth in a kiss that started almost gently, a tease, but quickly deepened as the brunet's lips parted in response. Ilya's tongue met his in a familiar, electrifying duel, and his hand slid to the back of Shane's neck, pulling him closer, as if there were still distance left to conquer.

Shane arched his back against the mattress, a moan muffled by Ilya's mouth. His fingers found the damp blonde hair, burying themselves in it, pulling slightly. The Russian's body responded with a more intense press, one of his knees sliding between his legs, creating friction against the sweatpants.

When Ilya finally broke the kiss, both were panting. His forehead rested against Shane's, his dark blue eyes meeting the brown ones behind the lenses of his glasses, now slightly fogged.

"I think," Ilya murmured, his hot breath against Shane's swollen lips, "you're not going to finish that book today."

Shane laughed, a sound between amused and needy, his hands still tangled in Ilya's hair.

"I think you're right."

Outside the bedroom, muffled by the walls, Anya's snoring continued uninterrupted. And in the silence of the night, all that mattered was the heat of two bodies that knew each other as well as they knew themselves, ready to rediscover each other once more.

The kiss deepened, Ilya's mouth abandoning Shane's lips to trace a wet path down his jawline, traveling down his tense jaw, reaching his neck. Shane tilted his head to the side automatically, offering himself up, a low moan escaping when the Russian's teeth gently scraped the sensitive skin before sucking on an exact spot behind his ear.

"Fuck, Ilya..." Shane's voice came out raspy, his eyes closed behind the glasses that stubbornly remained on his face.

Ilya chuckled softly against his skin, the vibration causing shivers.

"Like this, moya lyubov?" His tongue glided over the flesh, tasting the salt on the lightly tanned skin. "Like it when I mark you? I want everyone to see it tomorrow. I want them to know you have an owner."

Shane moaned, his hands gripping Ilya's shoulders, nails lightly scratching the pale skin.

"You bastard..." he murmured, without any venom, just pure desire.

Ilya bit down lightly, just enough to make Shane arch his back, before kissing the aching spot in apology. His mouth continued its descent, down his chest, over the defined muscles, finding a nipple and wrapping his lips around it. Shane let out a louder moan as Ilya sucked, his tongue circling the sensitive peak while one hand found the other side, pinching with the precision of someone who knew every inch of that body.

"Like this?" Ilya murmured against his skin, his dark blue eyes flicking up to meet Shane's. "Is this how you like it?"

"Damn it, yes..." Shane bit his lower lip, his fingers burying themselves in the blonde hair again, guiding, pleading without words.

Ilya alternated between the two sides, sucking, nibbling, licking, until Shane's nipples were hard and aching, slick with saliva. He kissed a trail back down his chest, over his abdomen, every movement slow, deliberate, agonizing. His mouth traced the happy trail of hair that disappeared into the sweatpants, and Shane held his breath.

"Ilya..."

"Shh..." The Russian kissed right above the waistband, his fingers finding the drawstring. "Let me take care of you."

He pulled the string with his teeth, a teasing motion that made Shane moan softly, his hips bucking slightly in search of contact. Ilya laughed, a deep, satisfied sound, and finally pulled the pants down his husband's hips, freeing him.

The air rushed from Shane's lungs when Ilya's hot mouth engulfed his erection. Nothing could prepare him for that. Not the years together, not the memory of the last time. Ilya knew exactly what to do, his blonde head bobbing in perfect rhythm, his tongue working while one hand gripped the base firmly, and the other massaged his balls with precise caresses.

"Fuck, Ilya..." Shane gasped, his head thrown back, his glasses threatening to slip off. His hand flew up to remove them, but Ilya stopped, his mouth still full, his blue eyes meeting his in a silent command.

Leave them.

Shane obeyed, because he always obeyed when Ilya looked at him like that. His hands gripped the bedsheets as the Russian's mouth continued its work, going deeper, more intense, his nose burying itself in the pubic hair with every thrust. Shane's moans filled the room, filthy and desperate, the wet sound of suction creating an obscene soundtrack.

Ilya released him with a wet pop, saliva stringing between his lips and the red, throbbing tip. His chin was wet, his eyes dark with lust.

"Delicious," he murmured, his voice hoarse, before licking the head like a popsicle. "You're so fucking hot, Shane. I love your cock in my mouth. I love the sounds you make when I suck you."

"Ilya, for the love of God..." Shane begged, his hips bucking involuntarily, chasing the friction.

"For the love of God, what?" Ilya teased, his hand replacing his mouth, stroking in a slow, agonizing rhythm. "Want more? Want me to finish? Want to come in my mouth, baby? Want to see me swallow it all?"

"Yes, fuck!" Shane nearly shouted, shame long abandoned. With Ilya, there was no room for shame. Only pure, raw, unfiltered desire.

Ilya smiled, a filthy, satisfied smirk, before wrapping his lips around the erection again. This time, there was no teasing. He went deep immediately, taking him to the base, his throat adjusting to the size with years of practice. Shane cried out, the sound muffled by the hand he brought to his mouth too late, his hips lifting off the bed in an uncontrollable surge.

Ilya let him, allowed Shane to fuck his mouth to the desperate rhythm of someone standing on the edge of the abyss. His hands gripped his husband's thighs, nails biting into the lightly tanned skin as he surrendered completely, his nose buried in the hair, panting heavily whenever Shane pulled back enough to allow a pause.

"I'm gonna come," Shane warned, his voice strangled. "Ilya, I'm..."

Ilya took him even deeper, his throat contracting around the tip, and Shane felt the world collapse. He came with a long, loud moan, his whole body trembling as Ilya swallowed everything, not wasting a single drop, sucking until the last spasm faded.

When he finally let go, Ilya licked his lips, his chin glistening, and crawled up Shane's body until he found his mouth in a kiss that tasted like his own come. Shane moaned against his lips, his legs still weak, his heart racing.

"Delicious," Ilya mumbled against his mouth, a goofy smile appearing. "You taste so good, baby."

Ilya didn't need any more encouragement.

He captured Shane's mouth in a kiss that was pure hunger, tongue and teeth and raw desire, while one hand slipped to the nightstand drawer, blindly groping until it found what it was looking for. The bottle of lube appeared with a familiar click, and Shane laughed against his lips, a muffled chuckle that quickly turned into a groan when Ilya bit his lower lip.

"You came prepared," Shane murmured, scratching the Russian's back, feeling the muscles contract beneath his nails.

"Always prepared for you." Ilya licked the lip he had just bitten, as if he could heal the pain with his tongue. "Turn over."

The command was gentle, but left no room for debate. Shane obeyed, rolling onto his stomach with the urgency of someone who didn't want to wait any longer either. He buried his face in the pillow, his arms wrapping around it, and arched his back at an angle that made Ilya lose his breath every time.

"Like this?" Shane teased, his voice muffled by the pillow, but still dripping with a sass that only existed because he knew exactly the effect he had on his husband.

Ilya answered with a firm smack to his right butt cheek. The sound echoed in the room, followed by Shane's surprised yelp and immediate laughter.

"Trying to tease, baby?" Ilya leaned over him, his lips brushing Shane's ear while a hand trailed down the curve of his back. "I'm going to make you beg."

"I'm already begging," Shane confessed, the raw honesty of arousal. "Fuck, Ilya, just fuck me."

Ilya chuckled softly, pleased, and Shane felt the smile against his skin. The sound of the lube cap popping open filled the silence, followed by the obscene squelch of Ilya's fingers coating themselves in the gel. When the first touch came, cold and foreign against his entrance, Shane held his breath.

"Relax," Ilya murmured, kissing his back, his shoulder blade, the curve of his spine. "It's me. Just me."

Shane obeyed, forcing his muscles to yield as Ilya's finger slid inside slowly, an inch at a time, with the patience of someone who had the whole night ahead of them. But neither of them wanted patience. They wanted urgency, they wanted haste, they wanted that perfect friction that only existed when they gave themselves to each other entirely.

"More," Shane demanded, his fingers gripping the pillow tight. "Ilya, more."

The second finger came quickly, and Shane moaned loudly, the stretch a delicious, familiar ache that somehow felt brand new every time. Ilya moved them with expertise, opening him up, prepping him, finding that exact spot that made Shane's legs tremble.

"Right there?" Ilya pressed down on purpose, just to hear the strangled moan that escaped his husband. "That's where you like it, isn't it, moya lyubov?"

"You son of a..." Shane didn't finish the sentence. Ilya pressed down again, and his words dissolved into a long, filthy moan.

"Yeah. I love it when you lose the ability to swear at me because you're too busy moaning." Ilya removed his fingers, ignoring Shane's immediate protest, and positioned himself behind him. The tip of his erection brushed against the prepped entrance, just enough to tease, to make Shane arch his back instinctively, chasing it. "Look at you. So gorgeous like this, ready for me. My beautiful husband, my good boy."

"Ilya." The name came out as a prayer, a curse, a desperate plea.

Ilya sank into him to the hilt in a single thrust.

Shane's scream was muffled by the pillow, but Ilya heard every nuance, every vibration. He heard the pleasure, the surprise, the relief. He felt the hot, tight heat surrounding him, that perfect grip that no other sensation in the world could replicate. For a moment, they both stayed perfectly still, just feeling it, processing the connection.

"Bozhe moy," Ilya muttered, resting his forehead between Shane's shoulder blades. "You're so tight. So perfect. So mine."

"Yours," Shane agreed, his voice rough and shaky. "Now move."

Ilya moved.

Every thrust was deep, precise, calculated to hit that exact angle that made Shane lose all composure. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room, mixing with their moans, with the filthy, wet sounds of unchecked lust. Shane had already abandoned any pretense of being quiet, his muffled cries into the pillow turning into loud, desperate, delicious sounds.

"Like this?" Ilya asked, his breathing ragged, the pace picking up. "Is this how you want it?"

"Yes, fuck, yes!"

Ilya gripped Shane's hips tightly, his nails biting into the tanned skin, and accelerated his rhythm. Every thrust was harder than the last, deeper, more urgent. Sweat dripped down his forehead, down his back, and he felt Shane's body trembling beneath him, against him, around him.

"I'm gonna come," Shane warned, his voice unrecognizable with pleasure. "Ilya, I'm gonna come just like this, just with you inside me."

"Come." Ilya leaned down, his mouth finding Shane's ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. "I want to feel it. I want to feel you clenching around me while you come. I want to feel every spasm. Go on, Hollander. Come for me."

Ilya's hand slid underneath Shane's body, found his erection, and started pumping it to the exact rhythm of his thrusts. That was all it took. Shane came with a long, loud scream, his entire body seizing up, his muscles clamping down around Ilya in an erratic, flawless rhythm.

Ilya couldn't hold back. Three thrusts later, he buried himself deep and came with a hoarse shout, his body pressed flush against Shane's, his face buried in his neck, his teeth biting into the skin in a desperate attempt to tether himself to reality while the world exploded into stars behind his eyelids.

The silence that followed was heavy, hot, filled only by their heavy panting and, far in the distance, muffled, Anya's uninterrupted snoring.

Ilya moved slowly, carefully, pulling out with a gentleness that contrasted with the sheer intensity of moments before. He lay down next to Shane, immediately pulling him into his arms, their legs tangling, their still-sweaty bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.

Shane finally took his glasses off, placing them on the nightstand without opening his eyes.

"I was wrong," he mumbled against Ilya's chest.

"About what?"

"You're not going to kill me someday." Shane smiled, his lips brushing the Russian's salty skin. "You're going to kill me today. And again tomorrow."

Ilya chuckled, a tired, satisfied sound, and kissed the top of Shane's head.

"What a wonderful way to die."

[...]

Ilya woke up to the insistent vibration of his phone on the nightstand, the harsh sound against the wood piercing the dead-of-night silence. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, feeling Shane stir beside him, a confused grumble escaping his lips—something about who would be calling in the middle of the damn night.

The Russian stretched out his arm, his fingers blindly groping until they found the device. The screen lit up his face, and he had to blink twice, three times, to process what he was seeing. It wasn't the familiar English alphabet dancing before his eyes, but Cyrillic characters. And the name burning on the screen was a ghost from the past: Sasha.

Ilya frowned, confusion giving way to a cold apprehension that settled in his stomach. He swiped the screen and brought the phone to his ear, sitting up in bed with a sudden jerk that made the edges of the room spin for a second.

"Sasha? Pochemu ty zvonish' mne posredi nochi?" His voice was raspy, thick with sleep, but carried a sharp edge. (Sasha? Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?)

On the other end of the line, a long, heavy sigh. Ilya could hear the static noise of the connection, the loaded silence of someone gathering the courage to speak. Then Sasha cleared his throat, and when his voice finally came, it was serious—more serious than Ilya had ever heard it.

"Il'ya..." He started, and that single syllable carried the weight of an unannounced tragedy.

Ilya and Sasha hadn't spoken in years. Not since the Sochi Olympics, when they ran into each other at an event for Russian athletes. Ilya, captain of the hockey national team, had been forced to attend; Sasha, son of one of the team's coaches, was there by extension. They exchanged a few words, drinks, a flirtation from Sasha about their past that Ilya never reciprocated. But they still had each other's numbers, even if they never used them. Until now.

"Polina pozvonila moyemu ottsu," Sasha continued, his voice tight as a violin string ready to snap. "Aleksey i Zarina popali v avtomobil'nuyu avariyu. Zarina... pogibla na meste, a Aleksey tyazhelo ranen, i... ty zhe znayesh' svoyu machekhu, ona by nikogda ne pozabotilas' o Rayye i Danike, a ty blizhayshaya rodstvennitsa, tak chto..."

(Polina called my dad. Alexei and Zarina were in a car accident. Zarina... died on the spot, and Alexei is severely injured, and... you know your stepmother, she would never take care of Raiya and Danika, and you're the closest relative, so...)

Ilya got out of bed in a rough motion, his bare feet hitting the cold floor. He needed to stand up. He needed the world to stop spinning for a moment, just a second, so he could process the words entering his ears that refused to make sense.

"Chto?" The word slipped out like a breath, as if saying it out loud could change the facts. (What?)

"Mne ochen' zhal', Il'ya, no da... Aleksey v kome, Zariny net, ty blizhayshiy krovnyy rodstvennik, a Polina otchayanno pytayetsya izbavit'sya ot etikh devochek."

(I'm so sorry, Ilya, but yes... Alexei is in a coma, Zarina is gone, you're the closest blood relative, and Polina is desperately trying to get rid of those girls.)

Ilya ran his free hand through his blonde hair, his fingers tangling in the strands in a vain attempt to anchor himself to something.

"Da, no, Sasha, ya bol'she ne mogu poyekhat' v Rossiyu." His frustration climbed into his voice, making it louder, sharper. (Yes, but Sasha, I can't go to Russia anymore.)

The bedside lamp clicked on behind him, bathing the room in an orange hue. Ilya turned instinctively and saw Shane sitting up in bed, his eyes still clouded with sleep, his face scrunched up against the sudden brightness. He rubbed his eyes like a cat, confused, clearly trying to piece together the one-sided conversation echoing through the room.

"Polina skazala, chto mozhet otvezti devochek v Kanadu, no ya dumayu, eto ne ochen' khoroshaya ideya." Sasha continued, ignoring the desperation in Ilya's voice. "Ya mogu ikh zabrat', ya u ottsa, mogu poyekhat' k Alekseyu i zabrat' devochek, navernoye, yego advokat ili kto-to yeshche uzhe sobirayet dokumenty yuridicheskoy okhrany."

(Polina said she could take the girls to Canada, but I don't think that's a very good idea. I can go get them, I'm at my dad's, I can go to Alexei's and pick up the girls, probably his lawyer or someone is already gathering the temporary custody paperwork.)

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut tight, as if he could hold back the tears threatening to fall—tears of frustration, of shock, of an absurd guilt already starting to settle in his chest.

"Sveta ob etom znayet?" (Does Svetlana know about this?)

"Moy papa seychas razgovarivayet s ministrom, navernoye, pozvonit yey pozzhe." (My dad is talking to the minister right now, he'll probably call her later.)

Ilya took a deep breath, feeling the freezing air of the bedroom burn his lungs. He forced his mind to work, to think logistically because thinking emotionally was an abyss he couldn't afford to face right now.

"Ya... ya sdelayu vse, chto smogu pryamo seychas, spasibo tebe, Sasha..." The gratitude came out mechanical, but sincere. (I... I'll do everything I can right now, thank you, Sasha...)

"Yeshcho raz proshu procheniya, Il'ya." (I'm sorry again, Ilya.)

The line went dead.

Ilya stood frozen for a long moment, staring at the phone screen as it gradually dimmed to black. His breaths came in short, shallow waves, and his mind was already racing a mile a minute—documents, passports, money, lawyers, two kids who barely knew him, especially Danika, two kids who now depended on him.

"Ilya?"

Shane's voice was soft, careful, as if he were approaching a spooked animal. Ilya heard the rustle of the sheets, heard his husband's feet hit the floor, and then Shane's warm hands found his waist from behind, holding him with a gentle firmness that had always been his safe haven.

"What happened?"

Ilya swallowed hard, his mouth dry as paper.

"Alexei and Zarina..." He started, and the words felt strange, distant, as if they belonged to someone else's life. "...got into a car accident."

He felt Shane's hands lightly squeeze his waist, his husband's body tensing behind him. He turned around to face him and saw the shock in the brown eyes, the slow, terrible realization of what that could mean.

"Zarina died on the spot," Ilya continued, his voice monotonous, numb. "Alexei was severely injured. He's in a coma."

"And?" Shane asked, but Ilya knew he was already connecting the dots. He knew the family history, he knew Polina, he knew enough to see where this was going. "What about your nieces?"

"That's exactly why Sasha called me." Ilya ran his tongue over his chapped lips. "Polina, my dad's widow, would never take on that responsibility. She's always hated the girls, always treated them like a burden. And I..." His voice cracked for a second. "I'm the closest relative. The only one left."

Shane gripped his waist tighter, pulling him closer in a hug that was simultaneously supportive and grounding.

"But you can't go to Russia anymore," he reminded him, his voice low, as if he needed to voice the obvious so they could both process it.

"I know." Ilya let his head drop forward, his forehead coming to rest on Shane's shoulder. For a moment, just for a moment, he allowed himself to feel the crushing weight of it all. "Sasha offered to bring Raiya and Danika here. He said he's with his dad, that he can go to the hospital, pick up the girls... Said the lawyers are already taking care of the temporary custody paperwork."

"Sasha? The coach's son?"

"Yeah." Ilya lifted his head, meeting Shane's eyes. There had been something in Sasha's voice, a gravity that Ilya couldn't ignore. "He said Polina wanted to bring the girls to Canada. Said he thought it was a terrible idea."

Shane frowned, the same conclusion hitting them both simultaneously.

"Because if she came to bring them," Ilya finished, his voice exhausted, "I doubt she'd go back to Russia. She'd stay here, use the girls as bargaining chips, as a way to extort me or whatever. She always wanted to come to the West. Always hated her life there."

Ilya was stunned, as if floating outside his own body. The last time he had felt like this was almost five years ago, when the phone rang in the middle of the night to say his father had died. The same feeling of unreality, the same abyss opening beneath his feet.

"Ilya." Shane's hand found his face, his warm fingers against his cold skin. "Look at me."

Ilya obeyed, finding the brown eyes that had been his anchor for so many years.

"We are going to figure this out. Together." Shane's voice was firm, even if his eyes showed all the worry he felt. "What do you need? What can I do?"

Ilya took a deep breath, feeling the air fill his lungs as if for the first time in minutes. There was so much to do. Lawyers, contacts, transferring money, flights, documentation, prepping the house for two kids he barely knew.

But right there, in that moment, with Shane's hands on his waist and his eyes locked on his, he felt that maybe, just maybe, he could manage it.

"I need to call Svetlana," he said finally, his voice still shaky, but steadier. "I need to know if she already knows. And then... then I need to figure out how to bring my nieces home."

Home.

The word echoed in his mind, strange and new. Two kids who barely had any contact with him because of his father, Raiya who barely spoke English, who had just lost their mother and might be about to lose their father. Two kids who were now his. Ilya loved his nieces more than they could possibly understand, since they never saw their uncle; Danika had never seen Ilya outside of a phone screen, and Raiya had last seen him almost six years ago, when she was six and Ilya's father had just died.

Shane kissed his forehead, a lingering kiss, and Ilya closed his eyes, letting himself absorb that affection for just one more second before plunging into the chaos waiting for him.

"We'll figure it out," Shane murmured against his skin. "We'll figure it all out."

Ilya sighed deeply, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling Shane close. The Canadian gently held Ilya's shoulders, slowly stroking his head, while the Russian rested his forehead against his abdomen, trying to process it all.

Shane watched Ilya pace back and forth across the living room, the phone glued to his ear as if it were an extension of his own body. The morning light filtered through the cracks in the curtains, creating golden stripes on the beige rug—the same rug Ilya seemed determined to wear out with his frantic pacing.

Anya was snuggled in his lap, the little dog clearly confused by the strange energy that had hung over the house since their abrupt awakening in the middle of the night. She nudged her snout toward Ilya occasionally, as if trying to understand why her human was so agitated, why she hadn't yet received her usual morning pets.

Shane absentmindedly scratched behind the dog's ears, but his attention was entirely focused on his husband. Ilya was wearing only the gray sweatpants he had put on after his shower—or were they the same ones from last night? Shane wasn't sure. His blonde hair was a mess, strands sticking out in every direction as if he had run his fingers through it countless times in the last few hours. Because he probably had.

"Da, da, ya ponimayu," Ilya said into the phone, his voice tense, his shoulders stiff. "Skolko vremeni?"
(Yes, yes, I understand. How much time?)

Shane sighed, sinking a little deeper into the couch. He silently cursed all the Russian lessons he had failed to take seriously. Over the last few months, especially during the summer break, he had promised himself he would dedicate some time to it, that he would learn more than just the basics to survive. But life had gotten in the way, as always. Work, practices, the lazy warmth of summer days. And now here he was, sitting like a useless lump, catching only stray words floating in the air.

Pasport. That one was easy. Obvious. Shane knew what it meant even before Ilya started talking about documents.

Devushki. Another easy word, almost a cognate. The plural of "girls." His nieces. Raiya and Danika.

But the rest? The rest was a blur of consonants and guttural sounds that Shane couldn't decipher, no matter how hard he strained his ears. He caught the tension, sure. He caught the way Ilya's free hand gestured in the air, as if it could emphasize words Shane didn't understand. He caught the pauses, the moments when Ilya closed his eyes and just listened, processing information that probably wasn't good.

"Khorosho. Spasibo, Sveta. Ya perezvonyu."
(Alright. Thank you, Sveta. I'll call you back.)

Ilya finally hung up and stood still for a moment, his back to Shane, the cell phone still clutched in his hand like a talisman. His shoulders rose and fell in a deep breath, and Shane felt the urge to get up, walk across the room, and wrap him in a hug. But something kept him rooted to the spot—maybe the fear of intruding, maybe the certainty that Ilya needed a moment to collect himself before facing the weight of the words that needed to be said.

Anya, however, had no such inhibitions. The little dog jumped from Shane's lap and trotted over to Ilya, rubbing against his bare legs with a soft whimper. Ilya looked down, and something in his face softened for a second—a flash of the tenderness Shane knew so well, but which now seemed buried under layers of worry.

He crouched down to give Anya's head a quick scratch, then straightened up again and finally turned to face Shane.

It was nine in the morning. The clock on the living room wall marked the numbers with a cruel precision, reminding them both that only a few hours had passed since Sasha's call had destroyed any chance of a normal night. Ilya had insisted he'd slept "a little more" after they went back to bed, after they had just held each other in silence until dawn. But Shane knew his husband far too well to believe that.

He knew the purple shadows that formed under those blue eyes when Ilya spent the night awake. He knew the way his skin seemed paler, more translucent, when sleep wouldn't come. He knew the tone of his voice when he tried to lie to protect Shane from the weight of his own worries.

"So?" Shane asked, his voice soft. Anya had already returned to his lap, hopping back up as if she had never left, and he stroked her brown fur in automatic motions.

Ilya let himself fall onto the couch next to him, his body weight sinking into the upholstery as if his legs had finally given out. He tilted his head back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling for a long moment before speaking.

"Svetlana already knew. Her father called her in the middle of the night, just like Sasha said." His voice was hoarse, exhausted. "She is in touch with the lawyers. It seems the temporary custody process can be sorted out quickly, considering the circumstances; Sergei is in politics, he'll pull some strings. Alexei is still in a coma, but stable. They said he could wake up at any moment, or it could take days. They don't know."

Shane gently squeezed Ilya's shoulder, a light touch, just to remind him he was there.

"And the girls?"

Ilya ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes as if he could wipe away the physical exhaustion.

"They're with a neighbor. An elderly woman who used to watch them sometimes when Zarina needed to go out. Polina tried to pick them up this morning, but the neighbor wouldn't let her. Said she would only hand the kids over to a family member authorized by paperwork." A tired smile curved his lips. "You gotta love a stubborn old Russian babysitter."

Shane laughed softly, the sound escaping before he could hold it back.

"She is my new favorite person."

"Mine too." Ilya turned his head to face him, and Shane saw a vulnerability there that few had the privilege to witness. "Sasha is going to get them today. He is already heading to Zarina's town with the temporary paperwork. Then he'll stay with them until their passports are ready. It might take a few days."

"Days," Shane repeated, processing it. "And then they're coming here."

"Yes." Ilya swallowed hard. "They're coming here. To our house."

The sentence hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Our house. A space that, until yesterday, belonged only to two men and a spoiled little dog. A quiet, organized, predictable space. A space that in a few days would be invaded by two small children who barely spoke English, who had just lost their mother, who were probably terrified and confused.

Shane knew nothing about kids. Ilya was great with them, but none had ever truly been dependent on him. They had never planned for this, never even discussed the possibility. Their life was hockey, practices, travel, quiet nights on the couch with Anya snoring between them. There were no cribs, no schools, no parent-teacher conferences. They thought they'd have time to plan all that, soon, but it seems you can't always plan everything—this bothered Shane's methodical habits and his hatred of sudden changes.

But there were two little girls who needed someone. And Ilya was the only someone left.

"We are going to figure this out," Shane said, surprising himself with the firmness in his voice. "We'll get the guest room ready. Buy beds, bedding, toys. Whatever they need. The youngest is what? Four? I can call Hayden and Jackie, they have plenty of experience with kids."

Ilya stared at him with an expression Shane couldn't immediately decipher—a mix of surprise, gratitude, and something that looked like fear.

"You don't have to..."

"Hey." Shane interrupted, turning to face him fully, one hand finding the back of Ilya's neck in a familiar gesture. "They are your nieces. Your family. And you are my husband. That makes them my family too. Got it?"

Ilya's blue eyes gleamed for a moment, but he blinked rapidly, pushing away any threat of tears. Instead, he leaned in and pressed his forehead against Shane's, an intimate gesture they had shared since the early days of their relationship.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice muffled by the proximity. "You know that, right?"

"I know." Shane smiled, his lips brushing Ilya's in a light caress. "And I love you. And now I'm going to love two Russian kids who are going to give us a lot of work and probably make Anya jealous."

Ilya let out a breathy, surprised laugh, and Shane felt the weight on his own shoulders lighten slightly. There was still an ocean of worries ahead—documents, travel, the uncertainty about Alexei, the challenge of integrating two orphaned children into their lives. But right then, with his forehead resting against Ilya's and Anya snoring peacefully in his lap, Shane allowed himself to believe that everything would be alright.

Or at least that they would try with all their might to make it so.

[...]

Shane took charge of practice that day, a practical decision that required no discussion. Ilya spent most of the time on the bench, his phone glued to his hand like an extension of his own body, his blue eyes locked on the screen with an intensity that transcended the ice in front of him. It was necessary. The messages wouldn't stop coming—Svetlana, Sasha, lawyers, documents that needed to be reviewed with the urgency of someone trying to rebuild the lives of two children thousands of miles away.

The Centaurs noticed. Of course they noticed. They were a team, a machine where every gear knew how the others worked. Their captain sitting motionless on the bench, his face more closed off than usual, his hands busy with something that clearly wasn't hockey. Their center running the drills with a different, more restrained energy, as if part of his attention was elsewhere. But no one asked. No one pushed. They simply made it clear, in passing words and meaningful looks, that if they needed anything—anything at all—the whole team would be there.

In the locker room, the silence was punctuated by the sound of showers and lockers opening. Ilya was sitting on his usual bench, his eyes scanning page after page of a Russian document Svetlana had sent. Her father, Sergei Vetrov—a government minister, a man of influence and connections—had managed to expedite some of the red tape. Ilya made a definitive mental note: include Svetlana in his will after all this was over. He had never been so grateful to have grown up alongside a politician's daughter, to have turned an old fling into his best friend. Without her, he would be lost amidst paperwork and laws he barely understood.

His phone vibrated in his hand.

| Sasha M. | Света прислала мне документы, я еду в аэропорт в Москве.
(Sveta sent me the documents, I'm heading to the airport in Moscow.)

Ilya took a deep breath, relieved for a moment. Sasha was on his way. The girls would be in good hands until everything was sorted out.

| Ilya R. | Я оплачу билет для девочек, пришли мне номер своего счета.
(I'll pay for the girls' tickets, send me your account number.)

| Sasha M. | Не будь глупым, в этом нет необходимости.
(Don't be stupid, there's no need for that.)

Ilya rolled his eyes, but a tired smile threatened his lips. Sasha's stubbornness was legendary.

| Ilya R. | Саша
(Sasha)

| Sasha M. | Илья
(Ilya)

And that was it. Sasha stopped replying.

Ilya sighed deeply, ran a hand through his blonde hair, and rubbed his eyebrows in a gesture of restrained frustration. Sasha's silence was answer enough—there would be no argument. The Russian would pay for the tickets out of his own pocket, because that's how it worked between them, between those left from a country Ilya could no longer set foot in.

"Hey, Cap..."

The voice broke his isolation. Ilya looked up from his phone and found Luca a few steps away, the young man's tanned face marked by a poorly disguised expression of concern. The kid—because he was still a kid, even in his early twenties with a spot on the team—watched him with that disarming sincerity that only the youngest had the courage to show.

"Everything okay?" Luca continued, tilting his head. "You barely practiced today and you're carving some serious wrinkles in the middle of your forehead..."

Ilya felt the corner of his mouth twitch up, despite everything. He locked his phone, the screen going dark as if it could temporarily erase the weight he carried. His eyes followed Shane for a second—his husband walking behind Luca, heading for his locker, just a towel around his waist and his dark hair still dripping from the shower. The slight smile Shane offered upon hearing the comment from the team's pup—as they affectionately called Luca—was like a ray of sunlight in the dim locker room.

"So you're calling me a wrinkly old man?" Ilya teased, his voice tired but holding a trace of his characteristic mockery.

Luca pointed a finger at his own forehead for emphasis.

"No, I said you're carving wrinkles. There's a difference." He hesitated for a moment, his green eyes scanning Ilya's face as if trying to decipher a code. "Is there anything that... I don't know, the team can do?"

Luca's gaze slid between Ilya and Shane, including them both in the question. The concern was genuine, Ilya could see that.

"You guys seem tense..."

"We're not, Luca," Shane interjected before Ilya could answer, his voice far too casual, forced into a naturalness that fooled no one.

"Imagine if you were."

Troy emerged from the shower area like an apparition, another towel precariously tied around his waist, water dripping from his dark hair down his neck. He strode over to his locker, but his eyes were locked on Ilya and Shane with an intensity that suggested he'd been watching the scene for longer than he let on.

"Roz sat on the bench all day, his face buried in his phone." Troy counted on his fingers, one by one. "Hollander ran practice because... someone—" here he shot a piercing look toward Bood, who was a few lockers down "—not naming names, but someone in this locker room stubbed his toe on the corner of the wall and blamed his buddy."

He finished his point by gesturing to his own chest, an ironic smile curving his lips.

The silence that followed was filled by the sound of Bood applying deodorant with exaggeratedly calm motions.

"Fuck off." That was all Bood said, without even looking back.

A few muffled laughs echoed through the locker room. The tension, for a moment, seemed to dissipate—or at least hide beneath the familiar layer of their usual banter. Ilya watched the scene with a mix of exhaustion and gratitude. These men, he thought, were more than just teammates. They were a family he hadn't asked for, but who stubbornly insisted on showing up.

Shane walked over, now wearing sweatpants, his towel draped over his shoulder. He sat next to Ilya on the bench, his knee brushing against his in a casual touch that held all the meaning in the world.

"We're okay," Shane said, and this time his voice was lower, aimed only at Ilya. "We're going to be okay."

Ilya nodded, but didn't reply. Instead, he picked up his phone again, sending a quick message to Svetlana before sliding it permanently into his backpack pocket. There would be time for that later. Right now, he was in the locker room with his team, with his husband, with people who cared.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

A voice echoed from the shower area, muffled by the sound of running water but still perfectly audible:

"Who's down for pizza?"

The locker room erupted in affirmative responses, a chorus of male voices ranging from "fuck yeah!" to "finally a smart question today." Someone—probably Troy—yelled back asking if the team was paying, and the answer came in the form of a wet towel chucked in his direction.

Ilya watched the scene with a tired but genuine smile. It was nice, he thought, to have this backdrop of normalcy while his personal world reconfigured itself at warp speed.

Shane leaned in closer, his hand finding his husband's shoulder in a gentle, almost instinctive caress. The worry was still there, stamped in the brown eyes Ilya knew so well, but there was also a calm that only physical proximity seemed to bring them both.

"Did Sasha say anything else?" Shane asked quietly, his voice dropped to a murmur only Ilya could hear.

Ilya shook his head no, but the movement was more about processing than denial. He stood up from the bench, feeling his muscles protest after hours of sitting, and pulled Shane closer, an arm wrapping around his waist in a gesture that was both possessive and comforting.

"He's heading to the airport," Ilya answered in the same low tone, his lips almost brushing Shane's ear. "They should arrive tomorrow around noon or early evening, depends on the connection."

Shane nodded, processing the information. Tomorrow. Less than twenty-four hours. Two little girls who barely spoke English would be in their house, in their lives, demanding things neither of them knew how to give.

Ilya seemed to read his thoughts. Or maybe he was just sharing the exact same ones.

"Time to hide the booze, my cigarettes, and try to baby-proof the house." The tone was light, almost joking, and Shane felt the weight on his shoulders drop a few ounces.

"Isn't Raiya twelve?" Shane asked, raising an eyebrow. He remembered the pictures Ilya had shown him once, a girl with big eyes and dark hair, far too serious for her age.

"Yeah," Ilya confirmed, and now there was a small but genuine smile curving his lips. "But Danika is four. And I was a terror when I was four. Don't even get me started on Alexei."

The mention of his brother came with an expression Shane knew well—that complicated mix of residual affection and frustration Ilya had always carried when it came to his family. But the smile stayed, and Shane felt relief spread through his chest.

Ilya was calming down. Slowly, in layers, the tension was giving way to something closer to acceptance. There would still be hard nights, there would still be tears and frustration and moments of despair—Shane wasn't naive. But in that moment, seeing his husband smile, even timidly, was like watching the sun break through the clouds after days of a storm.

"Who are Raiya and Danika?"

The question came from the side, and both turned to find Luca standing a few steps away, his green eyes wide in an expression that mixed innocent curiosity with the certainty that there was a story here he didn't know yet.

Shane let out a laugh that was pure astonishment.

"What the hell is with your hearing, holy shit." He shook his head, but the smile accompanying the words was genuine. The laughter spread, contagious, and soon some of the other guys nearby were laughing too, even without knowing exactly what was going on.

Luca blushed slightly, but didn't back down. He kept looking from one to the other, waiting for an answer.

Ilya and Shane exchanged a quick look, one of those silent dialogues only years of living together allow. Do we tell them? Why not? Now? Better now than later.

"My nieces," Ilya finally answered, his voice louder now, including not just Luca but anyone who cared to listen. He noticed the silence that gradually fell over the locker room, the team's attention converging on him. "My nieces are coming to live with us."

The silence lasted only a second before being broken by a flood of reactions.

"Damn, Cap, I didn't know you had nieces!" someone exclaimed.

"How old are they?"

"Why are they coming to live with you guys?"

"Do you need help with anything?"

Ilya raised a hand, asking for a pause, and the locker room obeyed. There was another thing he loved about this team—the respect, the way they all knew when it was time to listen.

"There was an accident," Ilya explained, and the simplicity of the sentence carried all the weight he chose not to elaborate on. "Their mother passed away. Their father is in a coma. And I'm the closest relative."

More silence. This time, a different kind of silence—heavy, respectful, loaded with a solidarity that didn't need to be spoken.

Dykstra was the first to move. He crossed the space between them and placed a hand on Ilya's shoulder, a simple gesture but heavy with meaning.

"Anything you guys need," he said, his green eyes meeting Ilya's and then Shane's, "seriously, anything at all, just ask. If you need girl stuff, my daughter has a ton of things she doesn't use anymore."

"Yeah," Bood agreed, finally stepping away from his locker and joining the group. Even he, with his gruff manner and blunt answers, seemed genuinely affected. "If you need furniture, clothes, toys... We'll figure it out."

Luca, still blushing but now wearing a huge smile, nodded energetically.

"I can help with the kids! I have little cousins, I know how to handle rugrats."

Shane laughed, pulling Ilya a little closer.

"We'll remember that when they're running around the house and we can't catch them."

The laughter that followed was collective, a sound that filled the locker room and pushed away, even if temporarily, the shadows hanging over the day. Ilya felt Shane's arm around his waist, felt the warmth of his teammates around him, and for the first time since the middle-of-the-night phone call, he felt that maybe—just maybe—he could do this.

"Pizza?" someone reminded them, breaking the moment. "You guys still down or are we just gonna stand here like a support group?"

"Why not both?" Troy suggested, already pulling up his jeans. "Pizza and support group. Let's solve the world's problems with mozzarella and pepperoni. And none of that weird American Hawaiian pizza crap."

More laughs. More relief. And as the team got ready to leave, Ilya felt Shane kiss his temple, a quick, discreet touch that said everything that needed to be said.

I'm here. We're here. We'll figure this out.

"See? Dykstra is going to give us his daughter's stuff, we don't need Hayden," the Russian quickly said.

"Hayden has three daughters, triple the clothes Danika might like," Shane argued back, watching Ilya grumble as they walked out of the locker room.

[...]

Ilya felt his phone vibrate in his jeans pocket, a discreet tremor amidst the uproar taking over the pizzeria. The team was gathered around the large wooden table, a haven of team t-shirts, tattooed arms, and loud laughter that mixed with the smell of baked dough and melted cheese. Beer bottles clinked in constant toasts, and someone—probably Troy—gestured wildly while telling some story involving a ridiculous fall on the ice during last week's practice.

Ilya pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen lighting up his face in sudden contrast to the cozy dimness of the restaurant. It was a message from Sasha.

A photo.

He zoomed in on the image with a tap, and the breath seemed to leave his lungs for a second.

Sasha was in the center of the picture, inside the airplane, making an exaggerated pouty face at the camera that would have drawn laughs in any other circumstance. But it wasn't Sasha stealing Ilya's attention. It was what—or rather, who—was sitting next to him.

Raiya and Danika.

Danika's eyes were small with sleep, heavy lids fighting the exhaustion of the journey, but even half-closed, Ilya could see it. That crystalline blue, so pure it looked translucent, was the same one he remembered seeing in his mother's eyes when he was a child. The same shade Irina had, the one he saw in the mirror every morning. The little girl's blonde hair was tied in two delicate braids, careful work that Ilya imagined was done by Raiya or maybe the elderly neighbor who had taken them in over the past few days.

Raiya was more awake, but there was something in her eyes—grayish-green, Zarina's eyes—that betrayed a tense vigilance, the premature responsibility of someone who, at twelve years old, already understood too much about the world. Alexei's brown hair framed her face, but the curls were exactly like Ilya's. Like Irina's. The undeniable heritage running through the generations.

Ilya ran his thumb over the screen, as if he could touch the girls' faces through the glass. An unfamiliar tightness settled in his chest, a mix of tenderness and pain he didn't know how to name.

His mother.

Irina.

She would have loved to meet them. She would have baked homemade sweets to welcome them, she would have brushed Danika's hair with the patience only grandmothers have, she would have taught Raiya how to make the family recipes Ilya barely remembered. And the girls—the girls would have absolutely loved meeting their grandmother. They would have warmed themselves in her embrace, listened to her stories, learned about the strong, sweet woman who had shaped Ilya before life hardened him.

But Irina was no longer here. And Ilya would have to be enough.

"This season, we're making the playoffs."

Bood's voice broke the moment, bringing Ilya back to the pizzeria, to the warmth of the gathered bodies, to the loud normalcy that stubbornly persisted despite it all.

Ilya looked up from his phone, discreetly slipping it back into his pocket. Bood was standing, a beer bottle in hand, his co-captain tone unmistakable in his posture.

"We're going all the way to the finals," Bood continued, his eyes scanning the table, meeting each of his teammates, "and we're gonna win the Cup."

A mixed chorus of boos and cheers echoed around the table. Someone yelled, "Fuck yeah, we are!" and someone else replied with, "Calm down, Bood, the season barely even started."

"You know what would be epic?" Troy interrupted the commotion, finishing his beer with a long gulp before leaning back against Harris's shoulder. His boyfriend sat next to him with the usual patience of someone accustomed to being used as a prop during moments of alcohol-fueled excitement. Harris, the team's PR manager, rolled his eyes but didn't move his shoulder away. "Ottawa Centaurs against Montreal Metros."

The rival team's name hung in the air like a challenge.

"So we can make those assholes choke on the shit they pulled with Cap's husband."

"Hell yeah!" Bood slammed his bottle on the table, hijacking the idea as if it were his own.

The whole team exploded in agreement. Shouts, whistles, raised bottles. Even Harris let a smile and a nod slip.

Ilya felt Shane's gaze on him before he even turned his head. His husband had a hand over his mouth, trying to hide a laugh, but Ilya knew every nuance of that face. He knew the gleam in those brown eyes, the way the corners of his lips curled up even when he tried to hide it. Shane wanted it too. Maybe not with the same thirst for revenge as Troy or Bood, but Ilya knew: seeing the Metros get crushed by the Centaurs in a final, especially after all the shit they pulled when their relationship leaked, would be sweet. It would be very sweet.

Ilya let out a genuine smile, the first one in days that didn't take effort.

"I like the sound of that," he said, and his voice was enough to momentarily silence the table. Everyone turned to face him, eyes shining with their captain's approval. "But let's pace ourselves. First, qualify. Then, reach the finals. Then, crush them."

The "crush them" came out with a weight that made the younger guys exchange excited looks. Even Luca, who had barely touched his beer, clapped.

"That's it, Cap!"

Ilya felt Shane's hand find his under the table, their fingers interlacing in a discreet gesture no one else saw but that meant everything. The photo of Sasha and the girls still burned in his pocket, a constant reminder of what was waiting for him at home. But right there, at that table, with his team and his husband by his side, Ilya allowed himself to believe he could have both.

The family he inherited and the family he chose.

"And after we win against those assholes..." Ilya pulled Shane closer, resting his chin on his shoulder, whispering just for him. "With another Cup in the trophy room..."

"Ilya..." Shane said quietly, like a warning, maybe a warning that they were in public.

"One more trophy, one more fuck in the king's room."

"Can't wait." Shane bit his lower lip lightly, looking at him, while the blond stole a kiss.

Ilya pushed the cart through the brightly lit aisles of the supermarket with a studied laziness, the kind of languor that only accompanied someone who was mentally exhausted but physically present. His eyes scanned the shelves without really seeing them, his free hand occasionally diving into his pocket to touch his phone – an automatic check, a nervous tic from the past few days – while he guided the cart on a lazy, almost sleepwalking trajectory.

Shane walked beside him like a miniature force of nature, his eyes glued to his phone screen, his thumb swiping at an impressive speed. Ilya had already lost count of how many tabs he had opened since they entered the store – articles on child development, lists of essential items for kids, forums for first-time parents, videos on how to braid hair.

"Yeah, we're going to need to use my car more often and leave your sports cars aside," Shane announced, looking up from his phone with the conviction of someone who had just discovered a universal truth.

Ilya frowned, turning his head slowly toward his husband in a movement that resembled a confused owl.

"The beginning of a thought, yes?" he asked, his Slavic accent thickening the words as always happened when he was tired or annoyed – or, in this case, a combination of both.

Shane shook his head, already prepared for the explanation.

"Children up to twelve years old, depending on their height, need to sit in a booster seat in the back." He spoke as if reciting a manual, his fingers gesturing to emphasize each point. "Translation: your cars are out of the question. Completely. Not the Audi, not the Porsche, not that yellow toy you insist on calling a car."

Ilya opened his mouth to protest, but Shane held up a finger.

"And we still need a car seat." He paused to let the information sink in. "Actually, two car seats. Of different sizes. Because Danika is four and Raya is twelve, and their needs are completely different, and did you know there are like three different types of car seats depending on weight and height and-"

Ilya responded by pulling a package of spaghetti from the shelf and dropping it into the cart with a definitive thud.

Shane froze mid-sentence, his eyes widening as if he had just witnessed a crime.

"Do you know how many calories are in that?!"

Ilya shrugged, already moving toward the next shelf.

"I do..." He paused, his blue eyes meeting Shane's with a disarming honesty. "Actually, no. But they like pasta. Zarina always posted pictures of them eating pasta."

The silence that followed was filled only by the distant hum of the refrigerators and the sound of carts in the distance. Shane swallowed whatever objection he might have had, saving the nutritional research for another time.

"So," Ilya continued, pushing the cart again, "we'll pick them up at the airport in your car, ok. I can ask Svetlana to buy the car seat."

"No need," Shane replied automatically, and then hesitated. His fingers hovered over his phone screen as his mind raced ahead. "I think my mom might still have mine somewhere. In the attic. Or the basement."

Ilya stopped pushing the cart.

He turned slowly to face Shane, one eyebrow raised in an expression that mixed amusement and accusation.

"You forgot to tell your parents, didn't you?"

Shane blinked. Twice. Three times.

"Maybe..." His voice came out higher than intended. "Maybe I slightly forgot. Just a little bit. In the midst of the whole situation of two orphaned children coming to live with us it might have slipped off the priority list."

Ilya crossed his arms over the cart's handle, leaning his weight on it.

"Shane."

"Ilya."

"You are going to call them."

"I am."

"Now."

"...now?"

Ilya didn't answer. He just kept his eyebrow raised and his gaze fixed, the expression Shane affectionately called The Face. The one that said, without words, that there was no negotiation possible.

Shane sighed, defeated, and raised his phone.

"Your mom is going to love knowing she'll have two kids with us," Ilya commented, a smile finally breaking through his tired expression. "She's going to stuff them both with cake and sweets."

"Meanwhile, you fill the cart with pasta," Shane retorted, but he was already dialing, his face softening in that specific way that only appeared when he thought of his mom. "She's going to freak out. Completely freak out."

"Good." Ilya went back to pushing the cart, turning toward the dairy section. "They deserve someone who freaks out over them. If Yuna and David had the dream of having a girl, this is their moment."

Shane watched his husband's back for a moment, the phone already warm against his ear as he waited for the call to connect. Ilya was calmer than in the previous days, he thought. Still tense, still carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but there was something different. An acceptance, maybe. Or just too tired to keep fighting reality.

"Mom? Is Dad around?" Shane finally spoke into the phone, and Ilya heard the instant shift in his tone – softer, more domestic, the one that only came out when he talked to his family. "I need to tell you something. Sit down."

Ilya smiled, softly, and added a tub of heavy cream to the cart. For the pasta, of course. Essential accompaniment. His mother always said sauce without cream was for heretics.

The scream that pierced through the device seconds later was so high-pitched and sudden that Ilya almost dropped the tub.

Shane pulled the phone away from his ear in a sharp movement, his face contorting in a mix of a flinch and resignation. Yuna's voice echoed through the supermarket aisle with impressive clarity:

"WHAT?"

Silence on the other end. David was probably too in shock to articulate any words.

"I was going to tell you, Mom." Shane was already in defense mode, his voice speeding up as he kept pace with the cart that Ilya stubbornly continued pushing. "I swear, but it's been so hectic that I… um… well… I forgot."

Ilya couldn't contain the low laugh that escaped through his nose. Forgot. As if forgetting to mention that two orphaned children were about to move into their house was something perfectly understandable.

Shane shot him a withering glare, but continued the conversation with his mom, his eyes now fixed on the cart as Ilya added a few more items – tomato sauce, onions, garlic. Basics. Things kids ate.

"Do you guys still have my old car seat?" Shane asked, and Ilya saw the exact moment he noticed the sauce being placed in the cart. His free hand shot out at an impressive speed, grabbing the jar and swapping it for a diet version before Ilya could protest. "Yeah, the youngest is four…"

Ilya rolled his eyes, but his smile remained. Rabbit food, he thought, but kept the comment for later.

That was when he felt the familiar vibration in his pocket.

The phone lit up with a new message from Sasha. Ilya unlocked the screen while Shane continued negotiating with his mom about car seats and, apparently, about the unforgivable fact of having hidden "two granddaughters" from her for almost three days.

The photo was from the London airport. Sasha was in the center of the frame, but the true stars of the image were the two girls leaning against him, one on each side, completely asleep. Raiya had her head tilted back, her mouth slightly open in a silent snore. Danika was curled up against Sasha's arm like a kitten, her little blonde braids half undone, her small face turned toward the young man's chest.

And Sasha, the angel, took advantage of the children's vulnerable moment to flip off the camera.

Ilya laughed through his nose, a muffled sound that made Shane glance over before returning to the call. With his thumb, Ilya sent the same middle finger emoji in response. Idiot, he thought, but affection overflowed at the edges of the thought.

Sasha had changed. Eight years made a difference – the reckless boy Ilya had met in Sochi was now a grown man, with broad shoulders and a five o'clock shadow that gave him a tired but mature look. He still had his biting sense of humor, that was undeniable, but there was a solidness to him that hadn't existed before. It was good. It was necessary, especially now.

Ilya put his phone away, but the image remained etched in his mind. And with it, a thought that hadn't occurred to him before.

When they went to pick up the girls at the airport – tomorrow, or the day after, depending on the connection – Shane would meet Sasha. And Sasha would meet Shane.

Shane, who knew exactly who Sasha was.

Ilya swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the cart's handle. It wasn't a secret. It never was. Shane knew about Sasha – knew he was the first guy Ilya hooked up with, back when they were teenagers in the hostile Russia of the 2000s. He knew about the hidden make-out sessions between practices, the stolen kisses in empty locker rooms while Sasha's dad shouted orders on the ice, the constant fear of being discovered in a country that didn't forgive.

Shane knew everything. And he never judged, maybe just a little.

But meeting Sasha in person? Seeing the ghost of the past materialized in flesh and blood, with his broad shoulders and his questionable sense of humor and the undeniable fact that he had been the first to touch Ilya that way?

Maybe it would be a slightly awkward situation to happen.

"Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov?"

The voice behind them interrupted the whirlwind of thoughts. Shane hung up the call in an automatic motion – "Mom, gotta go, I'll call you later, promise, kisses" – and they both turned to face the source of the interruption.

It was a man in his forties, with the easy smile of someone used to striking up conversations with strangers. Beside him, two girls: a younger one, maybe eight or nine, wearing an orange Ottawa Centaurs scarf with obvious pride; the older one, about twelve or thirteen, looked like she wanted to disappear inside her own hoodie, so embarrassed was she by her father's approach.

"I don't want to bother you," the man hurried to say, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture, "but my daughters and I are big fans of yours. Could you possibly take a picture with them?"

Ilya felt the automatic captain's smile form on his lips, the one he used for interviews and official events. But when he looked at the girls, something genuine replaced the mask.

"Sure." He pushed the cart aside, stepping closer. "Hey, what's your name?"

The younger one lit up completely, her smile revealing a missing front tooth.

"Marie!"

"Marie," Ilya repeated, as if etching the name into his memory. "What a beautiful name."

Shane was already positioning himself next to the older girl, who kept her eyes glued to the floor with determination. His smile was softer, less rehearsed, the kind of expression Ilya knew was reserved for genuine moments.

"And you?" Shane asked, his voice low, without pressure. "What's yours?"

The girl looked up for a moment, surprised by the gentle approach.

"Julie," she murmured, almost inaudibly.

"Julie." Shane repeated, and then, in a movement that seemed perfectly natural, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Perfect. Shall we take this picture?"

Julie nodded, a slight smile finally breaking through her shyness. Marie had already positioned herself between Ilya and Shane, occupying the space with the confidence of someone who knew no shame. Their father was already in position with his phone, framing the shot.

"Say 'Centaurs'!" he instructed, and snapped not one, but three consecutive photos. "Oh, their mother is going to freak out when she sees this," the man commented, putting his phone away with a satisfied smile. "Thank you so much, guys. These two will be riding this high for weeks."

"No problem at all." Shane gave Marie a light fist bump, and she laughed out loud, the crystalline sound echoing down the aisle.

The girls waved, Julie a bit more relaxed now, and followed their father back the way they came. Ilya watched for a moment, the orange scarf disappearing among the shelves, before turning back to the cart.

"Cute," he commented, the smile still present.

He pushed the cart again, but instead of heading toward the pasta, he made a decisive turn toward the produce section.

"Come on," he said, glancing at Shane, "we have to get your rabbit food."

Shane frowned, but there was amusement in his eyes.

"You mean healthy food."

Ilya stopped the cart, turned slowly, and faced his husband with an expression that mixed mockery and teasing.

"Rabbit," he repeated, his Slavic accent carefully exaggerated on the last word. "You eat like a rabbit. Am I going to have to buy carrots too?"

"Carrots are healthy!"

"For a rabbit."

Shane opened his mouth to protest, but a laugh escaped before he could contain it. Ilya joined in, the sound low and raspy, and for a moment the whole supermarket seemed to fade away around them.

There was still the weight of the news, the uncertainty about Alexei, the immense challenge that awaited them. There was still Sasha and the past and the awkward encounter that would happen in a matter of hours.

But there, in those seconds, there were only two men sharing a moment of lightness amidst the chaos.

Ilya went back to pushing the cart, now decidedly toward the vegetables.

"Come on, little rabbit," he teased. "Choose your food."

Shane rolled his eyes, but the smile didn't fade from his face.

"I'll choose. And you're going to eat it too, because someone needs to set an example for the kids."

Ilya froze for a moment, the words hitting their mark.

Kids. Their kids. In their house. Eating at their table.

"Yeah," he finally said, his voice lower. "Yeah... that's true."

Shane stepped closer, his hand finding Ilya's on the cart's handle, their fingers intertwining in a gesture that was already as natural as breathing.

"We'll learn together," he murmured. "How to be an example. How to be... a family."

Ilya squeezed his hand in response.

And together, they pushed the cart toward the vegetables.

[...]

"Drinks stored in the upper cabinets," Shane counted on his fingers, entering the living room from the hallway, his eyes scanning every detail of the room like a general inspecting the battlefield before combat. "Outlets covered, backyard gate locked, Anya's toys out of the way…"

He paused, frowning, his pinky finger still hovering in the air while his brain worked at top speed.

"What am I forgetting?"

Ilya was leaning back on the couch, already completely changed – dark jeans, a simple black t-shirt, a casual jacket over it. Ready to go to the airport, even though the girls' flight wasn't landing for another good two or three hours. If it were up to him, he would be at the arrival gate right now, waiting.

"Lubes collected from every drawer in the house," he answered with the calm of someone reciting a grocery list. "Sex toys properly stored inside the closet safe. Packs of condoms at the bottom of the locked nightstand drawer."

The silence that followed was filled only by the distant hum of the refrigerator.

Shane felt the heat rise up his neck, spread across his cheeks, and set the tips of his ears on fire. The memory of the moment they realized the need to hide their things – to make the house child-proof – still burned in his mind with the intensity of a fireplace in December.

The night before, in the middle of the night – like all of Shane's sudden realizations. The conversation in the bedroom.

"Ilya, what if one of them opens the wrong drawer?"

"What wrong drawer?"

"Any drawer. All the drawers. You have lube in the bathroom, on the nightstand, in the dresser drawer, on the living room side table…"

"For your information, that's lip balm."

"Ilya, the packaging says 'Strawberry flavored intimate lubricant'."

"…It's premium lip balm."

The memory made Shane shake his head, an involuntary smile escaping despite his embarrassment.

"You took the mission seriously," he commented, trying to regain his composure.

Ilya raised an eyebrow, the blue of his eyes shining with a mix of amusement and pride.

"You gave me a list."

"I didn't put sex toys on the list!"

"It was implied."

"No, it wasn't!"

"Shane." Ilya got up from the couch with the studied laziness of a cat, approaching with slow steps. "When you said 'we need to hide everything embarrassing,' what exactly did you think I was going to understand?"

Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I… didn't think specifically of the…"

"The vibrators?" Ilya finished, his Slavic accent giving a deliciously teasing emphasis to the word. "The plugs? The handcuffs you love?"

"Ilya."

"The leather whip we bought in Ibiza that you said was 'for decoration'?"

"Ilya!" Shane covered his face with his hands, but couldn't hide the laugh that escaped through his fingers. "For the love of God, the girls are arriving today!"

"I know." Ilya was now inches away, his hands finding Shane's wrists and gently pulling his hands away from his face. "That's why I was careful. Everything is put away. Locked up. Inaccessible to curious children."

Shane's gaze met his, and something tightened in his chest – not from embarrassment, but from something deeper. Gratitude, maybe. Or the realization that they were really doing this. Together.

"You thought of everything," he murmured.

Ilya tilted his head, a barely perceptible movement.

"I did." He paused, his thumbs tracing soft circles on Shane's wrists. "And there's one more thing."

"What?"

"If someone ever needs to talk about… sex education in the future, that person will be you."

Shane blinked.

"What?!"

"You're better with words." Ilya shrugged, but his wicked smile gave away the teasing. "I'm better with…"

"Don't finish that sentence."

"…practical demonstrations."

"Ilya!"

This time, Shane couldn't contain the laugh that exploded out, loud and sincere, echoing through the living room. Ilya joined in, his deeper, raspy sound mixing with Shane's in a duet that seemed to chase away, if only temporarily, the shadows of the past few days.

"Did we agree to ask Svetlana?"

"Obviously." Shane nodded, smiling.

Anya, who was curled up in her little bed in the corner of the room, lifted her head with an expression of pure canine judgment before going back to sleep.

"We can do this," Shane said when the laughter finally died down, his hands now holding Ilya's face with a tenderness that contrasted with the previous moment. "We're going to get through this."

Ilya rested his forehead against Shane's, his eyes closing for a moment.

"I know."

They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing the same air, sharing the same silence. Then Ilya pulled back, his gaze sliding to the clock on the wall.

"Two hours left."

"I know."

"We could go now. Wait at the airport."

"Ilya, it's two hours early."

"And?"

Shane smiled, affection overflowing in every curve of his lips.

"And we'll look desperate. And I'm supposed to be the anxious one in the marriage."

"We are desperate. And I'm pretty sure you infected me with your anxiety, transmission by bodily fluids, or something like that."

"There's a difference between being desperate and looking desperate."

Ilya frowned, processing the logic behind the statement.

"Are you saying we should pretend we aren't desperate?"

"I'm saying we should pretend we have the situation under control."

"Shane." Ilya pointed to the living room around them, to the covered outlets, the furniture with corner protectors, the new lock on the patio door. "We spent three days trying to get the situation under control. I think we've pretended enough."

Shane couldn't argue with that logic.

"Ok." He sighed, surrendering. "Let's get the keys."

Ilya smiled, that genuine smile that still managed to make Shane's heart race even after so many years.

"Good choice."

As they headed to the door, Ilya stopped for a moment, looking back at the living room newly transformed into a child-proof environment. Anya was still sleeping, oblivious to the changes. Her toys were organized in a basket in the corner, far from the reach of curious little hands. The drinks occupied the highest shelves in the kitchen, where not even a child perched on a stool could reach.

And somewhere in the closet, safely locked away, the safe held secrets that belonged only to them.

"Ready?" Shane asked from the doorway, the car keys already in hand.

Ilya turned, taking one last look at the house before crossing the threshold.

"Ready."

The door clicked shut softly behind them, and for the first time in days, Ilya felt that maybe – just maybe – he was ready for what was to come.

[...]

They were positioned near the arrival gate for the London flight, enduring one of those waits that seem to stretch time to the breaking point. The airport pulsed around them – luggage carts clinking, announcements echoing over the speakers in French and English, families reuniting with screams and hugs – but Ilya barely registered anything beyond his own body spiraling.

His hands wouldn't stay still. They rubbed together, scratched the back of his neck, dove into his jacket pockets only to emerge seconds later. His gaze swept the flow of passengers with an almost predatory intensity, searching for any sign of a specific silhouette: tall, broad-shouldered, that cocky, swaggering walk that only a Russian raised with excess confidence possessed.

Sasha. The ghost of the past about to materialize in flesh and blood, bringing with him two children who would change everything.

Shane, beside him, was a study in contrasts. Calmer – or at least better at hiding it –, he was leaning against the wall near the waiting chairs, an open book in his hands. Ilya had seen Shane read anywhere, anytime, but he still felt a mild shock upon recognizing the cover. It wasn't a hockey tactical manual. It wasn't a player's biography. It was Dostoevsky. Philosophy. The kind of book Shane saved for moments when he needed to pretend his brain was somewhere else.

"Tsk." Ilya clicked his tongue softly, an unspoken commentary on the irony of reading the most Russian of Russian authors while waiting for two pieces of Russia to disembark.

That was when the hand appeared.

Over his shoulder, a small, wrinkled hand offered a square piece of gum still in its foil wrapper. Ilya was so genuinely startled that he gave a small jump in place, his heart racing before his brain could process what he was seeing.

He looked up.

Yuna.

His mother-in-law was smiling with that mix of sweetness and mischief that only experienced mothers mastered. Beside her, David waved discreetly, his brown eyes shining with the barely contained excitement of someone about to witness something important.

"It's nicotine," Yuna explained, waving the gum slightly. "If you keep bouncing that leg like a jackhammer, you're going to drill a hole in the floor."

Ilya laughed through his nose, a raspy, surprised sound, and accepted the gum. He popped it into his mouth, the familiar taste of mint and nicotine spreading across his tongue, and felt his shoulders relax a few degrees almost immediately. The addiction was grateful.

Shane blinked, surprised, closing his book with a soft thud before standing up to hug his dad.

"Hey, what are you guys doing here?" he asked, his voice laden with a genuine joy that made Ilya smile against his will.

David returned the hug with that restrained manner of someone not given to grand displays, but his smile gave everything away.

"Did you really think we'd leave our boys alone at a time like this?" The joke came accompanied by a wink, his hands already diving into his jacket pockets in an automatic gesture.

Yuna, for her part, sat down next to Ilya on the waiting bench. Unceremoniously, without asking. She just sat down and placed her hand over his knee, right on the spot where his leg was still vibrating with a residual tremor.

The warmth of her hand passed through the denim, an unexpected anchor.

"Raya and Danika?" Yuna asked, the names coming out with almost palpable care.

Ilya nodded, chewing the gum slower now, the nicotine doing its silent work.

"Yeah... Raiya and Danika." He confirmed, and paused to organize his thoughts. "Raiya speaks English. Zarina put her in a language school since she was five. It'll be easier with her."

"And Danika?" David asked, stepping closer with Shane to form a semicircle around the bench.

Ilya clicked his tongue, a sound that carried more meaning than any word.

"I've never even seen her in person."

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Yuna squeezed his knee lightly, a gesture of silent support.

"But Raiya..." Ilya continued, his voice taking on a different, softer tone. "Raiya liked to ride bikes. Or used to like it, when I spent my summers back home. We'd pedal around the neighborhood, me in the back, her in the front, always complaining that I was too slow."

A nostalgic smile curved his lips. It had been so long. Years since he'd seen his niece in person, since he'd felt the wind on his face pedaling next to her. The sporadic calls, the photos sent by Zarina, were never enough. And now she would be here, in a matter of minutes, carrying the weight of a tragedy that Ilya could barely process.

"Shane's old childhood bike is sitting out in the garage," David announced, and there was something almost conspiratorial in his tone, as if he were offering a gift. "Nothing a new chain and some oil can't fix. I'll take a look at it tomorrow."

Ilya looked up at his father-in-law, something tightening in his chest. David was already planning. He was already thinking of solutions. He was already, in his quiet, practical way, inserting himself into the lives of these kids who hadn't even arrived yet.

Shane watched the scene with a smile that stubbornly kept growing until he couldn't hold it back anymore.

"You guys are loving this situation, aren't you?" he accused his parents, his voice mixing amusement and affection.

"No," Yuna and David answered in unison, a reflex so automatic it only proved the opposite.

A pause.

"Maybe..." Yuna added, a mischievous smile twinkling in her eyes. "I admit," she continued, now addressing Ilya more than Shane, "I always imagined myself as a boy mom, a boy grandma. I thought it would be like that forever. But the universe wanted me to be a girl grandma, so..." She shrugged in a dramatic gesture. "It's up to me to accept it."

The laugh that escaped Shane was loud and sincere. Ilya joined in, quieter, but genuine. Even Yuna laughed at her own dramatics.

David used the moment of levity to lean toward Shane's ear, his hand cupped to muffle the sound. But Ilya, with his ears trained to pick up anything in Russian or English, still caught the whisper:

"I had to spend the whole drive here convincing her this wasn't the time to think about family ad campaigns with your sponsors."

Shane choked back a laugh, the sound coming out as a muffled snort. Ilya saw his shoulders shake, saw the hand he brought to his mouth to hide it, and something warm spread through his chest.

Yuna, of course, noticed the exchange.

"I was just suggesting it would be a great marketing opportunity!" she defended herself, but her smile showed she knew exactly the effect she had. "Beautiful girls, 'The Hockey Husbands'... Brands would pay fortunes."

"Mom," Shane warned, but there was no weight to the word.

"I'm just saying."

"You're planning."

"I'm dreaming. There's a difference."

Ilya laughed softly, shaking his head. The nicotine had kicked in completely, and the presence of his in-laws – absurd, loving, invasive in the best way – worked like a second tranquilizer. He wasn't alone in that wait anymore. He wasn't just with Shane, trying to pretend he was in control.

There was a whole village forming around him. Ready to welcome two little girls who were coming from so far away.

The arrivals board blinked, updating with new information. The London flight had landed.

Ilya felt his stomach churn.

"They're here," he murmured, more to himself than to the others.

Yuna squeezed his knee one more time before letting go.

"We'll wait here," she said, with the calm only mothers possess. "You guys go ahead. We'll hang back so we don't overwhelm them."

David nodded, already taking a step back.

Shane held out his hand to Ilya, a simple, silent gesture.

Ilya took it, trembling.

And together, they walked toward the gate where the future waited for them.

"I feel my blood pressure dropping." Ilya murmured, the words coming out almost slurred, his Slavic accent thickening with every syllable as if his English was draining out of him along with the color from his face.

Shane squeezed his hand firmly, his thumb finding the wedding ring and tracing soft circles over the metal warmed by his skin.

"I've got you."

Ilya sighed heavily, a sound that carried the weight of the last few days compressed into a single breath. They both locked their eyes on the arrival gates, where the flow of passengers was beginning to materialize. People around them held colorful bouquets, signs with cheesy messages written in block letters, giant stuffed animals that were more of a nuisance than a decoration. The airport pulsed with the energy of reunions.

Ilya barely saw any of it.

His eyes were fixed on the window looking into the jet bridge, that opening through which, in mere moments, his past and his future would disembark. His free hand dove into his jacket pocket, came back out, went back in. A nervous tic Shane knew well.

Suddenly, Ilya's fingers squeezed his with a force that bordered on pain.

Shane didn't even have to ask. His gaze was already searching in the same direction, sweeping the flow of passengers that was starting to emerge. And then he saw it.

A tall man, broad-shouldered, walked with the confidence of someone who had faced worse things than international travel. A duffel bag slung diagonally across his shoulder, his other hand firmly gripping a small pink rolling suitcase. Beside him, two girls holding hands. The younger one held the man's hand with the trust of someone who already considered him a safe harbor. The older one pulled another suitcase, her eyes alert, watchful, searching.

They walked through the gate.

The man – Sasha – waved his thanks to the jet bridge attendant, and then his eyes began to sweep the concourse like a falcon hunting for prey. Face serious, focused, ready for anything.

But the one who found Ilya first wasn't Sasha.

It was Raiya.

The girl's grey-green eyes met her uncle's in an instant of pure recognition, and something lit up in them. She dropped her suitcase on the floor without a second thought, turned to her sister with a radiant smile, and yelled:

"Dyadya Il'ya!" And then she ran.

Shane felt Ilya's hand tremble, saw the exact moment when the air seemed to vanish from his lungs. A sob tore from the Russian's throat, a raspy, pained sound, and before he could process it, Ilya was already moving. Letting go of his hand. Running toward his niece.

Raiya jumped into his arms with the confidence of someone who knew she'd be caught, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms squeezing his neck. Ilya held her with the strength of someone clinging to life, his face buried in her curly brown hair.

Danika wasn't left behind. She dropped Sasha's hand and ran after her sister, her short, determined little steps, her blonde braids bouncing. She threw herself at Ilya unceremoniously, grabbing onto his leg and then his arm, until he pulled her into the embrace as well.

"O bozhe... vy dvoye zdes'!" Ilya squeezed them both to his chest, his voice choked up, tears streaming freely down his face without any shame.
(Oh God... you two are here!)

Shane watched from where he stood, his eyes burning with a moisture that refused to be contained. He saw his husband's back tremble with muffled sobs, saw the girls' little hands bury themselves in his blonde hair, saw the way Ilya wrapped around them as if he could protect them from all the evil in the world.

And then Danika spoke.

"Rad tebya videt' vpervyye," she said, with that childish smile that only four-year-olds have, innocent and whole, oblivious to the tragedy that had brought her there.
(I am glad to see you for the first time.)

Ilya felt his heart shatter and mend itself at the same time. He let out a wet laugh, his fingers finding the girl's messy braids, fixing the blonde strands with infinite care. He caressed her soft face, her blue eyes – Irina's eyes, the eyes of the grandmother Danika would never know – locked on his.

"Ty znala, chto u tebya glaza kak u babushki?" he joked, his voice still trembling.
(Did you know you have your grandmother's eyes?)

Danika nodded enthusiastically, a laugh escaping her lips, and went back to burying her face in Ilya's chest in a tight hug.

Raiya, still wrapped around her uncle, looked up at Shane. There was something in her eyes – a silent appraisal, an unasked question. Who are you? Are you staying? Can I trust you?

Shane held her gaze and smiled, a soft smile, without pressure. Like someone saying no need to worry right now. We have time.

Sasha approached, the luggage now all clustered around him. He looked at the scene – Ilya on the airport floor, two kids clinging to him as if he were the only anchor in a world turned upside down – and something in his face softened.

"Zdravstvuy, Ilyushka," Sasha said quietly, a tired smile curving his lips as his eyes traced the face of his childhood friend, finding marks there that eight years had left.
(Hello, Ilyushka.)

Ilya looked up from the tangle of arms and hair that were his nieces, his face still wet with tears, but a genuine smile breaking through the expression like sun through storm clouds.

"Zdravstvuy, Sasha."

He stood up carefully, Danika still plastered to his side like a little monkey, her tiny legs wrapped around his waist and her little arms tight around his neck. Ilya's free hand found Raiya's shoulder, pulling her closer in a protective gesture that seemed as natural as breathing.

Sasha observed the scene with a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction. He set down the bags he was still carrying next to the ones already on the floor and stretched his spine with a grimace.

"Delivered safe and sound." He cracked his back with a sharp pop, the relief evident in every movement. "God, my back hurts. International flights with kids should be classified as an Olympic sport."

Ilya chuckled softly, the sound still rough from the recent tears.

"Spasibo, Sasha." The word came out brief, but loaded with a weight that transcended the simple meaning of "thank you". It was gratitude for something words couldn't entirely capture.

Sasha returned a roguish smile, the kind Ilya remembered so well from their teenage years, and winked slowly at him. A teasing wink, loaded with years of history and shared memories.

Ilya felt more than he saw the instant tension behind him.

"Oh..." Sasha raised his eyebrows, his gaze sliding to some spot over Ilya's shoulder. "I didn't see the lion behind you."

Ilya turned, finding Shane a few steps away. His husband's face was a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, but Ilya knew every micro-expression on that face. He knew the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched slightly, the gleam in his brown eyes that betrayed something between amusement and thinly veiled possessiveness.

Shane had seen the wink.

Of course he had.

"Vous parlez français, n'est-ce pas?" Sasha asked, the transition into French as smooth as it was natural.
(You speak French, don't you?)

Surprise flickered across Shane's face like a quick shadow before being replaced by something more calculated.

"Oui, je suis franco-canadien, bien sûr que je parle français," he answered, his pronunciation flawless, the accent heavy with the specific cadence of Canadian French.
(Yes, I am French-Canadian, of course I speak French.)

That was when Ilya saw it.

That look on Shane's face – the same one he himself used when he spoke Russian with Svetlana in front of his husband. The awareness of speaking a language the other didn't understand, and the petty, malicious pleasure that came with it.

Sasha smiled, satisfied.

"Il’ya ne parle pas français, donc on peut se moquer de lui sans qu'il comprenne." He nodded toward Ilya, giving a light laugh.
(Ilya doesn't speak French, so we can make fun of him without him understanding.)

Ilya frowned, catching only his own name and the word "French". He hated when this happened.

Sasha continued, his tone shifting to something more provocative, his eyes locked on Shane with a defiant glint:

"Tu es vraiment le joueur le plus sexy de la ligue, et tu as envie d'un plan à trois ?"
(You really are the sexiest player in the league, and do you want to have a threesome?)

The silence that followed was electric.

Shane held Sasha's gaze for a long moment, his face impassive. Then he answered, his voice calm, measured, every word carefully chosen:

"Il est mon mari, à moi seul. Je suis enfant unique, je n'aime pas partager."
(He is my husband, mine alone. I'm an only child, I don't like to share.)

The animosity was mild, almost imperceptible to anyone not paying attention, but Ilya felt it vibrating in the air between the two men. His hand instinctively squeezed Raiya's shoulder, a grounding gesture.

That was when the girl spoke.

"Budut li oni govorit' na etom yazyke vse eto vremya?" Raiya asked, her grey-green eyes darting between Ilya and the two men glaring at each other as if they were in a boxing ring.
(Are they going to speak this language the whole time?)

Ilya felt the tension dissipate slightly, replaced by something closer to relief. His hand found his niece's hair in a distracted caress.

"Nadeyus', net." He answered, a tired smile curving his lips.
(I hope not.)

Danika, still curled up in his arms, chose this moment to yawn loudly, her little blonde head heavy against Ilya's shoulder. The sound cut the tension like a butter knife, reminding everyone what really mattered in that moment.

Raiya, however, still had questions.

She squeezed Ilya's hand tighter, her grey-green eyes fixed on her uncle's face, but darting quickly to the man standing next to him. Her gaze dragged over Shane from head to toe with almost clinical attention, assessing, cataloging, judging.

"Kto on?" she asked, her voice low but clear.
(Who is he?)

Then her eyes found Ilya's hand. The dark wedding band on his ring finger gleamed under the cold airport light, discreet but undeniable. The girl's face lit up with understanding, a faint, curious smile appearing on her lips.

"Eto vash muzh?"
(Is that your husband?)

Ilya opened his mouth to answer, but Shane beat him to it. His voice came out a bit stiff, the Russian words carefully rehearsed, every syllable pronounced with the precision of someone reading a mental script for the first time:

"Da, ya yego muzh."
(Yes, I am his husband.)

Sasha raised his eyebrows so high they almost disappeared under his fringe. The surprise on his face was genuine, disarmed – he clearly didn't know Shane spoke Russian.

Ilya, on the other hand, wore a more-than-pleased smile. There was pride there, yes, but also something softer – the satisfaction of presenting his past with the living proof that the present could be good.

Shane extended his free hand to the girl, the gesture formal but kind.

"I'm Shane. Shane Hollander."

Raiya accepted his hand with the seriousness of someone conducting a diplomatic negotiation. The handshake was firm, her eyes never leaving his.

"Raiya Rozanova." She paused, still assessing. "You speak Russian well?"

The accent was the same as Ilya's – that drawling Slavic cadence, the vowels too open, the consonants too hard. Familiar music to Shane's ears.

"Not much," Shane admitted, honestly. "Basic levels."

Raiya processed the information with a nod. Then she turned to Ilya and commented, as if Shane wasn't there:

"On kazhetsya klassnym."
(He seems cool.)

Ilya laughed, the sound low and raspy, and nodded with conviction.

"Samyy krutoy," he promised, his free hand finding his niece's hair in an affectionate caress.
(The coolest.)

Before Raiya could respond, a curly-haired figure emerged from the airport crowd with the determination of someone who was running late for something important. Svetlana's frizzy red curls were unmistakable, bouncing with every hurried step as she swept the concourse with her eyes.

"Tetya Sveta!" Raiya yelled, letting go of Ilya's hand and running toward the newcomer.

Svetlana opened her arms at the last second, absorbing the girl's impact with a laugh that echoed through the concourse.

"O, moy angel! Posmotri, kak ty prekrasna!" She pulled Raiya to her chest, her eyes shining with an emotion few had the privilege of seeing.
(Oh, my angel! Look how beautiful you are!)

Over the girl's head, Svetlana caught Ilya's eye – a moment of silent connection, of mutual gratitude, of we're in this together. Then her eyes slid to Sasha, and something in her expression shifted. A different smile, more guarded, but still genuine.

"Privet, Sasha."
(Hi, Sasha.)

Sasha, who was watching the scene with a tired but amused expression, returned the smile.

"Privet, Sveta." He took a dramatic pause, his back cracking audibly as he stretched. "Pozhaluysta, skazhite, chto u vas ochen' udobnaya krovat', mne nuzhno pospat'."
(Please tell me you have a very comfortable bed, I need to sleep.)

Svetlana laughed, nodding her head.

"Konechno. Syd'ba ne tak zhestoka, chtoby lishit' tebya sna segodnya vecherom."
(Of course. Fate isn't so cruel as to deprive you of a bed tonight.)

Ilya watched the scene with Danika still weighing against his shoulder, the warm, sleeping weight of the girl a constant reminder of what awaited him at home. Raiya was safe in Svetlana's arms. Sasha, despite his exhaustion, seemed to finally relax. And Shane... Shane was by his side, a constant and silent presence, his shoulder brushing his in a casual contact that said more than a thousand words.

Svetlana gave Danika a quick kiss on the cheek, saying she would come to see her the next day, and then said goodbye to Raiya, after all, she only came to pick up Sasha. Shane grabbed the girls' bags and they started walking toward the airport exit. Shane couldn't help but think that the two of them were okay – they seemed okay, despite the loss of their mother and the imminent loss of their father.

Then they approached where David and Yuna were waiting, and instantly, Shane's mom's eyes sparkled with emotion upon seeing the girls.

"Eto moi svekrov' i svokor, roditeli Sheyna. Yuna i Devid," Ilya told Raiya and the sleepy Danika in his arms.
(These are my parents-in-law, Shane's parents. Yuna and David.)

"Hello, Raya." Yuna stepped closer and offered her hand. "I'm Shane's mom, it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Nice to meet you too." She shook Yuna's hand and then David's. "Danika doesn't speak English and... she's sleepy."

"Oh, the poor thing..." Yuna adjusted Danika's little braids, looking like someone who had just seen the cutest thing in the universe right in front of her. "Go home, put them to bed. Because this one is also pretending not to be sleepy."

"How do you know?" Shane frowned.

"She rubs the corner of her eyes, just like you did and still do when you're sleepy." Yuna pointed out at the exact moment Raiya made the movement.

Ilya looked at the backseat every five minutes, a human clock programmed to check if the girls were still there, if they were still real, if that moment wasn't some kind of elaborate dream from which he would wake up at any second.

Shane drove with the calmness of someone who knew every street in Ottawa with his eyes closed, crossing downtown with the certainty of someone carrying the most precious cargo he had ever transported. The night lights painted the interior of the car in quick flashes—yellow from the streetlamps, red from the traffic lights, blue from the storefronts that were still open.

Raiya was glued to the window, her face turned outward, her eyes scanning every building, every business, every piece of that foreign city that was now her destination. She fought against sleep with the determination of someone who was twelve years old and believed that losing a second of observation was losing a second of life. The yawns, however, betrayed her—small and muffled, hidden behind her hand whenever they escaped.

Danika, in the seat next to her, had completely given in. The little blue car seat—the one that had belonged to Shane decades ago, rescued from his parents' attic with a mix of nostalgia and disbelief—seemed to have been made for her. Her little blonde head hung to the side, her mouth slightly open, her small braids finally surrendering to the chaos after a full day of traveling.

Ilya watched her for a long moment, something tightening in his chest. Her grandmother's eyes, he thought. Her grandmother's hair. The open-mouthed way of sleeping that belonged to Alexei as a child.

He looked away before he could sink too deep.

"Ty goloden?" he asked, his voice lower than necessary, as if speaking loudly could break the spell. (Are you hungry?)

Raiya took a second to process the question, her eyes still fixed on the nighttime scenery.

"Ne tak uzh i mnogo," she answered, and Ilya recognized the evasion. The same one he used when he didn't want to admit he was hungry but also didn't want to be a bother. (Not very hungry.)

He followed the direction of her gaze to the lights of the restaurants and coffee shops dotting the street. Ottawa at night had a different glow than Moscow—less ostentatious, less restrained, more alive.

"U nas doma yest' vse neobkhodimoye dlya prigotovleniya sendvicha s tuntsom i syrom," Ilya said in an almost playful tone, an invitation disguised as casual information. (At home we have everything to make a tuna melt.)

Raiya looked away from the window for a moment, just long enough to meet her uncle's eyes in the reflection of the glass. A quick, almost shy smile crossed her lips before she went back to observing the city.

Ilya felt that smile as a small victory.

Shane watched it all from the corner of his eye, his attention divided between the road and his husband. He knew Ilya too well not to notice the signs—the way his shoulders were tense despite his relaxed posture, how his eyes darted to the backseat at regular intervals, how he was already on his third piece of nicotine gum since leaving the airport.

Without saying a word, Shane took one hand off the steering wheel and reached over to the Russian's thigh. His thumb traced light circles on the denim, a casual touch that carried the full weight of a silent conversation.

I'm here. You're not alone in this.

Ilya sighed softly, the sound escaping before he could control it. His hand found Shane's, their fingers intertwining with an urgency that denied the casualness of the gesture. He squeezed, firmly, and for a brief moment, his eyes met his husband's.

In that look, Shane saw everything: the fear, the hope, the exhaustion, the determination. The immense and terrifying love that Ilya already felt for two children he barely knew.

"You okay?" Shane murmured, quietly enough so only Ilya would hear.

Ilya nodded, a small but decisive movement. He squeezed Shane's hand once more before letting it go, allowing his husband to fully focus on the road again.

"I'm okay," he answered, and for the first time that day, he almost believed it.

In the backseat, Raiya watched the silent exchange through the rearview mirror. She saw the hands meeting, the eyes speaking, the way her uncle seemed to anchor himself in that simple contact. Something in her chest—a knot she didn't even know she was carrying—loosened slightly.

Maybe, she thought, things could be okay.

Danika mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep, a small protest against unknown dreams, and went back to breathing deeply. Raiya reached out and gently touched her sister's arm, an automatic gesture of comfort.

Ilya saw it in the mirror. He felt his heart overflow.

Shane turned left, entering the tree-lined street where their house was located. The front lights were on—Yuna and David must have stopped by before leaving, getting everything ready.

"We're here," Shane announced softly, parking the car.

Ilya took a deep breath. He looked at the backseat one more time—Raiya, now clearly losing the battle against sleep; Danika, still deeply asleep.

His home. His nieces. His husband.

His family.

"Let's go," he said, opening the door.

Ilya stepped out of the car with the gentleness of someone carrying the most precious thing in the world. He opened the rear door carefully, his movements precise and silent, and leaned in to unbuckle the little blue car seat. Danika didn't even move a muscle when he lifted her into his arms—the exhaustion of the journey outweighed any discomfort. Her little blonde head found Ilya's shoulder in an automatic movement, as if she instinctively knew that this was a safe place.

Raiya got out through the other door, her feet meeting the asphalt of the quiet street. And then she looked up at the house.

Her mouth parted slightly.

It wasn't a huge house by the standards of the mansions she saw in American movies, but for someone who had just arrived from a cramped apartment in Moscow, it was a palace. Modern lines, wood paneling, discreet lighting in the front garden, a living wall that elegantly climbed the facade. The bushes were so perfectly trimmed they looked artificial.

"You live alone in this whole house?" Raiya asked, her voice heavy with disbelief. Another stubborn yawn escaped before she could hold it back.

Shane laughed quietly, closing the trunk after pulling out the girls' suitcases.

"Your uncle has a thing for grandeur," he joked, and the comment drew a surprised laugh from Raiya, short but genuine. "And we don't live alone, no. We have Anya."

Raiya frowned, curious.

"Anya?"

She followed the two of them up the entryway, her eyes still scanning every detail—the lights embedded in the path's floor, the discreet LEDs between the wood panels, the way the architecture seemed to embrace the night instead of fighting it.

A bark echoed from inside the house even before Ilya could put the key in the lock. High-pitched, excited, impatient.

Ilya balanced Danika with a naturalness that surprised even himself—the girl's body fit perfectly against his, as if it had been made to be there. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The brown hurricane that burst through the doorway was pure energy in the form of a dog. Anya darted straight for Ilya's feet, her tail wagging at an impressive speed, her snout burying itself into his legs before she started sniffing the air around them with the intensity of someone detecting completely new scents.

"Sobaka!" Raiya lit up completely, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. (Dog!)

She crouched down in a quick movement, hands extended. Anya didn't hesitate for a second—she trotted over to the new human with the confidence of a dog who had never met a stranger in her life, only friends she hadn't known yet. Her snout investigated Raiya's hands, approved, and in a dramatic motion, the little dog rolled onto her back, all four paws in the air, in an unmistakable invitation for pets.

Raiya laughed, a pure, childish sound that Ilya had rarely heard from her, and started doing exactly what Anya expected—scratching her soft belly with the dedication of someone who had found a canine soulmate.

"U moyego ottsa allergiya na sobak," Raiya commented, her eyes shining as she pet the dog. (My dad is allergic to dogs.)

Ilya laughed, and there was something almost wicked in that sound. The irony did not escape him—Alexei, his older brother, the man who had been a bastard to Ilya, who kept his daughters away from him thinking he might give them allergies, was now on the other side of the world, on life support, unable to control absolutely anything.

The laugh died in his throat before it could deepen.

This is not the time for this, he reminded himself. It will never be the time for this.

"Anya!" Shane whistled softly, his voice affectionate but firm. The little dog's ears perked up immediately, her body turning toward her owner. "Inside. It's cold out here."

As if she perfectly understood the command—and she probably did, because Shane had spent hours training her—Anya jumped to her feet and trotted inside the house, her tail still wagging in continuous greeting.

Raiya laughed, watching the scene with enchanted eyes.

"She obeys," she commented, standing up and following in the dog's footsteps.

"Only when she wants to," Ilya replied, but the smile on his lips was genuine. "And when there's food involved."

He crossed the threshold, Danika still deeply asleep against his chest. The warmth of the house wrapped around him like a hug, and for the first time since receiving Sasha's call in the middle of the night, Ilya felt he could breathe.

Shane came in last, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The suitcases were deposited on the entryway floor, temporarily forgotten. Anya was already curled up at Raiya's feet again, demanding more attention with the adorable tyranny of spoiled dogs.

The living room was exactly as they had left it—childproof, yes, but also welcoming. The lights were set to a warm tone. Yuna and David had stopped by before leaving, Ilya realized: there was a vase with fresh flowers on the coffee table, and a discreet note next to it.

"For the girls. Welcome. — Yuna and David"

Ilya pointed with his chin toward the guest bedroom—now the girls' bedroom.

"I'm going to put Danika to bed," he said quietly. "Raiya, do you want to see your room?"

Raiya nodded, but didn't move immediately. Her eyes scanned the room, the furniture, the photos on the wall—some of Ilya and Shane traveling, others of the dog in ridiculous poses, photos from games, framed articles about the two of them, a wedding picture, with the two of them smiling under a shower of petals.

"It's beautiful here," she murmured, more to herself than to the others.

Ilya felt something warm up in his chest.

"It's yours too, now," he replied, before turning and heading down the hallway, Danika still nestled against him.

Shane approached Raiya, keeping a respectful distance.

"Want to see the room? Or would you rather eat something first? The kitchen is right there," he pointed, "and we have those tuna melts your uncle mentioned."

Raiya looked at the kitchen, then down the hallway where Ilya had disappeared, then at Anya, who was still begging for pets with pleading eyes.

"Can I see the room first?" she asked, and there was something almost shy in her voice.

"Of course." Shane smiled, holding out his hand toward the hallway. "This way."

Shane turned on the hallway lights, a soft, warm tone that transformed the passage into a cozy tunnel. He stopped in front of a door, and Raiya couldn't help but notice the detail that made her heart do a little flip: a colorful "R," carefully hand-painted, was glued to the wood. The colors were vibrant—blue, purple, green—and there were small gold stars around the letter, as if the door itself were announcing that this was a special place.

Shane opened the door and turned on the light inside, taking a step back to let Raiya go in first.

She crossed the threshold, and the air seemed to leave her lungs for a moment.

The first thing her eyes met was a mural. Not a store-bought painting, but a carefully assembled composition on the wall next to the bed—a large bed, covered in purple sheets that looked incredibly soft, filled with pillows of different sizes and textures. On the mural, framing the space like a hug, were drawings.

Her drawings.

Raiya recognized every single one. The one of the cat she drew at age seven, with crooked eyes and a giant tail. The imaginary landscape she drew at nine, with purple mountains and a smiling sun. The portrait of Danika she did last year, for her sister's birthday. They were all there, protected by simple but elegant frames, as if they were works of art worthy of a gallery. All the drawings she used to give to Svetlana to pass on to Ilya when she went to visit her, and Ilya no longer did.

Next to the drawings, photographs. Her as a little girl, maybe five or six, riding a red bicycle with Ilya holding the handlebars behind her. Another one with Svetlana, the two of them making faces at the camera in some park in Moscow. A third, older one, of the three of them together—Ilya, Svetlana, and her—at a picnic she barely remembered, but that was there, frozen in time.

"Your uncle kept your drawings," Shane said quietly, watching the girl's expression. "And Svetlana sent the photos. We decorated it all this morning."

Raiya swallowed hard, something warm and strange pressing behind her eyes.

"We didn't have that much time to pick things out for the room," Shane continued, almost like an apology. "It was pretty simple and plain before, because it was a guest room and... well, we aren't experts on what twelve-year-old girls like."

He paused, a subtle smile curving his lips.

"But Ilya was very specific when he said: absolutely no pink in the room."

Raiya laughed, a short and surprised sound.

"I hate pink."

She turned slowly, letting her eyes wander over every detail of the space that was now hers. The fluffy rug under her feet was as soft as a cloud. The bed, besides being large, was covered with pillows in different shapes—some for hugging, others for resting her head, one shaped like a star. Two stuffed animals rested on the pillows: a brown rabbit with long ears and a white kitten with button eyes.

The white desk occupied a strategically lit corner, with a pencil holder overflowing with colors—colored pencils, markers, crayons, colored pens. Around it, an arch-shaped bookcase embraced the study area, filled with books. Raiya recognized some children's titles, coloring books, fairy tales. But she also saw, on the lower shelves, less childish books—stories with older protagonists, adventures meant for her age.

Near the window, a small, cozy sofa invited reading or just looking outside. The curtains framing the window had little yellow fairy lights woven into them, ready to create a magical glow when night fell.

Raiya brought her hand to her mouth without realizing it.

It was all so beautiful. So different from the cramped bedroom she shared with Danika in Moscow, with peeling walls and a heater that never worked right. So different from anything she could have ever imagined having.

"It's really cool," she managed to say, her voice coming out hoarser than she intended. A genuine smile, the kind that starts in the eyes before reaching the mouth, lit up her face. "Much bigger than my old room."

That was when Ilya appeared at the door, next to Shane. He must have finished settling Danika, because his shoulders looked slightly more relaxed.

"Come eat something," he said, raising his eyebrows in a look that left no room for argument. "Then, straight to bed."

Raiya nodded, still taking it all in. Before leaving, she cast one last look at the room—at the walls that already told her story, at the bed that promised the most peaceful sleep she'd had in weeks, at the space that, somehow, already felt like hers.

"Il'ya?" she called out, before crossing the doorway.

Her uncle turned around, curious.

"Spasibo," she said simply, but the word carried more weight than its size suggested. (Thank you.)

Ilya held her gaze for a moment, something shining in his blue eyes that he quickly blinked away. Then he reached out his hand, an open, inviting gesture.

"Vsegda pozhaluysta, little one." (You're welcome.)

Raiya took his hand and let herself be guided out of the room, toward the kitchen where the night—and the rest of their lives—awaited them.

[...]

The boys were already on the ice by the time Ilya and Shane finally reached the rink facilities. Through the glass separating the hallway from the track, the team could be seen spread out in loose formations, beginning their routine stretches. Bood led the movements at the far left, his voice echoing muffled through the acoustic shielding.

Coach Wiebe stood at the edge of the rink, clipboard in hand, the day’s schedule meticulously noted in his nearly illegible handwriting. He studied the document with the concentration of someone mentally distributing plays, evaluating performances, and calculating ice time.

“Bood, start with a basic warm-up until Rozanov gets here,” he instructed, without looking up from the clipboard.

The co-captain nodded and immediately began pulling the guys toward center ice, his commanding voice cutting through the frozen air. Wiebe finally turned toward the water fountain installed on the side wall, thermos already in hand.

The sound of water filling the container was the only noise besides the distant hum of the rink’s chillers.

“Coach?”

Wiebe didn't turn, recognizing the voice instantly.

“Ah, great. You’re here, Rozanov.” He pressed the fountain button harder, as if the water were taking too long. “Get your Russian ass and your husband’s ass on the ice. We have to practice to play against those Winnipeg folks, and if you keep showing up late, you’re doing overtime today.”

A small, childish giggle echoed behind him.

Wiebe frowned, the sound not matching anything he expected to hear in a hockey rink. He turned slowly, bottle still in hand, and froze.

“Oh, fuck!” The slip escaped before he could contain it. He recovered quickly, coughing. “I mean, fudge... holy cow...”

There stood two young girls. One older, with watchful eyes and upright posture, holding Ilya’s left hand with the naturalness of someone long accustomed to the contact. The younger one, a little blonde of maybe four, gripped the Russian’s right hand with both tiny hands, her body partially hidden behind his leg as if she believed invisibility were possible.

Ilya was struggling to suppress a laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. Shane was a step behind, an expression of pure amusement plastered on his face, arms crossed over his chest like someone enjoying a show.

Wiebe blinked. Twice.

“Your nieces?” The question came more as a confirmation than a doubt. He vaguely remembered Ilya mentioning something amidst the news and rumors circulating in the locker room over the last few weeks.

“My nieces,” Ilya confirmed, the pride evident in his voice. “Raiya and Danika.”

He released the girls' hands just enough to gesture toward each, introducing them with a formality that contrasted with the surroundings.

Raiya waved—a controlled, polite movement.

“Hi.”

Danika limited herself to a short flick of her hand, a gesture so quick it almost went unnoticed. Immediately after, her body sought the protection of Ilya's leg again, her large eyes—those crystal-blue eyes Irina had given her—fixed on the stranger with the clipboard with a heart-wrenching caution.

“She’s shy about meeting new people,” Raiya explained, naturally assuming the role of her sister’s emotional translator.

Wiebe processed the information, his stern face gradually softening. His eyes traveled over the two girls—the older one, vigilant; the younger one, hidden—and something in his expression shifted. He became more human, less coach.

“Oh, no problem.” He smiled—a genuine smile that few on the team had the privilege of seeing. He set the water bottle on the ground and rested his hands on his knees, leaning down slightly to get closer to the children’s level. “Ready to see an excellent team play?”

Danika’s eyes watched him from over Ilya’s leg.

“Because if so,” Wiebe continued, his smile widening, “you came to the wrong place.”

Raiya laughed, a short, surprised sound. Even Danika sketched a tiny smile, hidden behind the hand still clutching Ilya’s pants.

“We already told them the team needs... improvements,” Shane commented, stepping up to stand beside Ilya. The word was carefully chosen, diplomatically vague.

Wiebe straightened up, regaining his coaching posture.

“You two can get on the ice. Bood just started the warm-up.” He paused, his eyes meeting Ilya’s in a silent understanding. “I’ll see if I can find some skates that fit them.”

The wink that followed was quick and discreet, but heavy with meaning. Ilya felt something warm expand in his chest.

“Thank you, Coach.”

“Don’t thank me until you see the state of the skates.” Wiebe was already walking away toward the locker rooms, his clipboard swinging at his side. “And don’t take all day! Winnipeg won’t wait!”

Shane waited for the coach to disappear down the hall before turning to the girls.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice soft.

Raiya nodded, her eyes fixed on the ice beyond the glass where the players moved in coordinated formations. There was fascination in her gaze—and perhaps, Ilya thought, a bit of that same spark he’d felt the first time he’d seen a real rink.

Danika, however, still hesitated. Her fingers gripped the fabric of Ilya’s pants tightly.

“Kholodno,” she murmured, softly. (Cold.)

Ilya knelt in front of her, getting down to her level.

“Tam kholodno, da,” he agreed. “No u nas yest' kurtki, i mozhem posmotret' iz-perla stekla, yesli ne khochesh' na led." (It's cold there, yes. But we have jackets, and we can watch from behind the glass if you don’t want to go on the ice.)

Danika processed the information, her blue eyes scanning her uncle’s face for reassurance.

“A ty budesh' ryadom?” (Will you be nearby?)

Ilya felt a squeeze in his heart.

“Vsegda.” The word came out firm, absolute. (Always.)

The girl held his gaze for a moment longer. Then, slowly, she released some of the pressure in her fingers.

“Togda ya khochu poprobovat'.” (Then I want to try.)

Ilya smiled—a smile that lit up his entire face—and stood up, extending his hand to her.

“Togda poyekhali.” (Then let’s go.)

Shane watched the scene, something sweet and painful at the same time pressing against his chest. Raiya, beside him, also watched, her eyes shining with an emotion she didn't let show.

“He’s good with her,” Raiya commented, almost inaudible.

Shane looked down at the girl.

“He’s good with the people he loves.” He paused. “And you two are on the list.”

Raiya looked away quickly, but not before Shane saw the small smile threatening her lips.

“Shall we?” Ilya called, already holding Danika by the hand as Raiya naturally found her place at his other side.

Shane joined them, and the four headed toward the door leading to the rink, where the ice awaited.

Troy was the first to see them.

He was gliding across the rink in a lazy motion, stretching his legs after the initial warm-up, when his eyes caught the group emerging from the access tunnel. Ilya was in the lead, Danika clinging to his hand with the determination of someone who wouldn't let go for anything. Shane was right behind with Raiya at his side, the two of them chatting quietly as they approached the ice.

Troy’s reaction was instantaneous and not at all subtle.

“Cap!” The shout echoed through the rink, and Troy skidded his skates into a sharp stop that kicked up small flakes of ice. His hands gripped the top of the access gate, his face lit up by a massive grin. “And Cap’s nieces!”

That was enough. The entire rink stopped.

Bood cut off mid-stretch. Luca nearly tripped over his own skates. Evan dropped the stick he was adjusting. Even the more reserved players, who usually kept their distance from commotions, approached with curiosity written all over their faces.

Wiebe emerged from the locker room carrying a pair of child-sized skates in each hand, looking like he’d just completed a successful scouting mission.

“Try these,” he said, setting the skates on the bench near the gate. “If they don’t fit, I’ll have to send someone out to buy some.”

The first pair on Danika was loose at the heel. The second squeezed her toes too much. The third—a light blue model with white details, visibly used but well-maintained—fit as if they’d been made for her.

The girl looked at her own feet, then at Ilya, then at her feet again. She said nothing, but something in her expression changed—a small crack of curiosity replacing her initial rigidity.

Raiya, on the other hand, put on the first pair she tried with the ease of someone who expected them to fit. She adjusted the straps, tested her ankle mobility, and looked up at Ilya with a silent question.

Can I?

Ilya nodded.

It was Luca who stepped forward first, reaching out to Raiya with an open, friendly smile.

“Come with us. Hold my hand, I won’t let you fall.”

Raiya hesitated for only a second before accepting the outstretched hand. Luca guided her onto the ice carefully, Bood on the other side ready to catch any stumble. To the surprise of both, however, Raiya found her balance quickly—legs steady, knees slightly flexed, gaze fixed ahead.

“Has she skated before?” Bood asked, eyes wide.

“Not that I know of,” Ilya replied, watching the scene with poorly disguised pride. “Maybe it’s natural talent. Runs in the family.”

Shane skated not far behind, his eyes fixed on Raiya, ready to slide in and catch her should her legs give out. But the girl held firm, her movements still hesitant but surprisingly controlled for someone stepping onto the ice for the first time.

On the other side of the rink, the scene was different.

Evan and Troy had positioned themselves beside Ilya and Danika, forming a sort of clumsy escort around the little blonde. Danika was stiff, her eyes scanning the environment with the vigilance of someone processing every detail—the white ice, the high lights, the massive strangers around her, the echo of skates against the frozen surface.

Ilya recognized the posture. It was the same one Shane assumed in environments that were too open, too new, or too unknown.

He knelt in front of her, balancing on his skates with the ease of someone who had spent his life on the ice.

“Stav' silu v koleni,” he instructed in Russian, his voice low and patient. (Put the strength in your knees.)

Danika looked at him, then at her own feet, and tried. Her knees bent slightly, and she glided a few inches with a bit more confidence.

“Khorosho,” Ilya praised, holding her hands firmly. “Ochen' khorosho.” (Good. Very good.)

“She’s just like Shane, man,” Troy commented, watching with a smile. “Quiet, observing everything, but paying attention to every detail. How is that possible?”

Ilya was about to answer, but he was interrupted by a sound he never expected to hear in that context.

Raiya was laughing.

Across the rink, the girl had a stick in her hands, positioned in front of a make-shift goal. Luca was holding the stick with her, helping adjust her grip, while Shane stood in the net, arms spread in an exaggerated imitation of a pro goalie.

“Try to hit Shane!” Luca encouraged, letting go of the stick and stepping back.

Raiya hesitated, a nervous smile on her lips, and then swung the stick with more force than anyone expected. The puck slid straight toward Shane, who dove to the side in an overly dramatic—and completely unnecessary—move, because the puck passed three feet wide of the net.

“Close!” Shane shouted, getting up with a look of pure comedy on his face. “One more inch and you would’ve nailed my shin!”

Raiya laughed, a genuine, free sound, and Luca cheered as if she’d scored a championship goal.

Ilya felt something expand in his chest. He looked at Danika, who was also watching her sister with a softer expression.

“Vidish'?” he murmured. “Veselo zdes'.” (See? It’s fun here.)

Danika didn't answer, but her fingers gripped Ilya’s with a little less tension.

That was when Troy spoke, his voice carrying a humorous warning:

“Hope your mother-in-law doesn’t see this anytime soon.”

Ilya frowned, confused, and followed Troy’s gaze.

In the empty bleachers, a lone figure sat in the front row. Yuna. Her phone was pointed firmly at the scene on the ice—specifically at Raiya, who was now attempting another shot, still laughing.

“Too late,” Ilya replied, a slow smile curving his lips.

Yuna, as if feeling the eyes on her, lowered her phone for a moment and waved toward them. The smile on her face was radiant, triumphant, and as big as the rink itself.

“Right now,” Ilya continued, turning back to Troy, “she’s already planned Raiya’s entire NHL future.”

Troy guffawed, the sound echoing off the ice.

“Sponsorships, interviews, commercials. Yuna probably has her signing a contract with the Centaurs at eighteen already.”

“At fifteen, if it’s up to her.”

On the other side of the rink, Shane finally noticed his mother in the stands. His face went through a quick sequence of expressions—surprise, resignation, amusement—before he raised his stick in a greeting.

Yuna responded with an enthusiastic thumbs-up and went back to filming.

Raiya, oblivious to the career planning being orchestrated a few yards away, tried another shot. This time, the puck passed closer to Shane, who faked a clumsy deflection.

“I’m seeing potential!” Luca yelled, and Raiya laughed again.

Danika watched the scene, her blue eyes fixed on her sister. Ilya felt the shift before she said anything—a slight lean of her body, a small step forward.

“Khochu poprobovat',” she murmured, almost inaudible. (I want to try.)

Ilya held back the emotion threatening to overflow.

“Togda poyekhali.” (Then let’s go.)

He gripped her hands more firmly and began guiding her slowly across the ice toward the center of the rink, where her sister was laughing and a bunch of grown men were pretending they’d never seen anything as important as two little girls learning to skate.

Up in the stands, Yuna adjusted the zoom and captured the moment.

For the family album, of course.

For nearly an hour, the Ottawa Centaurs' rink stopped being a professional training ground and transformed into the most charming learning track anyone there had ever seen. The entire team—with the exception of Wiebe, who eventually grumbled something about "Winnipeg" and "Friday’s game"—dedicated themselves to teaching the girls how to skate, handle a stick, and, in Raiya's case, aim for the goal.

The general surprise was genuine. Raiya had balance. Not just the basic balance of someone who doesn't fall—she had posture. Knees flexed at the right angle, low center of gravity, gaze fixed forward. When she picked up a stick for the first time, her hands found the grip with a naturalness that made Luca let out a low whistle.

“Has she done this before?” he asked, incredulous.

“Never,” Ilya replied from across the rink, still guiding Danika in slow circles. But the pride in his voice was undeniable.

The proof came when Raiya finally snapped the puck into the net—not into the corner Shane was defending, but the opposite one, in a quick, precise movement that caught the makeshift goalie completely off guard.

“Goal!” she shouted instinctively, and then covered her mouth with her hand, blushing.

The rink exploded in applause.

After nearly an hour, however, Wiebe banged his stick on the ice with authority.

“Enough recreation!” he hollered, though there was a smile hidden in his tone. “Winnipeg isn't going to beat itself! Girls, off the ice—and you players, focus!”

The girls were escorted off the rink with the ceremony of mini-celebrities. Troy and Evan competed to see who could hold Danika’s hand longer—she chose Troy, because he promised that at the next meeting he’d bring photos of his dog. Luca said goodbye to Raiya with a fist bump and a “you’re a legend, kid.”

When they finally crossed the access gate and headed to the bleachers, Raiya and Danika found an unexpected scene: Svetlana was sitting next to Yuna, the two of them chatting animatedly as if they were old friends.

“Tetya Sveta!” Danika exclaimed, surprised, and let go of Ilya’s hand to run toward the redhead.

Svetlana opened her arms and took her into a tight hug.

“Privet, malyshka!” (Hi, little one!)

Raiya approached with more controlled steps, but the smile on her face was genuine. She sat next to Yuna, who immediately draped an arm over her shoulders in a gesture as natural as if she’d been doing it for years.

“So? Did you like it?” Yuna asked, finally tucking her phone into her purse—but not before checking that the photos were saved.

Raiya answered first, her eyes still shining from the experience.

“It’s really cool.”

Yuna exchanged a quick look with Svetlana, something conspiratorial passing between the two.

“Well,” Svetlana began, already leaning over to help Danika take off her skates, “Shane and Ilya have a hockey camp for kids. You can ask them to put you in to practice.”

Raiya processed the information, a clear thought forming in her mind. But before she could answer, Svetlana turned her attention to the little blonde, who was now swinging her skate-free foot, her striped sock showing.

“A ty, printsessa? Tebe nravilsya khokkey?” (And you, princess? Did you like hockey?)

Danika considered the question with the seriousness of someone weighing a complex philosophical issue.

“Mne ponravilsya led,” she answered, simple but definitive. (I liked the ice.)

Svetlana stifled a laugh, translating for Yuna:

“She said she liked the ice, but not so much the sport.”

Yuna arched her eyebrows, and something in her gaze lit up—that dangerous spark of someone connecting dots.

“Figure skating?” she suggested, in the tone of someone just thinking out loud, absolutely not planning anything. “Not that I’m planning anything, ever.”

Raiya watched her with a look that was already beginning to catch the nuances of her honorary grandmother’s personality.

“Shane said you like to think very far ahead,” she commented, and the smile that accompanied the sentence was pure teenage sass.

Yuna laughed, a loud, sincere sound that caught the attention of a few people in nearby seats.

“I like plans,” she explained, without a shred of shame. “Having a schedule makes me more relaxed because I know exactly what’s going to happen or what needs to be done.”

Danika, now completely free of the skates and with her sneakers back on, crawled into Svetlana’s lap with the naturalness of a cat seeking warmth. The redhead settled her without a second thought, her arms wrapping the girl in a protective embrace.

“And what else did you like?” Yuna asked, truly interested.

Raiya thought for a moment.

“Luca is very funny.” A smile. “And Troy promised he’d bring photos of his dog.”

“Troy’s dog is ridiculously fluffy,” Svetlana commented. “He looks like a rug with eyes.”

Danika giggled, a small but present sound.

“And Shane?” Yuna teased with a mischievous smile. “What did you think of my son?”

Raiya considered the question carefully.

“He’s nice.” The word was simple, but there was more behind it. “Patient. He kept asking if I was okay, if I wanted to stop, if I was cold.”

Yuna felt her heart melt a little.

“He’s like that. Always has been. Even on the ice with his opponents—when he’s not competing, of course. Then he becomes a different beast.”

“I saw,” Raiya laughed. “When the coach yelled, he changed completely. He got serious, focused.”

“That’s hockey,” Svetlana explained. “On the ice, it’s war. Off it, it’s family.”

Danika, who had been observing the conversation with the partial attention of someone more interested in snuggling than words, looked up at Svetlana.

“Ty budesh' zdes' zavtra?” she asked, her voice small. (Will you be here tomorrow?)

Svetlana squeezed her close.

“Yesli ty zakhochesh', ya budu.” (If you want me to, I will be.)

The girl nodded, satisfied, and nestled back against her chest.

Down on the ice, practice was finally starting for real. Wiebe’s shouts echoed, sticks clattered against each other, and skates cut the ice in coordinated formations. Ilya and Shane were in the thick of the action, captain and center, each in their position.

But every now and then, in the intervals between plays, Ilya’s eyes sought the bleachers. Finding the small figures sitting between Yuna and Svetlana, something in his chest settled.

They were there. They were safe. They were home.

“Concentration, Rozanov!” Wiebe bellowed.

Ilya smiled and returned to the game.

[...]

Ilya usually woke up about an hour after Shane—a habit so established that it was already part of their relationship's architecture. While the Canadian's internal alarm clock went off punctually at six in the morning, Ilya only opened his eyes when the sun was already stretching over the city, around seven.

Shane's morning routine was a mechanism of Swiss precision: a quick shower to wake up, meticulous teeth brushing, preparing his protein shake with the exact measurement of each ingredient, two hours of yoga and weightlifting, and then a fitness breakfast before they left for practice at the rink, around eleven.

Ilya had never questioned that routine. It was just Shane being Shane.

Today, however, every detail seemed fraught with new meaning.

He left the bedroom in silence, his bare feet absorbing the coolness of the hardwood floor. He stopped at the door of the girls' bedroom and allowed himself a moment to observe.

Danika was in the exact position Shane had placed her in the night before—motionless, her little arms stretched over the pillow, her breathing so soft it barely moved the blanket. Raiya, on the other hand, had turned into a whirlwind of sheets during the night, one arm hanging off the bed, a leg tangled in the duvet, her head at an angle that looked uncomfortable but, judging by her light snoring, was perfectly fine for her.

Ilya couldn't resist. He entered the room with ghost-like steps, adjusted his oldest niece's body on the bed, pulled the covers back over her, and picked up the two stuffed animals that had fallen on the floor during the night—the brown bunny and the white kitten—positioning them next to Raiya, who instinctively hugged them even in her sleep.

It was as he turned to leave that his eyes found the desk.

A sheet of paper lay on the white surface, half-colored. Ilya stepped closer out of curiosity and felt his breath catch for a moment.

It was a drawing. And it was good. Very good for a twelve-year-old girl.

Two hockey players, their silhouettes recognizable even in the still-developing strokes, wearing jerseys 24 and 81. They were in a celebratory pose, holding the Stanley Cup raised above their heads. The cup was the only part already colored—golden, meticulously shaded, almost three-dimensional.

Ilya ran his fingers over the paper with an almost reverent care, returning the drawing to the exact spot where it had been. Something warm expanded in his chest.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

| David H. | I'm here.

Ilya went downstairs without making a sound, even though he knew Shane worked out with headphones on—yet another one of those quirks that now made total sense. The loud music blocked out the outside world, allowing him to focus completely on his movements.

Passing by the home gym, Ilya couldn't help but stop for a second.

Shane was in the cat-cow pose—basically on all fours on the yoga mat, his spine arching and flexing in a fluid motion. His navy blue athletic wear hugged his body, and Ilya felt the familiar tightness in his chest that always accompanied the sight of his husband in moments like this.

On any other day, he would have gone in. He would have approached from behind, would have interrupted the yoga for much less wholesome purposes.

Today, however, he had a different goal.

He headed to the entrance and opened the door, finding David outside, hands in the pockets of his light coat, a ready smile on his face. Anya shot out like a rocket when she caught the scent of her surrogate grandpa, her tail wagging at an impressive speed.

"Hey." David smiled at his son-in-law, but the smile widened when his eyes found the dog. "Hi, princess."

He picked her up with the natural ease of someone who had done it hundreds of times, and Anya rewarded him with a barrage of licks to his face.

"Thanks for coming, David." Ilya closed the door as they headed to the kitchen.

He opened the cabinet and grabbed the scoop of kibble for Anya, who materialized right at his feet the exact moment the sound of the food container opening echoed. David watched the scene with a smile.

"Of course." The older man sat on one of the island stools, leaning slightly over the marble. "What did you want to talk about?"

Ilya put a coffee pod into the machine and sighed, his mind spinning in search of the right words. How to start a conversation like that?

"Must be serious," David commented, breaking the silence, "if neither of our spouses can hear it."

"It's not... that serious." Ilya turned around, resting his hands on the opposite counter. "But it might involve both of our spouses."

David raised his eyebrows, straightening his posture. The expression on his face changed—more alert, more attentive.

Ilya took a deep breath.

"I've been with Shane for twelve years," he began, choosing each word carefully. "The best twelve years of my life. And there have always been some things about him that... I don't know, were a bit weird to me. But I never said anything, because it was never a point of contention. And well... until six years ago, we barely even talked, so..."

"What kind of things?" David frowned, genuine curiosity stamped on his face.

"Have you noticed that Shane avoids eye contact with people?"

David agreed immediately, without hesitation.

"Oh, yeah. He's done that since he was little." A shadow passed over his eyes. "That was kind of an issue back in school... You know, the kids picked on him a bit because of how he was. Quiet, shy, avoided people. Shane never had many friends in school."

Ilya felt his chest tighten.

"Was he left out?"

"Bullied?" David corrected gently, and the word hurt more. "Yes. In elementary school, no one wanted to talk to him. Because he was weird, always quiet, wouldn't look people in the eyes, and..." He paused, his voice thickening slightly. "Being his dad, it broke my heart. But he learned to manage over time, made a friend or two, and then school was over."

The older man crossed his fingers on the counter.

"Did he never tell you about his school days?"

"No." Ilya frowned. The smell of coffee was starting to fill the kitchen, but he barely noticed it. "Okay... so we agree that Shane has issues with eye contact and isn't the best person when it comes to social skills?"

"Yes."

"When he was younger," Ilya continued, "was there anything he wouldn't eat at all?"

David scratched his chin, his eyes lost in the past. Then he snapped his fingers.

"He always hated purple cabbage and red onions. Even though they taste the same, he just refused to eat them because they were a different color from, according to him, their 'natural color'." David made air quotes with his fingers. "Yuna is like that too. She hates red lettuce."

Ilya scratched his eyebrows, processing this. The coffee maker beeped behind him. He grabbed two mugs—David's favorites, he knew, a dark blue one with white details, a gift from his father-in-law to Ilya and Shane—and poured the coffee with automatic movements.

"I asked him yesterday," he continued, placing the mug in front of his father-in-law, "why he has a bunch of identical pants. Literally identical, only the colors change. And he said it was because they were comfortable. Why take a chance on something new, if you already know that specific style fits well?"

David listened attentively, his eyes fixed on his son-in-law.

"Then he talked about my old sheets," Ilya continued. "Remember? The ones we had when we moved here. He threw a bunch of them away because they were pilling and felt weird against his skin."

"He's always been like that with fabrics," David murmured, something akin to recognition flashing in his eyes.

"Right." Ilya took a sip of his coffee, his mind racing. "And I told him the reason I asked was because I noticed Nika has the exact same style of t-shirts. Only the colors and designs change..."

"Maybe your sister-in-law bought them on sale," David joked, a faint smile appearing.

Ilya laughed, agreeing.

"I thought of that too. I doubt Alexei ever bought them anything in his life." The bitterness passed quickly, replaced by focus. "Anyway." He took another sip of coffee. "I looked up possible reasons for texture issues. Because Shane has several tics with differently textured things that I never noticed. He changed all the doorknobs in the house because the old ones felt 'iron-y'." Ilya made air quotes.

"And what did you find?" David asked, and there was something in his voice—anticipation, perhaps, or just the realization that they were heading somewhere important.

Ilya took a deep breath.

"I think..." The words felt heavy on his tongue. "That maybe both Shane and Danika might be autistic."

He watched his father-in-law's face closely, looking for any sign of denial, of resistance, of pain. David was Shane's father. His boy, his only son. Saying that was, in a way, pointing out something he might have missed all those years.

David looked away.

Scratched his chin.

And then his jaw began to drop slowly, his eyes widening in an expression Ilya couldn't immediately interpret.

"So that's it..." the older man murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "That's it!"

Ilya blinked.

"So... you agree with me?"

"Yes!" David exclaimed, and then corrected himself. "No, I mean... I know next to nothing about this autism thing. But the little I do know is really... texture issues, social interactions, avoiding eye contact..." He covered his mouth with his hand, a sigh of disbelief escaping. "My God."

Ilya felt something loosen in his chest.

"They have this super focus thing, hyperfocus, something like that," David continued, his eyes glazed over, staring into space. "Which is an object, topic, or whatever of extreme fixation. And Shane has..."

"Hockey." Ilya slapped his hand on the counter, perfectly in sync with his father-in-law. "And Yuna too."

David's eyes widened even more.

"Yuna too..." He laughed, a surprised sound, and ran a hand through his gray hair in a gesture Ilya recognized—it was the exact same one Shane did when he was processing something too big. "My God... I should have listened to my mom when Shane was little. She told me to take him to a neurologist or psychologist. In far less gentle words, but still..." He paused. "That's who gives the diagnosis, right? A neurologist and a psychologist?"

"Yeah, I looked that up yesterday too," Ilya confirmed. "Has Shane ever complained to you about hearing the sound of the lights?"

"Of the electricity?" David's eyes widened. "Yes!"

Ilya let out a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand.

"God," David continued, shaking his head, "I wish I'd had this revelation when he was still little. It would have avoided so much..."

"Have you ever noticed that when Shane eats anything sorted by colors, he only eats one color at a time?" Ilya asked.

David nodded slowly, each movement confirming another piece of the puzzle.

"Yuna does the same thing with gummy candies," he revealed. "Especially the bears. She eats one color at a time. And she never eats the yellow ones, because she hates pineapple flavor in things."

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, the same realization dawning on both faces.

"We married autistic people," Ilya summarized.

"Yep." David nodded, and then they both laughed together—a sound that was part relief, part shock, part the sheer absurdity of life. "Married thirty-five years and I only figured it out now. You're ahead of the game, you guys haven't even properly celebrated your first anniversary yet."

When the laughter died down, David leaned over the counter.

"What now? How do we approach this subject?"

Ilya had already thought about it during the night—in the hours he lay awake, researching, connecting the dots, formulating plans.

"I saw on several websites," he explained. "Because I couldn't sleep thinking about it. I woke up several times in the middle of the night to look up things Shane does that could be symptoms..."

"And?"

"Most of them were," Ilya confirmed. "Anyway, several articles said that autism can be genetic. So... if I can convince Shane to look into it, maybe Yuna will wonder where it came from?"

David processed the information, a slow smile forming on his lips.

"And how are you going to do that?"

Ilya leaned in, confident.

"Using Danika," he explained, his blue eyes shining with the certainty of someone who had a plan. "She and Shane do a lot of similar things. When we take her to the pediatrician, I can suggest a neurological exam. And if the doctor suggests autism, I can mention that Shane does the same things..."

David raised his eyebrows.

"And risk sleeping on the couch?"

Ilya smiled, a smile of pure determination.

"It'll be worth it."

David extended his hand across the counter, and Ilya shook it in a gesture that sealed their alliance.

"Then we're in this together, son-in-law."

"Together, father-in-law."

From the home gym, the muffled sound of Shane's workout music still echoed. He had no idea that, just a few feet away, his husband and his father were plotting the future—a future where he might, finally, understand himself.

And where Danika would have the chance to grow up knowing who she was, long before her early thirties.

Ilya heard the distant sound of a shower turning on upstairs and immediately recognized the morning ritual unfolding—Raiya waking up, taking charge, helping Danika wash up as she was already used to doing. The sound of water echoed through the pipes of the house, a gentle but inevitable reminder that the day was beginning.

And with it, the conversation Ilya dreaded the most.

He let out a long sigh, his shoulders rising and falling in a movement that carried the weight of the world. The cup of coffee was growing cold in his hands, but he hardly noticed.

"You alright, Ilya?" David noticed, his voice soft, attentive.

The Russian shook his head, a vague gesture that meant nothing and everything all at once.

"It might be much easier to tell Shane he might be autistic," he confessed, his voice low, "than to tell my nieces their father died."

David frowned, processing the information.

"Your brother...?"

"Yesterday morning," Ilya replied, and the words came out easier than they should have. "My stepmother texted me almost twelve hours later to tell me. Because she 'forgot'." His fingers made air quotes, bitter sarcasm cutting through every syllable.

David didn't hesitate. He stood up from the stool, walked around the counter, and placed a hand on his son-in-law's shoulder in a gesture that was both supportive and grounding.

"And are you okay?"

Ilya met his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

"I don't feel anything for Alexei." The honesty of the statement surprised even himself. "Whatever brotherly love I had for him, he made sure to kill over the years. Cursing at me, using me, calling me a fag, a fairy, things like that."

David gently squeezed his shoulder.

"But I doubt he was always like that."

The silence that followed was heavy with memories. Ilya blinked, and for a moment he saw not the Alexei of recent years—bitter, resentful, homophobic—but the older brother who had taught him how to ride a bike. The one who defended him from bullies at school. The one who laughed with him on summer nights, when life was still simple and the word "gay" wasn't yet a weapon.

Ilya sighed, agreeing with a slow nod.

"He wasn't," his voice came out hoarse. "He wasn't always like that."

David pressed his lips into a sad smile, full of the understanding that only parents and older people possess.

"I'm sorry."

Ilya swallowed hard, forcing his emotions down to some deep place where they wouldn't get in the way. Not now. Not when he had two children upstairs who needed to hear the worst news of their lives.

"Thank you."

The silence between them was heavy, but not uncomfortable. David still kept his hand on his shoulder, a silent anchor.

The sound of the shower stopped upstairs.

Ilya took a deep breath once more.

"They'll be down in a few minutes," he murmured. "I need to tell them."

"Do you want me to stay? Or should I go?"

Ilya considered the question. David was a safe harbor, a calm presence in a stormy sea. But that conversation was too intimate, too painful to share with someone who wasn't blood family—even if David was, in every way that mattered, family.

"Stay," he decided. "But from a distance. Just... just so they know they aren't alone. That they have more people."

David nodded, a firm movement, and sat back down on the stool, this time at an angle that allowed him to see the entrance to the kitchen but not be the center of the scene.

Ilya rested his hands on the counter, head down, bracing himself.

The footsteps came first—light, dragging, the distinct sound of small feet walking down wooden stairs. Then, voices.

"Dyadya?" Raiya called out, still from the hallway.

Ilya straightened up, forced a smile onto his face, and replied:

"Zdes', v kukhne." (Here, in the kitchen.)

They appeared in the doorway. Danika still had damp blonde hair, the ends of the braids Raiya had made dripping water onto her shirt. Raiya stood behind her, always watchful, always taking care.

"Dobroye utro," Danika murmured, still in quiet morning mode, but her eyes found David and widened slightly.

"Dobroye utro, printsessa," David answered in careful, clearly rehearsed Russian, and Danika smiled—a small, shy, but genuine smile. Even Ilya was surprised by his father-in-law's Russian.

Raiya observed the scene, then her eyes met Ilya's. Something in her expression shifted—the way her shoulders tensed, how her gaze sharpened.

She knew. Not the details, maybe, but she knew something was wrong.

Ilya felt his heart clench.

"Sadites', devochki," he requested, his voice surprisingly steady. (Sit down, girls.)

They obeyed, climbing onto the stools next to David. Danika was still sleepy, Raiya upright like a sentinel.

Ilya sat across from them, on the other side of the counter. He looked at those faces—one so open and innocent, the other so cautious and old for her age—and felt the words form a knot in his throat.

How did you say that? How did you tell two children that their world had just changed forever?

He extended his hands over the counter, palms up. An invitation.

Raiya looked at her uncle's hands, then at his face. Slowly, she reached out and placed hers over his.

Danika, seeing her sister, did the same.

Ilya closed his fingers over their little hands and took a deep breath.

"Mne nuzhno skazat' vam nechto ochen' vazhnoye," he began. (I need to tell you something very important.)

David looked away, giving them privacy even though he was right there.

And Ilya told them.

"Polina spoke with me yesterday afternoon," Ilya began, his voice low but firm, the Russian words falling like stones on a calm surface. "And your father... he died."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Danika let her gaze drop slowly to the counter, her blue eyes fixed on an invisible point between her hands. Her face remained motionless, no tears, no expression—just a stillness that was more unsettling than any crying.

Raiya blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Her gray-green eyes seemed to process the information in slow motion, each blink a frame in the projection of the news.

"What about us?" Raiya asked, also in Russian, her voice surprisingly controlled. "Polina said staying with you was going to be temporary."

Something boiled in Ilya's chest. His stepmother's name burned like acid on his tongue.

"Polina isn't family," he replied, holding both their hands tighter, as if he could transmit safety through the skin. "Never was."

He took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully.

"When a person dies and doesn't make it clear in their will who should take care of their kids, the government gives custody to the closest relative. In your case," he squeezed their small hands, "me."

His blue eyes swept over both of their faces, searching for understanding.

"No one is going to take you away from here. Especially not Polina. She has no right to anything that belongs to the family. What my dad had, he left to me and Alexei. And what was your dad's is now yours."

"Okay." That was all Danika said.

Ilya frowned, leaning in slightly to try to see the younger girl's face.

"What is it, princess?"

Danika looked up for a moment, and Ilya saw something there—not sadness, not shock, but a hollow acceptance that broke his heart in a way he hadn't expected.

"Dad never paid attention to us," she explained, shrugging in a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture. "It was only Mom who did."

Ilya's world stopped for a second.

He knew that look. He knew that hollow acceptance, that lack of surprise at the news of a father's death. He knew it because he had felt it firsthand, almost twenty years ago, when he found his mother's lifeless body in her bedroom.

He remembered the exact moment: the half-open door, the heavy silence, Irina's serene face that looked as if she were only sleeping. He remembered knowing, in that instant, that it was over. That he would be stuck with Alexei and Grigori forever, without the only person in that family who truly loved him.

He remembered being the exact same age as Raiya.

"When my mom died," Ilya shared, his voice hoarser now, "I felt the same thing."

He stroked Danika's small hand with his thumb, a slow, comforting motion.

"I was Raiya's age. I found her... and I knew right then that I had lost the only person who truly loved me."

He swallowed hard, forcing the memories away.

"And it took me many years to find someone else who would do the same." His eyes met Raiya's, then Danika's. "But I did find him."

"You did?" They both asked in unison, the same simple word in Russian.

Before Ilya could answer, a movement in the corner of the kitchen caught his eye.

"Dad?"

Shane was standing at the entrance to the hallway, his body still sweaty and slightly out of breath from his workout, dark wet hair clinging to his forehead. His gaze swept over the scene—David sitting on the stool, Ilya holding the girls' hands, the heavy tension in the air—and his face contorted in a confused expression.

"Hey." David stood up immediately, crossing the kitchen toward his son. "I'm here, but I'm just heading out."

"Okay?" Shane frowned, accepting his dad's quick side-hug with the natural ease of someone used to such gestures.

David nodded in Ilya's direction, and the Russian mouthed "thank you" as his father-in-law headed for the door.

Shane watched his father leave, then turned back to the island.

"So what's going on..." he began, and then he saw it. Saw the girls' faces, saw the tension in Ilya's shoulders, saw the intertwined hands on the counter. "Oh..."

"Yeah." Ilya confirmed, and there was exhaustion in that single syllable.

Shane took a deep breath. He walked around the island, passing behind Ilya, depositing his water bottle in the sink with an automatic movement. His hand found his husband's back, a gentle pressure, a silent reminder that he was there.

"Why didn't you call me?" he murmured against Ilya's ear, quietly enough so only the two of them could hear.

Ilya didn't answer. He just leaned back slightly, absorbing his husband's warmth.

Shane positioned himself at his side, hands resting on the counter, eyes locked on the girls.

"Hey guys..." he began, in English, then hesitated. He switched to a careful, hesitant Russian: "Vse khorosho?" (Is everything okay?)

Ilya looked at him, a quick flash of gratitude in his eyes, before turning back to his nieces.

"I said that when my mom died, it took a long time for me to find someone else who loved me the same way." His free hand found Shane's on the counter, their fingers intertwining. "But you guys won't have to wait that long."

He looked at the two of them, making sure he had their attention.

"Because we are already here."

The silence that followed was different from the one before. Lighter, perhaps. Or just more hopeful.

Danika frowned, processing.

"Are you our parents now?" she asked, in Russian, her voice small but clear.

Ilya felt the tightness in his chest again, but this time it was different. Less pain, more... something he couldn't name.

"Mhm." He nodded, a firm movement. "Is that okay?"

The youngest looked at the oldest—one of those silent dialogues only sisters share. Raiya had a half-smile fighting to appear on her lips, her eyes shining with something that could be unshed tears or just the morning light pouring through the window.

Danika looked back at Ilya. Her blue eyes met his for just a second before darting away—a quick, almost imperceptible movement, but Ilya noticed.

She avoided eye contact.

Just like Shane.

"Da," she answered, finally. (Yes.)

The word hung in the air like a promise.

Ilya let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Shane squeezed his hand tighter.

[...]

The waiting room of the child psychology clinic was a space carefully designed to be welcoming – soft green walls, comfortable armchairs, a small table with books and magazines, and a corner with toys for the younger children. The low volume of the television in the corner filled the room with the lively voice of a morning show host.

Shane sighed deeply and let his phone drop into his lap, the screen still lit up with yet another sensationalist headline. He had lost count of how many he had seen in the last hour.

"THE HOCKEY FAMILY! — Find out more about the adopted daughters of SHANE HOLLANDER and ILYA ROZANOV"

"HOCKEY DADS — ILYA ROZANOV AND SHANE HOLLANDER ARE FATHERS"

"ADOPTION OF THE YEAR: Ilya Rozanov and his husband, Shane Hollander, adopt the daughters of the late brother of the Ottawa Centaurs captain. HOCKEY DADS"

"FROM NIECES TO DAUGHTERS — Understand the story of Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander's adopted daughters"

"First, a wedding, now daughters? SHANE HOLLANDER AND ILYA ROZANOV ADOPT TWO GIRLS"

"Former Montreal Metros Captain and former Boston Raiders captain adopt two girls"

Shane ran a hand over his face, exhausted. The last headline, in particular, irritated him for a specific reason – Shane hated still having his name completely tied to the Montreal Metros. As much as he still harbored a huge, guilty affection for the team, the betrayal hurt more, especially when referred to as the ‘former captain of the Metros’.

Ilya, beside him, was completely immersed in the cooking show playing on the waiting room television. Some Canadian chef with a French accent was explaining the best way to prepare a béchamel sauce, and Ilya watched with a concentration that Shane usually reserved for hockey plays.

The girls were in their individual sessions – each with an hour of therapy, closed doors, professional confidentiality. Raiya had started treatment in her second week after arriving in Canada, and so far only shared the basics: adapting to the new school, the difficulties with English, the different routine. Nothing about her parents, about the loss, about the grief. Shane and Ilya didn't press. They knew these things took time.

Danika, on the other hand, spent her sessions drawing and playing with the psychologist. She communicated more through strokes than words – and that, somehow, was even more revealing.

The receptionist, a young woman with her hair tied back and thick-rimmed glasses, was also following the cooking show. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, and when the chef finished his demonstration and the show returned to the studio, she leaned in slightly, interested.

The volume increased at the exact moment the hosts began to speak.

"And tell me, Gail, have you seen the latest news circulating through the Canadian provinces?" The younger woman, Brianna, leaned over the counter with the smile of an experienced host.

The older woman, Gail, rolled her eyes in a theatrical gesture.

"The news about our hockey husbands and their little girls?" She brought a hand to her chest, dramatically. "Of course I saw it! What an absolute overload of cuteness!"

On the big screen behind them, a photo took up the entire display.

Shane and Ilya on their couch at home, with Raiya and Danika snuggled between them. The photo had been posted by Ilya on Thanksgiving, a little over a week ago – a cozy, spontaneous picture that he never imagined would become a national headline. The simple caption: “Family 🧡”

Shane felt his stomach churn.

The receptionist frowned. Slowly – very slowly – she turned her head toward the couple sitting in the waiting room.

Her eyes met theirs.

Shane and Ilya exchanged a quick glance and offered awkward smiles in unison that said: yep, that's us.

"Oh my God..." The young receptionist blinked a few times, in disbelief. Her eyes dropped to the file on the counter – Raiya and Danika's file, with the surname 'Rozanova' clearly printed on it. "MY GOD!"

"Yeah." Shane pressed his lips together in an embarrassed smile. "News like that is all that's been popping up on my phone lately."

The receptionist brought a hand to her mouth, her eyes still wide.

"I thought..." she hesitated, her voice low. "I don't know, that it was fake." She paused, as if connecting the dots. "There was another news story a few years ago, that you had adopted kids, wasn't there?"

Ilya shook his head, an ironic smile on his lips.

"Those were Hayden Pike's kids."

"Hayden is my best friend," Shane explained, his leg bouncing in an anxious rhythm. "Sometimes we'd babysit his kids. The media saw a photo, made up a story."

"Wow..." The receptionist raised her eyebrows, and Shane noticed something in her expression – a slight discomfort, a thinly veiled judgment. "Not that it's a bad thing, of course," she hurried to say. "I babysit for friends with kids too, but... I don't know. After the controversy about you leaving the Metros, I'm surprised you still talk to players from there."

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier for a second.

"Me too." Ilya couldn't hold his tongue.

Shane gave his leg a quick slap, a warning.

"What?" Ilya looked at him, genuinely confused. "It's true. I don't like them."

"Be quiet," Shane hissed through his teeth, but there was more exhaustion than anger in his voice.

The receptionist laughed, a nervous sound, and looked away to her computer screen, pretending to busy herself with something important. The cooking show continued in the background, oblivious to the awkwardness it had caused.

Ilya leaned back in his armchair, crossing his arms in a gesture that was both defensive and tired.

"I was just being honest."

"Sometimes honesty isn't necessary."

Before the argument could deepen, the door to Danika's office opened.

The two turned their heads in perfect synchrony, any trace of an argument instantly abandoned. The psychologist, Elisaveta, stepped out holding Danika's hand – a Russian-Canadian woman with blonde hair, in her thirties, her face sprinkled with freckles and a welcoming smile. She wore casual clothes, nothing formal, clearly designed to make the children comfortable. In her other hand, she held a folder.

It was the end of the first month of sessions – twice a week for each girl – and Elisaveta had asked to speak with both of them about Danika's initial assessment.

"Pochemu by ne prodolzhit' knizhku v ugolke detey, poka ya govoryu s dyadya Il'ya i dyadya Sheyn?" Elisaveta suggested in Russian, her voice calm and soft. (Why not continue the little book in the kids' corner while I talk to Uncle Ilya and Uncle Shane?)

She crouched down slightly to get on the girl's level.

"Stul'ya chistyye, ne lipkiye. (The chairs are clean, they aren't sticky.)"

Danika wrinkled her nose.

"Net? (No?)"

"Net." Elisaveta blinked, reassuring her. "Obeshchayu. (I promise.)"

The girl seemed satisfied with the guarantee and let go of her hand, walking toward the kids' corner. She sat in one of the colorful little chairs and picked up a book – one of those word books, Russian to English, full of childish illustrations and little stories for early readers.

Elisaveta looked up at the two of them.

"Il'ya. Shane."

Both stood up and followed her into the room, but Ilya kept the door open just enough to keep Danika in his line of sight. The girl was already absorbed in her reading, eyes fixed on the pages, lips moving silently as she spelled out new words.

Elisaveta's office was exactly what one would expect from a specialized child psychologist – playful, colorful, full of visual and sensory stimuli. Dolls, cushions of different textures, indirect lighting, posters with illustrated emotions, a shelf full of games and books.

Shane walked in and stopped for a second.

His eyes quickly scanned the room, and Ilya saw the exact moment he made a small grimace – that subtle expression that meant too much information, too many stimuli, discomfort. Shane avoided the chair with the felt seat – wrong texture, Ilya knew – and chose the leather armchair near the desk. He sat down and blinked a few times, as if recalibrating his eyes after an explosion of light.

Ilya observed everything in silence, the pieces falling into place in his mind like a puzzle.

"Well," Elisaveta began, sitting behind her desk and placing the folder in front of her. "As agreed, here I have Danika's assessment regarding this first month with her."

Ilya nodded, but his leg started to bounce involuntarily – a nervous tic Shane knew well. He sat down next to his husband, their shoulders almost touching.

"Danika isn't just a quiet and shy little girl," Elisaveta continued, her light brown eyes scanning both of them with clinical yet warm attention. "She likes to talk, to converse, to play. But the sudden change that pulled her out of her comfort zone left her more closed off like this. It's a natural response to trauma and adaptation."

"And what do we do to fix it?" Shane asked, direct, practical.

As he spoke, his hand found a row of colorful toy cars that formed a rainbow on the coffee table. Almost automatically, his fingers corrected the position of a blue car that had been swapped with a green one.

Elisaveta observed the movement. She didn't say anything. Just observed.

"Time, I would say, will help stabilize things," she resumed her explanation. "But I suggest establishing a routine. She told me her mother used to do that, and that Raiya kind of tries to maintain it. But the environment changed, and the routine too. That messed up Danika's little head."

Ilya felt alarms go off in his mind. Routine. Predictability. Organization. Everything he had been researching during his sleepless nights.

"She functions much more comfortably knowing what she has to do," Elisaveta continued. "Having plans, goals, a clear structure of what to expect."

Shane turned to Ilya with an accusatory look.

"See?" He pointed at his husband. "He said it was nonsense to make a schedule for the girls. But apparently, I was right." He crossed his arms, satisfied. "I have a schedule and I function very well."

"Like a robot," Ilya shot back, but there was no malice, just their usual teasing.

Shane rolled his eyes.

Elisaveta tilted her head slightly.

"Shane, can you roll your eyes again?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just do it," she asked, soft but firm.

Shane, confused, obeyed. He rolled his eyes in a full motion, a perfect circle.

Elisaveta narrowed her light brown eyes, observing.

"Uhm..." She made a gesture with her hand. "Trace the movement your eyes make for me."

Shane traced a small circle in the air.

"Il'ya," Elisaveta turned to him, "can you roll your eyes too?"

Ilya did. His eyes darted up in a quick motion and came back down. That was it.

"Did you notice, Shane?" The psychologist pointed out the difference. "Il'ya does it upwards and that's it. He doesn't do a full rotation with his eyes."

"So what...?" Shane frowned, genuinely confused.

"That's how you roll your eyes," Elisaveta explained patiently. "You don't literally roll your eyes. Most people do it like Il'ya. Just looking up."

Shane blinked a few times, processing the information.

Ilya watched the scene, something confirming itself in his chest. Elisaveta was noticing what he had been noticing for twelve years, but only a month ago had he discovered what it was or could be.

"Anyway," Elisaveta resumed, as if she hadn't just planted a major seed. "Just pointing that out." She opened the folder again. "I recommend you establish a routine for Danika. Sit down with her and see what she wants to do and when she wants to do it. She doesn't go to school yet, but you mentioned she spends a lot of time with her grandparents. Include that in the routine too." She paused. "And I recommend putting together a monthly calendar, because of your games and travels with the team."

Ilya nodded, processing.

"So she always knows what's going to happen each day of the month, yes?"

"Exactly." Elisaveta smiled, pleased with the quick comprehension.

Then she pulled a piece of paper from the folder. A drawing – childish scribbles, worthy of a four-year-old, but loaded with meaning.

"Danika made this today."

It was two little girls – one blonde, one brunette – holding hands with a brunette woman. And a man, slightly separated from the group, his features fainter, as if he were there but not present.

"She said this is how she remembers how things were at home," Elisaveta explained, her voice soft. "Her and Raiya very close to Zarina. And Alexei..." She pointed to the distant figure. "Distant. Removed. Almost not wanting to be near."

Ilya felt something tighten in his chest. Not surprise. Just confirmation.

"My brother was a piece of shit." The phrase slipped out before he could contain it. "A top-tier abusive manipulator. Just like our father."

Shane placed a hand on his leg, a silent gesture of support.

Elisaveta didn't judge. She just nodded.

"She said she remembers him and Zarina screaming. Constant fights," the psychologist continued, choosing her words carefully. "That's why she's always on high alert. She hates loud noises, banging sounds. It triggers something that takes her back to those moments."

Ilya swallowed hard.

"Danika grew up in a violent household," Elisaveta said, and the naked truth of that statement hung in the air like a heavy cloud. "And her little mind is still understanding and processing that this new house isn't like that. That Uncle Il'ya and Uncle Shane love each other. That they would never raise their voices at each other, let alone at them."

Her eyes met both of theirs, one at a time.

"It's all very new. An overload that will take time for her to absorb." A soft smile. "But she will, rest assured."

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the silence of processing, of accepting, of understanding.

Shane was the first to speak.

"We're going to make that calendar." His voice came out firm, determined. "And the routine. Whatever she needs."

Ilya squeezed Shane's hand under the table.

"We'll do whatever it takes," he confirmed.

Elisaveta smiled, genuinely pleased.

"They are lucky to have you."

Elisaveta flipped through a few more pages in the folder, her eyes scanning notes she took during the sessions. The sound of turning paper was the only noise in the office, aside from the distant murmur coming from the waiting room.

"She told me some things through her drawings," the psychologist continued, pulling out a few more sheets. "Things she might not have the words to express yet."

She spread the drawings across the table, one by one.

On one sheet, a small house with many windows. Tiny people inside each window, all separated, none touching.

"This was from the second session," Elisaveta explained. "I asked about her house in Moscow. She drew it like this. Everyone separated. Everyone in their own square."

Another drawing: a childlike figure in the center, with red and black lines around it, like waves or explosions.

"Loud noises," the psychologist pointed out. "She drew this after a car honked loudly on the street and she curled up. I asked what she felt, and she drew this. She said 'in here everything gets messy' and pointed to her head."

Shane swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the scribbles that told a story so much more complex than they appeared.

One more drawing: a small blonde figure, holding hands with a taller, dark-haired figure with green eyes. Next to them, a dark-haired figure, slightly set apart. And even further away, two male figures – one with dark hair, one with light hair – holding hands with each other, but separated from the main group.

"This was last week," Elisaveta said, a soft smile on her lips. "I asked how she felt in the new house. She drew this. The small blonde figure is her. The taller one is Raiya. The dark-haired figure set apart is her mother, which she's still processing is never coming back. And the two male figures holding hands are you two."

Ilya felt something tighten in his chest.

"She drew herself holding hands with Raiya," he observed. "Not with us."

"Yet," Elisaveta corrected gently. "She is still learning to trust that you are going to stay. That you aren't going to leave. That you aren't going to yell. That you aren't going to..." She searched for the right word. "Hurt her."

Shane ran his hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

"What else?"

Elisaveta pulled out another drawing. This time, something different: a girl inside a box. Not a prison box, but a box drawn with soft lines, almost like an invisible room around her.

"This was today," she explained. "I asked how she feels when she's alone in her new bedroom. She drew this and said: 'In here it's quiet. Out there is noise. But the noise doesn't come in if I shut the door.'"

Ilya frowned, something stirring in his mind.

"Does she always seek out quiet places?" he asked, trying to understand.

"Always," Elisaveta confirmed. "When the waiting room is too full, she asks to wait in the hallway. When there are too many kids in the office next door, she covers her ears. It's not just shyness. It's sensory hypersensitivity."

Sensory hypersensitivity.

Ilya felt the words ring in his mind like a bell.

"She also has a very specific relationship with textures," Elisaveta continued, pulling up more notes. "During the sessions, I noticed she only touches toys made of certain materials. She prefers smooth ones, soft ones. She avoids rough ones, or ones that make noise to the touch. And the organization..."

"The organization?" Shane asked.

"She organizes everything by color. Not by shape, not by function. By color." Elisaveta smiled slightly. "The pencils, the toys, the books. Everything in a color sequence. A rainbow. Always. And if someone moves them, she redoes it. Calmly, without throwing a tantrum, she just... redoes it. Like it's a necessity."

Ilya felt his heart race.

Like Shane with his gummy bears. Like Shane with his identical pants. Like Shane with everything.

"Dr. Elisaveta," Ilya began, his voice more careful than usual. He felt Shane look at him, felt the weight of the moment. "I... wanted to ask something."

She tilted her head, attentive.

"You can ask, Il'ya."

Ilya took a deep breath. The words he had been rehearsing for weeks, in the sleepless early mornings, in the moments he watched Danika and saw Shane reflected in her – all of them gathered at the tip of his tongue.

"Do you..." He hesitated, correcting himself. "Do you think it could be... that these behaviors could be..."

"Autism?" Elisaveta finished for him, her voice calm, devoid of judgment.

The silence that followed was electric.

Shane turned his head so fast he nearly sprained his neck.

"What?"

Ilya didn't break eye contact with the psychologist.

"Yes." The word came out firm, even with his heart beating wildly. "I've been researching. For the last few weeks. Ever since I noticed that Danika has a lot of the same behaviors as Shane. The textures, the colors, the need for routine, the hypersensitivity to sounds, the difficulty with changes..."

He swallowed hard.

"And I... I saw a list. Of symptoms. And Shane fit almost all of them. And Danika too. I don't know if I'm right, I'm not a doctor, but..." He finally looked over at Shane, who was staring at him with an expression that was a mix of shock, confusion, and something Ilya couldn't quite place. "I had to ask."

Elisaveta leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on the desk, her hands clasped. Her light brown eyes took Ilya in with an attention that was both professional and deeply human.

"Il'ya," she said, her voice soft, "I wasn't going to bring this topic up today because I didn't want to jump the gun. I haven't had enough time with Danika to make any kind of conclusive evaluation. But since you asked..."

She paused, choosing her words.

"Yes. That thought has occurred to me. Several times, over the last few sessions."

Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"What?" he repeated, but the word was different now. Higher pitched. More vulnerable.

Elisaveta turned her attention to him.

"Shane, I can't diagnose anyone without a proper evaluation. But I can say that Danika presents several traits common on the autism spectrum. The sensory hypersensitivity, the need for routine and predictability, the ritualistic organization, the difficulty with abrupt changes, the preference for non-verbal communication in moments of overload..." She listed them calmly. "These are all indicators."

Shane blinked a few times, processing.

"And what do I have to do with this?" he asked, his voice lower. "Ilya said that I... that I also..."

Elisaveta held his gaze.

"Shane, a few minutes ago, you reorganized the toy cars on my desk because one was out of color order. You specifically chose the leather armchair instead of the felt one. You roll your eyes in an atypical way. You mentioned having a personal schedule that you rigidly follow. You avoided eye contact with me during most of this conversation, except when Ilya was talking to you."

Shane leaned back in the armchair, his eyes wide.

"I..."

"I'm not saying you are autistic," Elisaveta hastened to clarify. "I have no way of knowing. But what Ilya observed is consistent with what I am observing in Danika. And autism has a strong genetic component, more apparent in males. It wouldn't be surprising if..."

She left the sentence hanging, allowing each of them to fill in their own thoughts.

Ilya reached out and took Shane's hand. He was trembling — Shane was trembling.

"Moy," Ilya murmured, softly, just for him. "It doesn't matter what it is. You are still you. I still love you."

Shane squeezed his hand tightly.

Elisaveta watched the exchange with a discreet smile.

"If you like, I can recommend professionals specializing in autism evaluations for adults," she offered. "For Shane. And for Danika, we can continue her sessions with this more focused perspective. If she is on the spectrum, the earlier we know, the earlier we can adapt strategies to help her."

Ilya nodded, still holding Shane's hand.

"Yes." The word came out firm. "Please."

Shane didn't say anything. He just squeezed Ilya's hand harder, his eyes fixed on some distant point, processing a world of new information that had just crashed down on him.

Outside, in the children's corner, Danika turned another page of her book, her lips moving in silent words. Every now and then, she glanced up at the half-open door, just to confirm her uncles were still there.

They were. They always would be.

And now, finally, they would begin to understand how to be there.

"I usually have appointments available until the week of the twentieth," Elisaveta explained, flipping through her planner, "then I resume seeing patients from the twenty-sixth to the thirtieth. Is that alright?"

Ilya nodded, already standing up and subtly pulling Shane up with him. The Canadian was strangely quiet, his eyes fixed on some distant point, processing everything that had been said in the last few minutes.

"Sure, no problem," Ilya replied, his hand still firmly holding Shane's. "Thank you, doctor."

"No problem." Elisaveta smiled, shaking Ilya's hand. She didn't even try to extend her hand to Shane, sensing that he was no longer fully present. "We'll pick this conversation back up in January." She paused, a lighter smile appearing. "Have a good day, and good luck at your game on Saturday. And win," she emphasized, amused, "my dad bet three hundred dollars and a new lawnmower with his neighbor who came up from Florida."

Ilya laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

"Your dad is going to win three hundred dollars and a lawnmower, don't worry."

Shane's faint, nasal chuckle beside him was a relief. He was listening. Only a little, but he was.

They stepped out into the hallway at the exact moment the door to the other office opened. Raiya emerged alongside Tatyana, the psychologist specializing in older children and teenagers – a Black Russian-Canadian woman with dark, deep eyes and afro-braids that reached her waist. Chic, small hoop earrings swayed when she moved, and a necklace with a pendant of a kitten holding a ball of yarn rested against her chest.

"See you next week, kitten." Tatyana high-fived Raiya, who smiled, before looking up at Shane and Ilya. "Shall we?"

Ilya tapped his niece on the shoulder.

"Your sister is reading in the corner. Keep an eye on her."

"Okay." Raiya nodded and headed toward the waiting room, already pulling her phone out of her pocket to sit next to Danika and keep her company.

Tatyana's office was visibly different from Elisaveta's – still colorful, but in a more muted tone, designed for ten-year-olds and teenagers. Sports posters, a bookshelf with YA thrillers, some plants, comfortable cushions.

Tatyana closed the door behind them and got straight to the point, with a more energetic tone than her colleague.

"You two are raising a machine." She crossed her arms, a wide smile on her face. "Raiya is fascinated by hockey thanks to you. She won't stop talking about your summer camp. She's already counting down the days."

Ilya smiled, still holding Shane's hand, his thumb tracing slow circles on his skin.

"She talks about it at home too. Every day."

Tatyana observed Shane for a moment, her expression shifting slightly to something more concerned. Ilya noticed.

"On osmyslivayet to, chto nam rasskazala Yelizaveta," he explained in Russian. (He's processing what Elisaveta told us.)

Tatyana nodded, understanding, and didn't ask any further questions about the Canadian's state.

"Well," she continued, sitting on the edge of her desk, "Raiya also talked a little bit today about her father. Alexei."

Ilya felt his muscles tense automatically.

"I asked how school was going, regarding the new classmates," Tatyana continued, her voice softer now. "She said some of them asked about her brother. Her real dad, I mean. And she told them he died in a car accident."

She paused.

"And then she talked about the accident."

Ilya blinked a few times, exchanging a quick look with Shane. Raiya had never mentioned knowing any details about the accident. Not a single word.

"What did she say?" Ilya's voice came out controlled, but there was a clear underlying tension.

Tatyana folded her hands in her lap.

"She said that maybe it was better for her mother to have died in the crash." The words fell like heavy stones. "Because it freed her from Alexei."

The silence in the office was absolute.

"She said Zarina was always on the phone in the last few months," Tatyana continued. "Texting, calling someone. Raiya confessed that she saw messages between her mom and another man on her phone. Romantic messages."

Ilya held his breath.

"And Alexei saw them too," Tatyana went on. "They had a huge fight. They made up afterward, but Raiya didn't want them to. She wanted her mom to get a divorce. To get out of that house."

Her dark eyes met Ilya's.

"Children from violent homes know how to spot when things are about to explode." Her voice was calm, but loaded. "She told me Alexei had started escalating. First throwing things. Then hitting things. Tossing things around." A pause. "She knew the next step would be throwing something at her mom. Or hitting her."

Ilya felt his chest boil.

Anger. Anger at Alexei, anger at a dead man – a useless, aimless anger that only corroded him from the inside. But also anguish. Anguish knowing that Raiya, at twelve years old, was exactly like him at the same age. Too aware. Too observant. Carrying a weight no child should carry.

Shane's hand squeezed his harder. His thumb caressed Ilya's skin in return, a small gesture that said I'm here.

"I don't think she hates Alexei," Tatyana said, with a deep sigh. "As hard as we try, it's very difficult to completely hate the person who raised us."

Ilya felt the words echo inside him.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "I know that well." He thought of Grigori. In recent years, when Alzheimer's erased the cruel man and left only a confused, almost tolerable old man. In the normal conversations they had, without insults, without violence. In the confusing guilt he still felt. "I'm like that with my dad."

Tatyana nodded, understanding more than words could express.

"She is happy now," the psychologist assured him, her voice lighter. "There's still a lot of sadness about Zarina, which I haven't been able to access yet. She dodges the subject very quickly every time I try to get close. But we'll get there eventually."

She smiled.

"She said she's never been this content. And that her favorite moments in Russia were in the summers, when you came home."

Ilya felt something simultaneously warm and painful expand in his chest. A restrained but genuine smile curved his lips.

"Anything else we need to know?" he asked.

"The new school has been good." Tatyana leaned back in her chair. "She's starting to make friends. She already mentioned there's a girl in her class, named Maddie, who might be a potential friend."

"That's good." Ilya nodded, his smile widening slightly.

"And there's one more thing." Tatyana leaned forward, her eyes shining with a soft seriousness. "Her favorite person in the world is her sister. She lives and dies for her little sister."

Ilya felt his heart clench.

"So I recommend," the psychologist continued, "that, to get her to open up to you... embrace Danika more. Show more openly that it's okay to talk, that it's good to establish dialogues."

She paused, choosing her next words carefully.

"Even though in your house there's always someone who hasn't mastered the other's language yet... you can be fluent in a language that's much easier to learn." A smile. "A language you already know."

"Love?" Ilya ventured.

"Love," Tatyana confirmed. "And affection. Show Raiya that Danika is being taken care of, that Danika is safe, that Danika is happy. It's the shortest path to her heart."

Ilya processed the information, a knot forming in his throat.

"We... we try. Every day."

"I know." Tatyana smiled, genuinely. "She tells me. She sees it. She just needs more time to believe it."

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the silence of assimilating, of accepting, of understanding.

Shane, beside him, finally seemed to emerge slightly from his contemplative state. His hand squeezed Ilya's once more, and he murmured, his voice still a little distant:

"We can do this. We're going to get through this."

Ilya looked at him – at the brown eyes that finally met his – and felt, for the first time in days, that maybe, just maybe, they were on the right track.

Tatyana observed the exchange with a discreet smile.

"Have a good day, boys. And good luck at the game."

Ilya thanked her with a nod and gently pulled Shane toward the door.

Outside, in the children's corner, Raiya was sitting next to Danika, the two of them flipping through the word book together. Danika pointed at pictures and Raiya spelled out the names in English, patiently, as she had been doing for weeks.

Ilya stopped for a moment to observe.

Two girls. Orphans. Carrying more weight than any child should have to bear.

But together.

And now, with them.

"Ready to go home?" Shane asked softly.

Ilya squeezed his hand.

"Let's go."

[...]

February 2023 — All-Star Games, Florida

The Florida sun beat down generously over the resort, warming the skin and reflecting off the turquoise surface of the pool that occupied the center of the complex. Shane was reclining on a lounge chair strategically positioned in the shade of an umbrella, his sunglasses protecting his eyes from the intense glare, as he absorbed the heat with the laziness of someone who finally had a moment of rest.

The pool swarmed with activity all around. Children yelled, adults laughed, colorful balls floated, and water jets squirted from makeshift toys. Several other players from the league were scattered around the space, some in the water with their kids, others lounging like Shane, and a few still in their rooms, recovering from the trip.

Shane, for the first time, was in the first group. Well, technically the second—but his daughters were in the pool. That counted, right?

"Hollander."

The voice came from his side. Shane turned his head and found Scott Hunter approaching, the Admirals' captain with his shirt open over his defined chest and patterned shorts that looked like they had been bought specifically to provoke. Beside him, Kip, his husband, walked with his usual tranquility, his curly hair shining in the sun.

"Ready for the game tomorrow?" Scott asked, sitting down on the lounge chair next to him.

The All-Star weekend was going to be hectic—they had arrived early on Friday, the main game was on Saturday, and on Sunday Shane and Ilya would fly to Columbus for a game against their team. Hockey never took a vacation.

"Still sore from the plane," Shane admitted, adjusting himself on the lounger and reaching out to Kip. "But it'll pass by tomorrow. Hey, Kip."

"Hey, Shane." Kip shook his hand and sat next to his husband on the same lounger, a movement that betrayed years of intimacy. "Where's the..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

An explosion of water and children's screams interrupted any coherent thought. Shane turned just in time to see a dozen kids jumping into the pool simultaneously, creating waves that washed over the edge and splashed the nearest lounge chairs.

At the center of the chaos, Ilya stood at the edge of the pool, arms wide open like a maestro conducting an orchestra, an evil genius smile plastered on his face.

"Found him." Kip shook his head, a resigned smile on his lips.

"He's a menace near any body of water," Shane confirmed, nodding. "Absolutely any of them. Pool, ocean, bathtub. It doesn't matter."

Scott laughed, observing the scene.

"And how are the girls?" he asked, leaning back. "Raya and Danika, right?"

Shane pointed to the pool.

Raiya was in the middle of an epic battle with a boy her age, using pool noodles as swords. She was clearly winning—the boy retreated with every strike, while Raiya advanced with the determination of a true Rozanov.

Danika, on the other hand, was on Ilya's lap, her little arms wrapped around his neck like a koala. She wore a purple thermal rash guard with shell and wave designs—long sleeves, despite the Florida heat—and her blonde hair was completely dry, without a single drop of water on it. She watched her sister with an expression of cautious amusement, but showed no intention of getting into the water.

"God, that's cute..." Scott muttered, almost without realizing it.

Kip turned his head so fast he almost sprained his neck.

"Did you just say something Rozanov does is cute?" he widened his eyes in disbelief. "Who are you and what have you done with my husband?"

"I'm going to drown you in the pool," Scott replied, but he was laughing.

Kip laughed too, and for a moment the three of them shared that comfortable silence of people who understood the complexities of life.

"Has it been easy with them, Shane?" Kip asked, more serious now, his eyes meeting the Canadian's with genuine curiosity.

Shane thought for a moment before answering.

"Raiya is already starting to show that she really is a Rozanov." A proud smile. "Getting mouthy just like Ilya. The other day she corrected me on a hockey stat. Corrected me. In English, which isn't her first language."

Scott laughed.

"Danika..." Shane continued, his voice shifting slightly. "It's not that she's a handful, not in that sense. But she requires a different kind of effort."

Kip tilted his head, interested.

"She's autistic," Shane said simply. "We're adapting to it."

The silence that followed was brief, but heavy.

"Wow." Scott blinked, surprised but not uncomfortable. "Did you guys already know, or did you just find out?"

"Ilya suspected it," Shane explained, his eyes finding his husband in the pool. Danika was now on his shoulders, her little arms holding his forehead, a radiant smile on her face from being so high up. "Last week we got the psychologist's report."

Kip opened his mouth to comment, but Shane continued:

"And my Valentine's Day present was one of those, too."

"A report?" Kip frowned, confused.

Shane laughed, a low sound.

"I'm also on the autism spectrum." The sentence came out easier than he expected. "Something Ilya suspected... twelve years ago."

Scott held back a laugh, immediately receiving a glare from Kip.

"Twelve years?" Scott repeated, incredulous. "He basically thought you were... since you guys met?"

"His words: 'I always thought you were kind of weird.'" Shane shrugged, but his smile was genuine. "But, I don't know. Starting therapy to figure more of this out has already helped a lot. Now I understand why I do the things I do. Why certain textures bother me. Why I need a routine. Why..."

He paused, watching Danika in the pool.

"Why I understand her better than anyone else."

Kip squeezed Scott's hand instinctively.

"That's great, Shane," he said sincerely. "Seriously. Truly."

"Is the oldest liking school?" Scott asked, changing the subject with the tact of someone who knew when it was time to move on.

Shane's face lit up.

"She's already the left wing on the school team." The pride in his voice was almost palpable. "Don't take it easy on her at camp just because she's the bosses' daughter, eh, Scott."

Scott laughed.

"You got it. She'll train like a pro."

He paused, his eyes meeting Kip's in one of those silent couple's dialogues.

"Who knows, maybe next year you'll have another 'Hunter' jersey training next to that 'Rozanov' one."

Shane blinked. Once. Twice.

Then his eyes widened.

"Are you guys having kids?"

Kip smiled, holding firmly onto Scott's hand.

"We applied for adoption. We're on the waitlist."

The silence lasted only a second before Shane broke into a huge smile.

"Scott, Kip, that's amazing!" He reached out to shake Scott's hand, then Kip's, in a gesture of pure excitement. "Congratulations, man. Congratulations!"

Scott laughed, clearly moved despite his attempt to look cool.

"Yeah, well. We'll see how long it takes."

"It's worth it," Shane assured them, his voice softer. "Every second. Every sleepless night. Every worry. It's all worth it."

In the pool, Ilya chose that moment to look in their direction. He saw Shane laughing, saw the couple next to him, saw the exchange of handshakes. He raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

Shane replied with a smile and a thumbs-up.

Ilya smiled back and returned his attention to Danika, who was now pulling his hair, asking to get down from his shoulders.

"You guys are in a good place," Kip commented, observing the scene. "I can tell."

Shane followed his gaze.

"I am." The words came out simple, but loaded with meaning. "We are."

The sun kept shining over Florida. The pool remained full of screams and laughter.

[...]

When the news that the Centaurs had qualified for the playoffs came out of Coach Wiebe's mouth in the locker room, the initial silence lasted only a second—enough time for the information to sink into twenty exhausted brains. Then, chaos.

Yells. Hugs. Sticks thrown in the air. Bood tackled Luca to the ground in an exaggerated celebration, Troy started singing something completely out of tune about the Stanley Cup, and even Wiebe cracked a smile—one of those rare ones that only appeared in moments like that.

Shane would definitely go harder in practice. They all would. The playoffs were another story, another league, another life.

Now, three days after the confirmation, the house's morning routine was running its normal course—or almost.

Shane rubbed his eyes, shifting in bed in an automatic movement, his body already used to waking up before the sun. The Canadian spring still carried the winter's ice in the mornings, and the orange light beginning to tinge the sky promised a clear but cold day.

The clock read 5:55.

Shane threw the covers aside, bracing himself for Ilya's usual grumble about the freezing draft that always hit his back when he got up. It was a morning ritual—Shane would get out of bed, Ilya would grumble something in Russian about "crazy Canadians," and pull the covers back over himself.

The grumble didn't come.

Shane frowned, turning over in bed. Ilya's side was empty. Not just empty—cold. The covers were smooth, almost as if no one had slept there.

His eyes widened, and he sat up quickly. His gaze swept the room—the bathroom light off, the bedroom door closed, no sign of his husband.

"Ilya?" he called, softly.

Silence.

Shane stood up, his feet meeting the cold floor, and headed to the bathroom. Toothbrush in hand, he touched Ilya's.

Slightly damp.

He had already been there.

"Since when does he get up before me?" Shane muttered to himself, confusion stamped on his face as he wet his brush and applied toothpaste.

He brushed his teeth on autopilot, his mind still processing the anomaly. Ilya didn't wake up before him. Never. It was one of the constants of the universe, like gravity or ice hockey.

Dressed in his workout clothes, Shane left the bedroom in silence. He stopped in front of Raiya's door, opening it carefully. The little girl was completely out on the bed, a sleep mask crooked on her face—light blue, with "KITTY PRINCESS" written in glittery letters. A gift from Rose on her last visit to Canada at the end of February. Raiya loved it. She had worn it every night since.

Danika's door creaked slightly as it opened. The little one was in the exact same position Ilya and Shane had left her in the night before—motionless, her little arms stretched over the pillow, her breathing so soft it barely moved the blanket. Raiya turned into a hurricane in bed; Danika barely moved.

Shane closed the doors carefully and went downstairs.

The first floor was quiet, but the kitchen light was on. On the counter, a cup waited for him—his protein shake, prepared to the exact measure. Next to it, a note.

"Your disgusting shake made by your hot husband"

Shane laughed, a low, surprised sound, picking up the cup. He crumpled the paper into a perfect little ball and tossed it into the trash. He scored, of course.

The sound of the treadmill came from the gym.

Shane headed in that direction, opening the door slowly. Ilya was running at nearly twenty kilometers an hour, his headphones firmly in place, his face completely serious. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his arms, staining his black t-shirt. His jaw was tense, his eyes fixed on some point ahead, as if he saw something no one else could see.

"Good morning," Shane said, the phrase sounding strange in his own mouth. He didn't like waking up after Ilya, because it implied having to talk bright and early. He always made a point of being the only one awake in the house for at least an hour, processing the world at his own pace.

Ilya didn't even turn his head, but answered:

"Good morning." His voice came out choppy from the run. "We don't need to talk. I know you don't like to."

Shane sighed in relief, taking another sip of the shake. He set the cup on the counter and went to the corner where he kept his yoga mat. He rolled it out next to the bench press, his movements automatic, but his eyes kept darting back to Ilya every few seconds.

The Russian increased the speed by another five points.

Shane watched as he got ready for his yoga session. Ilya was serious. Not just focused—serious in a way that went beyond focus. He looked like he hadn't slept. His eyes had those subtle marks Shane had learned to recognize over twelve years, the exhaustion he tried to hide with determination.

The tense jaw. The fixed stare. The way his forced breathing seemed more like an escape than a workout.

Shane might be terrible at reading people—he always had been, he always would struggle with it—but he was excellent at reading Ilya. Not from the start. He learned. Years of living together, of observing, of wanting to understand.

"Are you okay?" Shane asked, his voice softer than usual.

Ilya nodded, a quick, almost imperceptible movement.

"You never wake up before me," Shane pushed, careful.

"We have playoffs to win," Ilya replied, the words coming out choppy from the rhythm of his run. "And I'm the captain."

The sentence hung in the air, loaded with a weight that went beyond words.

Shane didn't answer. He just sat on the yoga mat, stretched his legs, and began his stretches. But his eyes, every now and then, drifted back to the man on the treadmill.

Ilya ran for another twenty minutes before gradually slowing down, his heavy breathing filling the silence of the gym. When he finally stepped off the treadmill, he wiped his face with a towel and met Shane's gaze in the mirror.

"Playoffs," he repeated, as if that single word explained everything.

Shane nodded, slowly.

"I know."

They didn't need any more words. Not that morning.

Ilya walked over, ran a hand through Shane's hair in a quick gesture, and left the gym, heading for the shower.

Shane stayed there for another moment, processing.

Playoffs. Captain. Responsibility.

And a man who never woke up before him, running at 5:55 in the morning as if he could run away from something.

Or run towards something.

The sun kept rising outside, oblivious to the burdens each of them carried.

Later, at team practice, Ilya was heavy. Not just focused—heavy. Every movement loaded with an intensity that bordered on aggression, every check harder than necessary, every puck battle a personal battlefield.

Ilya's elbow found Evan's face by accident—a movement too fast, a trajectory mishap—but the black eye that blossomed on his teammate's socket was a visual reminder that something wasn't right. Evan took it in stride, laughing and calling Ilya a "brute," but Shane saw the look of guilt that crossed his husband's face before it was quickly replaced by a mask of neutrality.

That was the first time.

The routine repeated itself for the next five days. Ilya woke up before Shane—always before—and was already in the gym when the Canadian came down for his silent breakfast. He trained as if he were compensating for something, as if he could sweat out whatever was fermenting inside his head.

Shane watched. Waited. Gave him space.

Thursday night, the day before the game against Boston that would determine their advancement in the playoffs, the house was finally quiet.

Shane was leaning back on the living room sofa, the TV tuned to the Metros game against the Florida team. It was still strange—seeing those blue and red jerseys gliding across the ice, hearing the shouts of the crowd that was once his, and not being there anymore. Hayden crossed the rink like an arrow, the puck glued to his stick, and Shane held his breath at the exact moment of the shot.

Goal.

The smile that sprouted on his lips was automatic, proud. Hayden still had it—that raw effort of a father of four.

The cell phone buzzed next to him.

| Jackie P. | Did you see our boy's goal?

Shane smiled, typing the reply.

| Shane H. | I did. You can admit it, if the final is Metros vs Centaurs, you're going to root for me, right?

The reply came quickly.

| Jackie P. | I root for my husband, not the Metros. Not after what they did to you.

Shane felt a warm glow in his chest. Jackie had always been like that—direct, loyal, unafraid to choose sides.

| Shane H. | Hayd said you banned the guys from coming over to your house.

| Jackie P. | This WAG right here isn't going to stay quiet about their homophobic jokes. And Hayden sleeps on the couch for every joke he hears and says nothing about.

Shane laughed, picturing the scene.

| Shane H. | How long have you been sleeping sprawled out in the bed? hahaha

| Jackie P. | Surprisingly enough, he's been making me proud. It's been two months since he slept on the couch for being a coward who doesn't speak up against the team's shitty jokes.

Shane hesitated for a moment before answering.

| Shane H. | You don't need to do that, Jackie.

| Jackie P. | It's not just for you, Shane. I've always thought those things were ridiculous. Because it's not even a joke. A bunch of bearded men in their thirties don't understand that? Spare me. I don't want those kinds of people around my kids.

Shane gave a weak smile at his phone. His eyes shifted to the TV at the exact moment another Metros goal exploded on the scoreboard.

| Shane H. | Wow, they're doing well.

| Jackie P. | Answering your question: yes. You can bet I'll be rooting for you and Ilya in the finals. You guys deserve it <3. Give him and the girls a kiss for me. Amber woke up, I'm going to feed her.

| Shane H. | Give the kids a kiss for us too <3

Shane set his phone down on the couch and let his eyes roam the empty living room. Raiya was at team practice after school—Yuna and David would pick her up and bring her home in about an hour. Danika was taking her post-afternoon-snack nap, like she did every day ever since they discovered that a routine helped her process the world.

And Ilya…

Shane stood up in a fluid motion. The gym was dark when he walked by—empty. Anya was curled up in her little bed under the stairs, belly up, all four paws in the air, snoring like a little motor.

"Ilya?" Shane called from the foot of the stairs.

Anya woke up with a start, her ears pricked, her tail starting to wag.

"Where's dad, Anya? Hmm? Where is he?"

The little dog jumped up, stretched with the dramatic flair of someone deeply offended at being woken up, and bolted upstairs. Shane followed behind, his footsteps quiet on the hardwood.

The bedroom door was cracked open. The blackout curtains were drawn, completely blocking the afternoon sun—the room was pitch black. Anya pushed the door with her snout and disappeared into the darkness. Shane heard the sound of her jumping onto the bed.

"Ilya?" Shane finished opening the door, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.

A pile of blankets occupied the center of the bed, facing away from the door. Motionless. Anya lay right on top of the pile, her head resting on what seemed to be a shoulder.

The pile didn't move.

Shane felt his heart race.

He walked into the room, his steps slow, and walked around the bed until he stopped at his side. Ilya's eyes were open, blinking slowly, his hands clutching the covers to his chest in a gesture that seemed almost childish.

Shane hadn't seen him since Danika started yawning and Ilya had offered to put her to bed. Hours ago.

"Hey..." Shane called softly. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand finding the blond curls in a light touch. "Is everything okay?"

Ilya nodded. Slowly.

Shane didn't believe it for a second.

"No." Ilya contradicted himself, his voice hoarse, strange. "I don't know. Just don't..."

"Punching Evan in the face this week wasn't revitalizing enough?" Shane tried for a lighter, teasing tone.

"It was an accident..."

"I know it was, babe." Shane shifted on the bed, lying down facing his husband. His hand found Ilya's face, his fingers tracing his jawline in a slow, deliberate caress. Anya climbed down from the top of the pile and lay between the two of them, her tail wagging, her snout licking Ilya's hand.

He barely moved. He only released one hand from the covers to distractedly pet the dog's fuzzy head.

"Do you want to talk about what you're feeling?" Shane asked.

"Tired." Ilya sighed, the sound coming from somewhere very deep. He brought his hand to his head. "In here."

Shane sighed deeply, his thumb tracing slow circles on his husband's cheekbone. He didn't press. He just stayed there, present, as Ilya looked away.

"Is it because of the playoffs?"

"Probably." Ilya shrugged, a minimal movement. "I don't know."

"Are you thinking about the game against Boston tomorrow?"

Ilya didn't answer directly.

"We're going to destroy them." His voice came out dry, automatic, as if he were reciting an unquestionable truth. "Then Marleau and Connors said they want to meet the girls."

Shane smiled slightly.

"You invited them over here?"

Ilya nodded, a small movement.

"It'll be good for you to see them again." Shane stroked his hair. "It's been a while since you guys hung out after the games. I bet they miss their captain."

"Marleau is a good captain," Ilya said, his voice strangely distant. "Maybe better than me."

Shane felt the words like a physical blow.

"Hey." He straightened up in bed, his gaze fixed on his husband. "No. No, no, no. That's not you talking."

Ilya finally looked at him. His blue eyes were tired, dark, laden with something Shane couldn't name.

"You are an excellent captain," Shane continued, his voice firm. "None of this putting yourself down in front of me. I won't allow it."

Ilya held his gaze for a long moment. Something in his expression shifted—a crack, a softening.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Shane leaned in and kissed his forehead, lingering.

"Get some sleep. Raiya won't be home for another hour. I'll stay here."

Ilya closed his eyes. His hand found Shane's, their fingers intertwining.

Anya sighed, satisfied, and closed her eyes too.

The Canadian's other hand found Ilya's curls, gently running his fingers through his hair, which put him to sleep in seconds. There was more to it than what Ilya was letting on, but Shane didn't want to pressure him to talk, because Ilya never pressured him during the moments when it was him lying in silence in the dark bedroom.

[...]

Whoever won that game would face the Metros in three days in Montreal. The whole city was buzzing with the possibility, fans had taken over social media, and the atmosphere in the arena was electric—but inside the Centaurs' locker room, the silence was absolute.

Ilya walked in like a storm about to break.

Bood was in the way, his arm extended for their usual greeting, but before he could complete the motion, his eyes met Shane's—who was right behind his husband, shaking his head vehemently in a silent warning. Bood pulled his arm back as if he'd been burned.

Ilya walked past him without a word, his face a mask of granite, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his neck bulged. He went straight to his locker and started changing in silence, every movement precise, controlled, dangerous.

"Why does he have the wrath of God in him?" Troy whispered over Shane's shoulder, eyes wide.

Shane sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"He really wants to win." The explanation came out simple, but heavy. "Because of who we're facing on Saturday, if we win today."

Bood tilted his head in understanding.

"Don't worry," Troy assured him, giving Shane a pat on the shoulder, "the Admirals are getting thoroughly fucked by us today."

He headed to his locker, leaving Shane with the feeling that Troy had no idea what was about to happen on the ice.

The locker room door creaked open, and Luca walked in whistling, his backpack slung over one shoulder, completely oblivious to the tension stiffening every muscle of the veterans.

"Hey, Cap!" he greeted cheerfully, looking toward Ilya.

The sound in the locker room died.

A few players closed their eyes. Others shook their heads slowly, resigned, as if witnessing a slow-motion car crash. Bood was already mentally praying for the 23-year-old's soul. Shane's eyes went wide, his body tense, ready to intervene.

Ilya turned his head slowly—slowly—as he finished pulling on his socks. His blue eyes, usually bright and alive, were now two pieces of Siberian ice fixed on the rookie.

Luca swallowed hard.

"Bad day?"

"Chto vy dumayete?" Ilya growled, his voice a low rumble that needed no translation to convey exactly what he thought. (What do you think?)

Luca nodded rapidly, even without understanding a word, and practically teleported to his locker, his trembling fingers fighting with his skate laces.

The entire locker room exchanged looks of relief. The rookie had survived.

The door opened again, and this time it was Wiebe who walked in. The coach took a deep breath, his eyes sweeping over each face, evaluating, measuring. Ilya stood up in a fluid motion and positioned himself beside him, his captain's posture more erect than ever.

Wiebe cleared his throat.

"Today, it's us against the Admirals," he began, his deep voice echoing off the locker room walls. "It's been years. Decades, even, since the Centaurs made it to a semifinal like this. Let alone a final."

He paused, letting the weight of the words settle.

"The Admirals have been getting closer and closer every year since they won the Cup in 2017. But I'm feeling it..." Wiebe brought a hand to his chest, dramatic. "...feeling it deep down. Feeling it right in the hairs of my right nut... that this is our year."

The locker room erupted in laughter. Troy almost fell off the bench, Bood clutched his stomach, and even Shane let a smile slip. Ilya didn't laugh, but something in his eyes softened seeing his teammates share that moment.

"Even if we don't win the Cup," Wiebe continued, more serious now, "I still have faith we can win today's game. And even if we lose on Saturday—" he raised a hand, silencing the protests that were already starting, "—drinks are on me. Just for making it to the finals."

This time, the celebration was deafening. Clapping, shouting, whistling, sticks banging against lockers. Wiebe waited for the noise to die down before turning to Ilya.

"Light 'em up, Captain."

Two pats on the back, and the stage was all Ilya's.

The Russian took a step forward. The silence returned instantly, thicker than before. All eyes were fixed on him, waiting.

"Listen closely, you fuckers." Ilya's voice cut through the air like a blade, his Slavic accent thickening every syllable, giving weight to every word. "Scott Hunter is a mummy. Pushing forty, dragging his skates on the ice like he's already got one foot in retirement. If you guys can't beat an old man, you should retire right along with him!"

No one dared to laugh. The intensity in Ilya's eyes was hypnotic.

"This game isn't an 'if we win' game," he continued, arms open in a gesture that encompassed the entire locker room. "It's a 'when we win' game. Because after we shove at least three goals down the Admirals' throats..."

He paused, his eyes sweeping over each face, every pair of eyes fixed on him.

"We're going to do the same to the Metros."

The rival's name hung in the air like a challenge.

"Humiliate them right there in Montreal." Ilya spat the words, every syllable loaded with years of grievance, of rivalry, of hatred. "On their ice. In front of their fans. Make every single one of those sons of bitches choke on their own poison."

Shane watched from the back, his heart beating fast. He knew that gleam in Ilya's eyes. He knew the passion, the fury, the fire. And he knew that, in that moment, nothing in the world could stop his husband.

"And for that to happen," Ilya continued, his voice rising in pitch, "you are going to play like you've never played before. Today. We're going to take the lead, secure the fucking win. Because if we don't..." his eyes darkened, "...anyone who has any faith better start praying. So you don't have to listen to me if this game is lost."

He grabbed the stick resting against his locker, his fingers gripping the wood tightly.

"Because remember," his voice dropped, but became more threatening, "I'll have a stick in my hand. And two blades on my feet. And after the game, there won't be a single place in this arena where you can hide from me. And I know where each of you lives."

The silence that followed was absolute. You could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, the breath of twenty men caught in their throats.

Then Ilya smiled.

It was a predatory smile, feral, promising blood—but also promising victory.

"Now," he banged his stick on the floor with a thud that echoed, "get on the ice. And win."

The locker room exploded into motion. Skates being tightened, helmets adjusted, the noise of twenty men ready for battle.

Shane walked past Ilya and, in a quick movement, stole a kiss—fast, hot, loaded with meaning.

"So fucking hot, Captain..." he murmured against his lips.

Ilya held his face for a second, blue eyes meeting brown.

"Just wait and see how I'm going to fuck you after we win the Cup on Saturday."

And together, they led the team out onto the ice.

[...]

NHL Awards, June 2023

Their names echoed through the auditorium even before any official announcement—clapping, whistling, a wave of recognition that preceded the presenter's voice.

"And the winners of the NHL Players Award for Moment of the Season: Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, Ottawa Centaurs!"

Ilya walked up to the stage unhurriedly, his posture upright like a captain, but his blue eyes scanning the auditorium with an intensity that few understood. Shane followed behind on crutches—his leg still immobilized, his body still recovering, but the smile on his face was the same as always.

They stopped behind the microphone, Shane adjusting his weight on the crutches, blinking a few times to adapt to the blinding stage lights. Ilya placed a hand on his back—a quick, almost imperceptible gesture, but one that Shane felt like a hug.

Then, Ilya leaned toward the microphone.

"First of all," he began, his voice deep, heavy with an accent that would never leave him, "I would like to thank you for the nomination for tonight's award. Thank you for all the support after winning the Cup."

He paused, his eyes sweeping across the auditorium. He saw the faces of his friends sitting at the tables—happy, proud, some still with visible bandages. Troy with his head resting on Harris's shoulder, who was clapping for both of them, a lazy smile on his face. Further back, Ryan Price with his arm around Fabian's shoulders, the two exchanging knowing looks.

Near the stage, Scott Hunter stood beside Carter Vaughn, both wearing expressions of pure pride.

And then Ilya saw the Metros.

The ones who came, at least. They looked like they had stepped out of an ancient Egyptian movie—all of them bearing some battle scar. JJ had a bruised chin, a cut lip, his shoulder immobilized in a sling. Hayden was in the same boat, and Mitty had a sprained foot, resting in an orthopedic boot.

Ilya wanted to laugh. He held it in. Barely.

"It's an extremely important moment for the Centaurs," he continued, looking away before the laugh could escape. "And, as the team's captain, it's even more important to me. For many other reasons, too."

A pause.

"This Cup is my second Cup. The last time I held it was almost ten years ago, when I still played for the Boston Raiders."

He barely finished the sentence when an explosion of excited shouts came from some corner of the auditorium. The Raiders—always the Raiders—celebrating like it was a last-second goal.

"Keep it down over there, you lunatics!" Ilya laughed, pointing toward the noise.

The whole auditorium laughed along.

"But, actually," Ilya continued, the smile still on his face, "I consider this my sixth Cup. Thanks to community property."

More laughter. Even the Metros, sitting in a corner, shook their heads with reluctant smiles.

Ilya gave the floor to Shane with a look.

The Canadian approached the microphone, supporting himself better on his crutches.

"It wasn't easy at all," he began, his voice softer than Ilya's, but equally firm. "As you can see by my leg, playing against the Montreal Metros... hurt."

He paused, his eyes finding Hayden in the audience.

"They were my childhood team. My mom's team. The team where I played for over a decade and called home for a long time. Until one day... after a stumble"—the irony in the word was clear—"having fingers pointed at me. Accusations. Insults."

The auditorium fell silent.

"It's no secret that hockey, historically, like any sport, is a hostile environment to anyone who is different." Shane swallowed hard. "And you all know perfectly well that Ilya, Scott Hunter, Troy Barrett, Ryan Price, and I, among many other players, found ourselves caught in a tight spot. We couldn't be who we truly are inside those walls."

He looked at Scott, who nodded, pride written all over his face.

"For a long time. Until Scott, bravely, blew it all up and took the first step." Shane smiled. "The pressure eased. A bit. But enough... though not enough to keep it from coming back at the slightest mistake of a player who is different."

His voice hardened slightly.

"I'm not ashamed to say that I left the Metros. Because the reason was bigger than any Cup, any award, any other thing." His eyes met Ilya's. "I chose a future where I knew I would be accepted. Alongside the man I love and today call my husband."

Ilya squeezed his hand.

"And, of course, winning the Stanley Cup playing alongside Ilya, against the team that was my home and today is a bittersweet memory..." Shane smiled. "...was a historic moment for me. For us. For hockey itself."

"Especially for the eleven goals," Ilya teased, leaning closer to the microphone.

The auditorium let out laughs and applause. Even the Metros laughed—almost.

"This victory isn't just ours," Ilya continued, more serious now. "It belongs to the whole team. It belongs to Ottawa, which I could finally call home. It belongs to our family..."

He looked at Shane, who offered a smile back.

"Winning this was important in so many ways..." Ilya took a deep breath. "Against the team that hurt my husband. Taking a team that spent a decade out of the playoffs all the way to the final. Having my nieces..." he hesitated, correcting himself with a smile, "...our daughters watching, together with my in-laws, at home. It was chaotic."

The auditorium chuckled softly.

"A year of wins and losses." Ilya's voice changed, growing heavier. "And I... I say losses because at the end of October last year, I lost my brother."

The silence returned, heavy.

"Alexei Rozanov." Ilya swallowed hard. "To a car accident. He is the father of my nieces. And as much as we... were strangers to each other..." His voice faltered for a second. "It wasn't always like that. There was a time when he was in the stands cheering for me in the little league in Russia. And..."

Shane squeezed his hand tightly. Ilya felt the support, the anchor.

"I also share this award with that Alexei."

The silence lasted another second. Then, clapping. Slow at first, then stronger, warmer. Scott Hunter stood up, applauding. Then Ryan Price. Then Fabian. Then the entire auditorium.

Ilya blinked a few times, forcing the tears away.

Shane smiled at him, proud.

"Once again," Ilya resumed, his voice steadier now, "thank you very much to everyone here." He looked at Shane, a sly smile appearing.

"And know this: next year we'll be back here." Hollander understood the message.

The auditorium laughed.

"Keep dreaming, Hollander!" Price shouted from the audience, still clapping.

"Don't even start, Price!" Marleau's voice came from somewhere, raspy and amused.

Shane laughed, shaking his head.

The trophy was handed over, heavy and shiny in both their hands. The applause swelled as Ilya cupped Shane's face with one hand and pressed their lips together in a tender, affectionate, and absolutely public kiss.

The auditorium erupted.

And there, in the center of the stage, under the lights and the gaze of the entire league, they were just them.

Ilya and Shane.

Rozanov and Hollander.

Champions.

[...]

Shane watched from afar, a scene that seemed frozen in time: Ilya holding Rhys near the rink, the nine-month-old little boy completely mesmerized by the movement on the ice. His little arms stretched out toward his father—Scott, who was gliding with the kids in a playful activity—and a delightful laugh escaped the little one's toothless mouth.

Shane's heart squeezed in a good way.

"Thinking about the future, Shane?" Kip appeared at his side, hands shoved into his shorts pockets, eyes fixed on the same scene.

Shane smiled, adjusting himself in the chair with his immobilized foot resting on another.

"We talked about adopting a baby with the girls this morning." The confession came out naturally, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Kip raised his eyebrows, a pleasant smile spreading across his face. He sat in the chair next to him, his gaze still on the rink.

"They liked the idea."

"That's great, man." Kip laughed softly. "And the good thing is you'll have help taking care of the baby." He pointed to the rink, where Raiya was completing a puck-handling circuit with a concentration that would make any professional player envious. "Raiya will definitely want to help."

Shane followed his gaze, a discreet pride in his smile.

"Scott has a fan," he joked.

Kip laughed again.

"Of course Ilya was teasing him the whole way here," Shane continued, amused, "because she calls him Mr. Hunter." He paused. "But it's genuine. She adores him."

"I'm glad to hear that." Kip adjusted his own curls in an automatic gesture and went back to watching his husband on the ice.

Scott patted the shoulder of a girl who had messed up a move twice—probably telling her it was okay, that she could try again. His patience with the kids was something Kip deeply admired.

"When the social worker called," Kip began, his voice lower, more intimate, "talking about Rhys..." He shook his head, a nostalgic smile. "I've never seen him so happy. The sparkle in his eyes knowing there was a little boy needing to be loved waiting at the agency... He grew up in the system after his parents died and always wanted to be able to do more for kids in orphanages because he knows firsthand how hard it is and..."

Shane listened in silence, respecting the moment.

"It's really worth it, Shane."

Shane thought of his own girls. Of how everything had happened—a shock, literally. Temporary, they said. Until at the airport, when they arrived, he saw the way they clung to Ilya. As if he were the salvation for both of them.

In that moment, he knew. They were going to stay forever.

"Do they talk about their parents?" Kip asked, curious. "I think it's sad that Rhys will never have memories of his."

Shane turned to him.

"Hillary," Kip explained, "our agent, said his mother cried so much. She begged for forgiveness for having to give him away."

The silence between them was heavy, but not uncomfortable.

"And he'll never know," Kip continued, his voice cracking slightly, "that this woman, even with all her horrible flaws, still loved him more than anything. We've had him for a little over a month and I barely remember what life was like without him."

Shane swallowed hard.

"They talk more about Zarina." The answer came softly. "Raiya has her initials engraved on her stick." A pause. "And very little about Alexei. He wasn't around. Or a good father."

Kip shook his head, processing.

"I saw Ilya's speech at the awards," he said. "About being estranged from his brother and..." He looked at Shane. "As someone who's a younger brother, man... that hurts."

Shane waited.

"Meg and I fought like cats and dogs when we were kids," Kip continued, a sad smile on his lips. "She's four years older than me. We'd end up rolling down the stairs, grappling with each other."

He laughed at the memory.

"But she was also the one who'd wake me up in the middle of the night to share a snack she'd made." His voice softened. "The one who would bring me some candy or whatever every time she went out."

Shane listened attentively.

"The first person in the family I could really tell I was gay." Kip swallowed hard. "And who hugged me, telling me it was okay. She helped me come up with a plan on how to tell our parents, and it worked."

Silence returned.

"Imagining someone who might not have had that," Kip concluded. "Or who had a part of it and then lost it..." He shook his head. "It's horrible."

Shane placed a hand on his shoulder, a silent gesture.

On the rink, Ilya laughed with Rhys in his arms, while Scott made faces at his son from the other side of the glass. Raiya completed another circuit. Danika was sitting on a bench, drawing in her notebook, oblivious to the world.

"But now," Shane said finally, his voice firm, "they do. Rhys has you. The girls have us." He looked at Kip. "That's what matters, in the end."

Kip smiled, a wet but genuine smile.

"Yeah," he agreed. "It's what matters."

Down at the rink, Rhys stretched his little arms out again, and Ilya handed him to Scott over the glass. The baby giggled as his father held him against his chest.

Shane saw out of the corner of his eye when the gym door opened and Hayden walked in, followed by Jackie and the small crowd that was their family. The twins—Ruby and Jade, nine years old and with an energy that seemed to defy the laws of physics—came first, with Arthur, seven, trying to keep up with his older sisters' pace, and Amber, the youngest at five, in her mother's arms.

"Uncle Shane!" The four of them exploded toward him with the intensity of a tsunami.

Shane groaned—a sound that was half amusement, half pure despair.

"Good lord!" He protected his immobilized foot with his hands while being suffocated by an avalanche of childish hugs. Little arms wrapped around his neck, his back, even his good leg.

"Careful!" Hayden laughed, approaching with his arm immobilized in a sling. "Uncle Shane is still sore from the game."

Shane managed to free one eye from the mass of hair and arms to see Hayden extending a hand to Kip.

"Hey, Kip."

"Hayden." The two exchanged a firm handshake.

"Jackie," Kip greeted the blonde, who smiled politely while balancing Amber on her hip.

"Hi, Kip." Jackie's eyes flew to the rink. "Oh my god! Is that your son there in Scott's arms?!"

Kip puffed out his chest with pride, even as he tried to hide it.

"He sure is."

Out on the ice, Scott divided his attention between the camp kids and his own son, whom he held in one arm while demonstrating a move with his stick with the other. Rhys laughed, completely enchanted with his dad.

"I refuse to admit that he has a favorite dad," Kip muttered, but the smile betrayed that he already knew the answer.

"Ha, you might as well get used to it," Hayden said, and then turned to his kids, who had finally let go of Shane. "Daddy or Mommy?"

"Mommy!" All four replied in unison, without hesitating for a single second.

Hayden pointed at them with a deadpan smile, a resigned gesture, and faced Kip.

"I prefer Jackie too," Shane commented with a light laugh.

Hayden put a hand to his chest, feigning offense.

"How's your arm?"

"Broken," Hayden answered simply. "Your leg?"

"Fractured." Shane shook his head, the two exchanging a look that was simultaneously complicit and pained.

"Uncle Ilya!" The twins spotted the Russian coming out of the locker room and ran toward him with the same intensity as before.

Ilya opened his arms, a genuine smile lighting up his face, and received both in a tight hug that made them squeal with joy.

Hayden watched the scene for a moment. Then he turned to Shane, his expression changing.

"Hey, man..." he began, his voice hesitant. "We didn't mean... to play dirty like that."

Shane's gaze hardened instantly.

Jackie felt the shift in the air before a single word was exchanged.

"Okay," she intervened, with the smoothness of someone who had years of practice defusing tense situations, "why don't we go with Uncle Kip and find some candy to eat?"

Kip stood up immediately, getting the message.

"Excellent idea, Jackie."

The curly-haired man hurried off with Jackie and the kids, who were already excited at the prospect of sugar. Hayden felt the weight of the silence left behind.

Shane crossed his arms.

Hayden sighed deeply, the sound coming from somewhere very deep down.

"You're my best friend, man," he began, his voice lower. "You're my kids' favorite uncle. And Jackie and I both have siblings"—a humorless smile—"which pisses them off."

Shane showed no reaction.

"I felt horrible having to play like that," Hayden confessed.

"Did someone force you?" Shane's question was harsh, cutting. "I didn't see any gun to your head making you start playing dirty in the middle of the game, Hayd."

Hayden swallowed hard.

"Nobody had a knife to JJ's throat, forcing him to throw me from six feet in the air," Shane continued, his voice rising. "The girls were watching. They saw me fall. They saw the blood on the ice. They saw me get carried off by the medic and Ilya."

The mention of the girls was a low blow—and Shane knew it.

"They lost their parents to a horrific car crash." His voice cracked slightly. "Did you not consider that tossing their adoptive father through the air like that could be damaging?"

"JJ felt terrible, Shane..."

"I haven't gotten an apology from him yet." Shane slammed his hand against the armrest of the chair, the sound echoing down the hall. "You guys were horrible friends to me."

Hayden felt that sentence to the depths of his soul.

His breathing grew shaky. Tears sprang to his eyes, betraying any attempt to maintain composure. Because Shane was right. More than right.

"And I defended you guys," Shane continued, his voice lower now, but still heavy with hurt. "Every time Ilya, my parents, anyone said something bad, I defended you. I made excuses."

A pause.

"But after the finals?" Shane glared at him. "After seeing you guys break Troy's wrist, throw Bood into the boards, toss Ilya across the ice?" He shook his head. "I'm done."

Hayden felt the tears fall.

"And I don't even care about my injuries," Shane admitted, his voice softer now, but no less firm. "I don't care. I'll get out of the way." He pointed to his own chest. "But the hit in the first period on Ilya? The punch in the final period?" Shane's eyes burned. "That I don't forgive. He is the limit."

Hayden choked back a sob.

"And you're his," he said, his voice breaking. "JJ's jaw can attest to that."

Shane didn't answer.

"You're right," Hayden admitted, a tear dripping from his chin. "I've been terrible. Since forever." Another tear. "Especially because of Ilya."

The Russian's name hung in the air.

"I know he's a good guy," Hayden continued. "And he makes a point of proving me wrong every game." A sad smile. "JJ barely had time to turn around and the Russian was already on top of him."

"He loves me," Shane said simply.

"I know." Hayden sighed slowly, a heavy sound. "One of the few things we have in common."

Shane pressed his lips together. He felt a traitorous tear of his own escape.

The silence stretched between them, dense, thick with years of friendship, hurts, and love.

"I don't even know how many chances you've given me," Hayden murmured, "but... can I ask for one more?"

Shane stared at him.

"Just one more?"

Silence returned.

"If you screw everything up again," Shane finally spoke, his voice a warning, "I'm only talking to Jackie. And forgetting you exist."

Hayden nodded quickly, relieved.

Shane held out his hand.

Hayden slapped his palm against his, in a gesture that was both a handshake and a promise.

Then Shane stood up, hopping on his good foot, and opened his arms.

"Come here, you idiot."

Hayden laughed—a tearful, relieved, grateful sound—and stood up, hugging Shane with his good arm with all the strength he had.

"I'm so sorry, truly, Shane..."

Shane pulled his friend tight to his chest, feeling the sobs shaking his body.

"I know."

Down at the rink, Ilya watched the scene from afar, the twins still around him. His eyes met Shane's for a moment—a silent question.

Shane nodded, almost imperceptibly. The Russian just stared for a few more seconds and nodded back.

[...]

"And our record holder of the day..." Scott built suspense worthy of an awards show host, his eyes scanning the row of exhausted kids sitting at the cafeteria tables.

They had showered, changed clothes, and now were only thinking about dinner and sleep. But the anticipation in the air was palpable.

"Raiya Rozanova!"

The girl jumped from her chair as if she'd been launched by a slingshot. A squeal of joy escaped her throat, and the entire cafeteria erupted in applause—kids, counselors, and especially Shane and Ilya, sitting near Yuna and Danika.

Danika, oblivious to the commotion, was already starting to eat her plate of vegetables that Yuna had brought cooked and prepared from home—the right texture, the right temperature, everything right so she could just simply exist without worrying.

"And we know," Bood and Luca stood up from the benches, exchanging knowing looks, "that no one here has numbers on their jerseys, yet."

Bood pointed at the girl.

"But Raiya is already part of the school team. So she gets to pick a number." A smile. "And put the 00 aside, right?"

Ilya and Shane exchanged a quick look. They noticed some plastic hidden behind Luca's back—the unmistakable colors of Raiya's school team.

"That's right!" Raiya ran toward her uncles' teammates, her eyes shining. "Is my jersey ready?"

"Show 'em how it's done," Luca handed her the package, a huge smile on his face, "Miss thirteen-goals-in-one-practice."

Raiya tore off the tape with an urgency only kids understand, her hands trembling with excitement.

Shane leaned in to Ilya, his voice a whisper.

"I didn't know she had already requested a jersey number." He frowned. "I'm pretty sure that requires a guardian's signature."

Yuna heard.

"I signed it," she said simply. "But I thought she had told you guys."

The couple turned slowly toward their mother-in-law. They shook their heads in perfect synchrony.

Yuna scratched the back of her neck, a rare gesture of embarrassment.

"Ah..."

Before they could process it, Raiya unfolded the jersey.

The whole cafeteria seemed to hold its breath.

Ilya felt his legs go weak. If he hadn't already been sitting, he certainly would have needed to sit down.

"Jersey number 18!" Bood, Luca, and Scott cheered in unison.

And then all three looked in Ilya's direction.

The Russian's chin trembled.

His eyes—those blue eyes that had seen so much, that had already cried from losses and shone from victories—began to well up.

Raiya ran.

Before a word could be spoken, she was in his arms. Her little arms wrapped around his neck in a long, tight hug that squeezed the tears right out of Ilya's eyes.

He cried.

Shamelessly, uncontrollably, he cried, holding his niece—his daughter—against his chest.

"Ty navsegda ostanesh'sya moim lyubimym khokkeistom, dyadya Il'ya," she murmured, her voice muffled by his shoulder. (You will forever be my favorite hockey player, Uncle Ilya.)

Ilya laughed—a wet, trembling, perfect sound—and held her even tighter.

"Spasibo, dorogaya." His voice came out hoarse, broken. (Thank you, darling.)

Shane watched from the other side of the table, his eyes also glassy. Yuna held Danika's hand, who was looking at the scene with a small smile on her face.

Scott, Bood, and Luca exchanged satisfied looks.

The number 18 on the back of the jersey shone under the cafeteria lights. The reverse of Ilya's number and also the age he was when he left Russia, was brought to Boston with the promise of a bright future that he had indeed achieved. Now, fourteen years later, in Ottawa, his legacy shone in front of him in a way he never expected to happen.

[...]