Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Leah Campbell, Zane Boodram, Wyatt Hayes, J. J. Boiziau

Additional Tags:

5+1 Things, technically 4+1, Domestic Fluff, Secret Relationship, Light Angst, Canon Compliant, Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Established Relationship, POV Outsider

Language:

English

Collections:

so obsessed i might actually watch hockey

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-05 Words: 4,638 Chapters: 1/1

Missed It

Summary

Four times their friends miss what’s right in front of them. One time the people who matter celebrate it.

Featuring: a maple bacon donut, a phone call about superheroes, a Russian pet name, men's deodorant, and a photo album.

Notes

Another fic that got brainstormed in discord. I have no notes on where/who some of this came from, so just a general thank you to the entire Hockey Gays discord - ya'll rock 🖤🏒

The POVs alternate between Shane & Ilya only. The title of each section is the person that is oblivious.

This takes place during The Long Game.

1. LEAH CAMPBELL

Game Changers camp reminds Shane of when hockey was simpler. Before rivalries mattered. Before anyone expected anything from him beyond showing up and trying hard. Back when he didn’t know if he was good yet, and that uncertainty still felt like freedom.

He understands now how much those years matter. How easily habits and confidence take root. He likes being here for that part of it, even if it’s louder and more chaotic than he remembers.

He’s wrestling a water cooler into place at one of the hydration stations when Max wanders over, coffee in hand. Leah’s with him, sunglasses on, arms folded, surveying the ice like she’s mapping weak points.

“Ready for day three?” Leah asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “This group’s definitely wilder than last year’s. I’m glad you’re both here, we needed more coaches to handle this.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Max says. “Already figuring out how to convince you to add a camp out our way next summer.”

“Let’s survive this year first,” Shane says.

Max laughs.

Ilya drifts over then, carrying a sleeve of paper cups and nothing else, and sets them down beside Shane’s cooler.

Shane stares at him. “I thought you were setting up the other hydration station.”

“I am,” Ilya says easily. “Cups for here. Cups for there.”

“Oh. Right,” Shane says. “Then I’ll just haul the other cooler myself.”

He shoves the cooler into place and turns toward the locker room—

“Hey, Ilya,” Max says, casual. “Question.”

“What’s up?” Ilya replies.

“What hotel did you book for next week?” Max asks.

Shane freezes with his back to them. He tells himself to keep moving. Not to turn around. Turning around will make it a thing.

He doesn’t move.

“Oh,” Ilya says lightly. “Shane is hosting me.”

Shane turns around before he can stop himself. “What?”

He flinches as soon as he hears himself, it’s too fast, too sharp. But it’s too late.

Ilya grins. “Yes. Will convince you.”

“Good luck with that,” Leah says with a laugh.

Ilya, predictably, continues. “I am charming. Eventually he will cave. Everyone does.”

“Hey,” Shane says, too quickly. “You’re not doing a great job convincing me if you’re not actually setting anything up.”

Ilya meets his eyes, smiling, and begins placing the cups down one by one. It’s painfully slow.

Shane rolls his eyes.

“I am excellent house guest,” Ilya says. “I cook. I make your terrible smoothies. I make good dinners.”

Wyatt, who Shane hadn’t noticed drifting over, lights up. “Wait—how many guest rooms do you have? I haven’t booked a hotel either.”

Shane chokes. Not dramatically, but enough that Leah’s head snaps toward him.

“I—what?” Shane manages.

Wyatt grins, earnest as ever. “Montreal. If you’re hosting. I can sleep on the couch.”

Ilya looks delighted. “See? Party at Shane’s house.”

“No,” Shane says immediately. “I mean, my mom’s staying with us—with me. In Montreal.”

He feels the panic before he sees it reflected anywhere else. He risks a glance at Ilya.

“Ah yes,” Ilya says solemnly. “Very exciting business meetings every night.” He yawns theatrically. “You’d be bored, Hazey. But maybe Shane will host all coaches after the last day of camp?”

“Uh,” Shane says. “Yeah. Sure. We could do that.”

“Good,” Ilya says, clapping his hands. “Now why is everyone standing around letting Shane do all the work?”

That breaks it. Laughter. Movement. The group disperses toward offices and supply rooms.

Ilya follows Shane into the locker room while the others peel off.

“Fuck,” Shane mutters as soon as the door closes.

“It’s okay,” Ilya says quietly, his hand landing on Shane’s shoulder.

The contact steadies him for half a second. That’s the problem.

Shane turns, gently but firmly removing Ilya’s hand. “It’s not okay. We talked about this. We have to be careful.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “No touching. No looking. No flirting. No fun.”

“I’m going to help Wyatt,” Shane says, already backing away. “You deal with the water cooler.”

He leaves before Ilya can say anything else.

- - -

The next morning, Shane is mid-sentence with the coaches when he notices his mom coming through the doors.

Yuna has a box in one hand and a paper bag in the other. She waits until Shane finishes, then sets the box down on a table without ceremony and steps around it, angling left, toward Ilya.

Yuna hands Ilya the bag.

Ilya lights up. Actually lights up.

“Maple bacon?” he says, delighted. 

He pulls the donut free and takes an immediate bite, entirely unconcerned with the room. 

“Yes. Am favorite son,” He mumbles with his mouth full.

Shane inhales sharply.

Across the space, Ryan meets his eyes and just as quickly looks away, busying himself with absolutely nothing.

Yuna leans in and says something under her breath, too quiet for most of the room. “It was the last one.”

Shane clears his throat. “Uh—my mom brought Maverick’s donuts. Help yourselves.”

The box is opened immediately. Coaches crowd in. The moment fractures.

Leah doesn’t move with everyone else. She’s not staring, just watching in a way that makes Shane feel measured. Her gaze flicks from Ilya, to the bag, to Yuna, and then settles on Shane.

Shane turns away to see Ilya reaching into the box with everyone else, still smiling with half a donut in one hand.

“Hey,” Shane says when Yuna comes back toward him. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” she says. “Everyone’s been working hard.”

He nods.

“Oh,” Yuna adds, as if remembering. “I also restocked the mini-fridge. Those protein shakes you don’t hate. And the smoothies.” Shane goes to open his mouth, but she adds, “The ones with less sugar.”

Shane closes his mouth.

“Thank you,” he says.

Yuna smiles, pats his arm once, and moves on.

Behind him, the room hums with voices and sugar and laughter.

2. WYATT HAYES

Ilya’s stretched out on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen while Shane makes too much noise in the kitchen.

“Shane,” Ilya calls. “You can clean tomorrow.”

“I like doing it now,” Shane calls back.

“I leave early,” Ilya says. “You need to spend time with your hot boyfriend.”

There’s a pause. Then the sound of the faucet turning off.

“I’m almost done,” Shane says.

Ilya smiles and doesn’t argue.

His phone buzzes.

INCOMING CALL
WYATT HAYES

“Did you know,” Wyatt says as soon as Ilya accepts the call, “that technically Batman is not a superhero because he doesn’t have powers?”

Ilya snorts. “This is very interesting.”

“And,” Wyatt continues, undeterred, “that if you really think about it, money is his power, which makes him more terrifying than Superman.”

“Why are you calling me?” Ilya asks.

“Huh?” Wyatt says. “Oh, camp question.”

“Camp?” Ilya says. “We just finished camp a month ago.”

“Next summer,” Wyatt says. “Lisa wants to actually go away one of the weeks. Like, away-away. So I was thinking I’d only coach Ottawa week. Not Montreal.”

“Okay,” Ilya says.

There’s a pause.

“Okay?” Wyatt repeats.

“Yes,” Ilya says again. “That is fine.”

Another pause.

“Don’t you need to check with Shane?” Wyatt asks, uncertainty clear.

Ilya opens his mouth, then stops.

“Oh,” he says. “One second.”

He mutes the phone and tilts his head toward the kitchen.

“Shane,” he calls. “Wyatt only wants to coach Ottawa week next summer.”

There’s a brief clatter, then Shane’s voice, easy and unthinking.

“That’s fine.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, already unmuting the call. “Yes. Shane agrees. Book vacation.”

Silence.

“…Is Shane with you?” Wyatt asks.

“Yes,” Ilya says.

“With you?” Wyatt clarifies, slow.

Ilya exhales through his nose, understanding hitting him. “No. We are texting.”

“Oh,” Wyatt says slowly. “Okay.”

The silence stretches just long enough that Ilya expects a comment. It doesn’t come.

“Well,” Wyatt barrels on, “it’s supposed to be warm tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Ilya says. “See you at practice.”

He sets the phone down and stares at it for a moment longer than necessary.

That had been close.

Closer than he meant it to be. Or maybe exactly as close as he meant.

Wyatt hadn’t pushed, he never does. He had just… moved on. Ilya knows he probably filed the information away in his goalie brain. Ilya can picture it easily, the way Wyatt’s mind works—curious, open, generous with explanations that make the world simpler instead of harder.

It would be easy, he thinks. To let someone like that know. Someone who would nod and say okay and not make it heavy.

Ilya exhales and lets the thought go.

Shane doesn’t need to hear how close that was. Shane doesn’t need another reason to tighten himself into knots.

From the kitchen, Shane’s voice drifts in. “Everything good?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Wyatt is going on vacation.”

“Good for him,” Shane replies.

Ilya leans back into the couch, eyes on the ceiling.

Maybe he’s careless on purpose sometimes. Maybe he wants someone to see.

3. JJ BOIZIAU

Warmups blur into ritual: the same loops, the same stretches, the same practiced indifference while everyone secretly clocks one another. Shane’s head is down and his is pace steady, because that’s the job tonight. Play hard against the Centaurs.

And then go home and end up in Ilya’s bed.

He’s cutting toward the center when Ilya comes in close on the other side of center and slows down.

He’s too close when he stops.

In a normal voice, not his loud, performative chirping one, Ilya says, “krasívaya vílka.”

Heat floods Shane’s face.

“Fuck off,” he mutters, half-hearted and automatic.

Ilya laughs under his breath and skates away like nothing happened.

Shane watches him go for a beat too long.

When he looks back, JJ is staring at him. 

“What the hell was that?” JJ asks.

“What was what?” Shane says, already moving again, already pretending this is nothing.

“The game hasn’t even started,” JJ snaps. “And he’s chirping you in fucking Russian.”

Shane keeps his eyes forward as he and JJ skate around together. “It’s fine.”

“That didn’t sound fine,” JJ says. “His voice was all serious. That sounded like a threat.”

JJ stops skating. 

Shane feels it, the way attention sharpens when someone plants their edges like that.

Shane hesitates, but stops next to him.

JJ’s mouth twists. “If he’s fucking threatening you, or calling you some homophobic shit… Just because it’s in another language… I swear to God I’ll drop him like a fucking puck.”

“No,” Shane says quickly. “Don’t. It wasn’t like that.”

JJ finally looks at him. Really looks.

“How do you know?” JJ demands. “You don’t know what he said.”

Shane opens his mouth.

Closes it.

“It was—” He clears his throat. “It was nothing. Just… stupid.”

JJ narrows his eyes. “How would you know?”

Heat crawls up Shane’s neck. “I—I don’t, really. You just—I get the tone.”

“In Russian,” JJ says flatly.

“It wasn’t bad,” Shane says.

Hayden skates up before JJ can go any further. “What’s going on?”

JJ doesn’t look away from Shane. “Apparently Shane understands Russian tone now and won’t let me kick Rozanov’s ass.”

Hayden blinks. Then snorts. “What, JJ, you don’t get Russian tone?”

JJ’s eyes snap to Hayden. “Whatever. Let’s just beat these assholes.”

JJ mutters something under his breath and pushes off hard. Hayden stays with Shane for a second longer.

“You good?” Hayden asks.

Shane exhales. “Yeah.”

Hayden tilts his head. “Do I want to know?”

Shane flushes again. “Probably not. It’s not bad or anything. Just… dumb.”

Hayden rolls his eyes. After a second, he says softly, “You should tell JJ.”

Shane lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh yeah. I’ll get right on that. After he just threatened to beat up my boyfriend. Great plan, Hayd.”

Hayden huffs.

Shane looks away, focusing on his breathing until it steadies. He knows it’s fine. He’s making it bigger than it needs to be.

“Thanks for checking in,” he says, already skating toward the bench.

- - -

Shane lets himself into the house still wound tight, keys clattering louder than necessary as he drops his bag by the door.

“You were an idiot,” he says immediately.

“Hello to you too.” Ilya says amused, as he steps into the entryway a second later, Anya padding along at his heels.

“You called me a fork,” Shane says, crouching to pet her, pressing his face briefly into her fur like it might steady him.

“A pretty fork,” Ilya corrects with a grin.

Shane straightens and turns. Whatever expression he’d meant to wear doesn’t land. Ilya’s smile deepens instead of fading, slow and pleased, like he’s just confirmed something he already suspected.

“You did that on purpose,” Shane says.

“I love when you turn all red for me,” Ilya replies, his eyes slowly tracking down Shane’s body.

“JJ overheard,” Shane says, sharper now.

“So?” Ilya says. “JJ does not know Russian, yes?”

Shane exhales hard. “Right. So he guessed. And now he wants to kill you. He thinks you threatened me.”

Ilya’s eyes brighten. “How about you come here,” he says, “or I will actually threaten you.”

“Fuck, Ilya. This isn’t a joke.”

Ilya steps closer anyway. It’s not pushing or demanding, just closing the distance into something familiar.

Shane hates how strong his body’s response is. How everything in him still orients, still recognizes. Ilya’s gaze drops, just briefly, to Shane’s mouth before lifting again.

For a moment, the humor drains out of him. What’s left is quieter and wanting.

“I am sorry,” Ilya says at last. “I will be more boring next time we play. Okay?”

Shane scoffs. “If JJ ever actually checks you, I’m going to have to pretend to be surprised. Maybe even cheer.”

Ilya’s mouth curves. Something sharp and pleased flickers in his eyes. “I would like to see that.”

“You wouldn’t see it,” Shane snaps. “You’d be on the ground.”

He reaches out and grabs Ilya’s wrist. It’s not gentle, but it’s also not angry. Just anchoring himself to something solid.

“Don’t do this again,” he says.

Ilya sobers, just enough to make the promise feel real. “Okay.” Then, inevitably he adds, “Probably.”

Shane’s grip tightens.

Ilya leans in, close enough that Shane can feel his breath against his ear. 

“You are pretty,” Ilya says quietly. “Is not my fault.”

Shane lets out a breath that he tries to mask, but Ilya’s smirk makes it clear, he knows he’s won.

Shane pulls Ilya in by the wrist, because standing still pretending he has control over this is no longer an option, and if he’s going to stop overthinking, he needs to stop pretending he doesn’t want exactly what’s about to happen.

4. ZANE BOODRAM

The party is loud, but controlled. Nothing like the parties Ilya used to throw in Boston. Those had been chaotic by design. This one is almost family friendly in comparison.

He keeps moving, keeps checking in, keeps everyone occupied. He doesn’t let himself linger too long anywhere. He tries not to think about what’s missing, about how this was supposed to feel easier with people around, not harder.

Bood finds him near the kitchen island while Ilya is half-listening to someone dressed as a devil who is taking the costume far too seriously.

“Hey,” Bood says. “You got any ginger ale? Cassie’s not feeling great.”

Ilya smiles like a reflex. He feels an unexpected warmth in his core at the mention.

“Fridge,” he says. “If it is empty, more in garage.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Bood says, clapping him on the back. “I didn’t want to bail yet.”

Ilya nods and turns back to the devil, who’s asking something about tequila. As someone else edges in to ask about cups, a glass tips off the counter and shatters, followed by a chorus of apologies that overlap until no one knows who’s at fault.

He moves through it all automatically. Refilling drinks. Redirecting conversations. Laughing at the right moments, even when he doesn’t find the joke funny. It’s easier to keep his hands busy, easier to stay in motion than to stand still long enough to notice what’s missing.

The party holds together. Loud, but not out of control.

“Man,” Bood says later, back at the island. Ilya’s got a beer in his hand now, the condensation slick against his palm. “What’s with all the ginger ale? I thought you were a Coke guy.”

“Is party,” Ilya says, waving a hand.

“You’ve got, like, three times more ginger ale than anything else.”

Ilya shrugs. “Upset stomachs. Pregnant wives. Also party.”

Bood gives him a look. “And,” he adds, lowering his voice, “I was looking for crackers for Cassie and you’ve got a ton of health-nut stuff in your kitchen. You planning a lifestyle change?”

“I like to be prepared,” Ilya says. “Never know when I want to eat vegetable.”

Bood snorts. He takes another sip of his drink. “Anyway, there’s a rookie puking in the downstairs bathroom. Is there another one?”

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. “Upstairs,” he says. “Second door on right.”

Bood nods and disappears.

Ilya spots Luca drifting past and catches his sleeve. “Haas. One of you kids is puking?”

Luca blinks. “I don’t know. It’s not me.”

“Go check,” Ilya says. “You are supposed to stick together.”

Luca turns toward the hallway.

“Wait,” Ilya adds. He steps to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and presses it into Luca’s hands. “Here.”

Luca nods, wide-eyed, and heads down the hall.

A few minutes later, Bood is back, drink in hand, wearing the look he gets when he’s trying to say something serious without making it a thing.

“Dykstra was taking too long,” Bood says casually. “So I used the primary.”

Ilya nods. “Okay.”

Bood watches him carefully. “You’ve got two toothbrushes in there.”

“Yes.”

“And two different kinds of men’s deodorant.”

“You are welcome to one,” Ilya says. “If you forgot yours.”

“That’s not—” Bood stops, shakes his head. “What? No.”

Ilya laughs at the confusion on Bood’s face.

“Are you seeing someone?” Bood asks.

Ilya shrugs, he’s not in the mood to lie. He doesn’t really want to play games either.

“Well,” Bood says easily, “you know you could tell us. They’d be welcome.”

“Ah. Well,” Ilya shakes his head, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Is okay.”

Bood grins. “Alright. I’ll stop harassing you about your imaginary lover.”

Ilya almost chokes on his drink at the word. He wishes he could tell Shane without it causing a panic attack, instead he settles for letting himself smile at the inside joke.

Someone bumps into him, beer sloshing. He swears and steps back. “Shit. Sorry. I’ll grab paper towels.”

He’s gone before Ilya can respond.

Ilya stands there for a moment longer, then sets his beer down and heads upstairs.

The bedroom is quiet in a way the rest of the house isn’t. The noise dulls as soon as the door closes behind him, leaving the space feeling contained, almost careful. He takes it in without moving.

The laundry hamper is full. A familiar blue-and-red T-shirt peeks out from beneath a hoodie, no logo or lettering visible, nothing that would catch the eye unless you already knew what you were looking for.

Both nightstands are cluttered. Phone chargers on each side. A tablet and a scatter of small, items that might just be trash. A book on the other, arranged more neatly. Different habits, same routine. Both clearly used and lived in.

Ilya exhales slowly.

He turns and locks the bedroom door behind him as he leaves.

+1. JACKIE PIKE

Their wedding is unconventional. It’s loosely organized at best. The invitations were informal, and when people asked about gifts, they were directed to donate to the Irina Foundation instead.

Jackie Pike doesn’t listen.

Toward the end of the evening, after the sun has dipped fully below the horizon and the guests with pregnant dates and children at home begin to drift out, Jackie appears at Ilya’s side.

“Hey,” she says easily.

Ilya is standing behind Shane, arms wrapped around him, swaying slightly to the music. Shane is leaning back into him, carefree. When Jackie gestures, Shane steps forward out of Ilya’s hold, but his hand finds Ilya’s and stays there.

“Can I steal you two?” Jackie asks.

They follow her inside.

Just past the door, on the kitchen table, sits something large and rectangular, wrapped neatly with a bow on top.

“This is for both of you,” Jackie says. “I put it together, but a lot of people helped. I wouldn’t have been able to do it alone.”

Ilya reaches it first, sliding, what he realizes is a photo album, toward them. He pauses, then looks at Shane before opening it.

The first photo is from earlier this summer.

Yuna has taken to calling it their engagement photo, though it wasn’t taken for any specific purpose at all. They’re dressed up for the NHL Awards, the Vegas Strip glowing behind them as they stand on the hotel roof. After Ilya took a handful of selfies, Shane had dragged Hayden over to take proper photos of them, and then JJ had stolen the phone and done a much better job of it.

They aren’t looking at the camera. They’re looking at each other, open and unguarded, joy written plainly across both their faces.

Ilya feels it settle in his chest.

“We look good,” Ilya says, glancing at Shane.

Jackie smiles. “There’s a lot more. I’ll let you take your time.”

“Thank you, Jackie,” Shane says as she heads back outside.

Ilya takes the album and Shane’s hand, leading them into the living room. He sits first, leaning back against the arm of the couch, then pulls Shane down with him until Shane is seated between his legs, his back resting against Ilya’s chest.

Ilya settles the album in Shane’s lap, hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder and turns the page.

The next image is from their first joint CCM shoot, the official ad. They’re facing off, expressions serious, but the tell is in their eyes. If you know what to look for, you can see the laughter they’re holding back. Ilya thinks about the other photos from that day, the ones only the cottage has seen.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to Shane’s temple.

“That was a good day,” Shane says softly.

“The best,” Ilya replies.

The next page holds a screenshot from their onstage selfie during the NHL Awards presentation. Beneath it, someone has written:

Turns out love looks a lot like rivalry from the outside.

Ilya huffs a quiet laugh.

After that comes a collage of professional game shots. Faceoffs. Ilya shoving Shane into the boards where Shane is focused and intent while Ilya is smirking. The photos age them slowly, from nineteen-year-olds with rounder faces to men in their late twenties. Shane’s expression softens over time, the intensity easing into something lighter. One photo even catches him mid-smile. Ilya’s expressions shift too, from smirks to grins, all equally delighted.

“Am going to miss this,” Ilya says.

“What part?” Shane asks.

“Distracting you from winning faceoffs.”

“You distracted yourself half the time.”

Ilya traces his thumb along Shane’s cheek, over freckles he knows by memory now. “Maybe distracted by your freckles one or two times.”

“I’m sure you’ll still find a way to chirp me,” Shane says. “Even on the same team.”

“Never,” Ilya says solemnly.

Shane laughs.

The next two photos are from All-Stars weekends. They’re wearing the same jerseys, Es stitched to their chests. In the first, from 2017, Ilya is kissing Shane’s cheek mid-celebration.

“Fuck,” Shane whispers. “I was so scared. But god, playing with you was amazing.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Does not look quite like kissing Marleau.”

Shane tilts his head back and kisses him. “We look happy.”

“Very happy,” Ilya says. “Always.”

The second All-Stars photo, from 2021, is a candid. There’s a few feet of distance between them on the ice. Ilya is staring at Shane with playful irritation while Shane is looking the other way and grinning toward the bench.

Beneath it, a note:

Glad you’re on the same team now. Doesn’t change anything for me. See you on the ice. — Scott Hunter

Next comes a photo from the press conference announcing the Irina Foundation.

Below it:

Thank you for letting me be there with you. And I am still so sorry. — Hayden

Ilya lets out a deep breath, squeezes Shane’s waist, and turns the page.

Camp photos follow.

In more than a few, Ilya’s turned toward Shane without realizing it. His body angled wrong for the camera, attention clearly elsewhere. There’s a softness in his expression he doesn’t remember choosing, something unguarded that shows up again and again once he knows to look for it.

In others, it’s Shane. Watching Ilya with an intensity that has nothing to do with hockey. Like he’s already planning their future. He looks like he might be cataloging moments, not plays. Ilya remembers those days clearly. Both of them trying so hard to stay platonic, he didn’t realize just how much they failed.

Along the bottom margin, messages are tucked in wherever there’s space. Short notes. Inside jokes. Smudged handwriting.

JJ’s is loud even on paper. Leah’s neat and warm. Max’s earnest. Ryan’s brief, almost careful. Fabian’s looping and enthusiastic. 

The next spread makes Ilya squeal.

Two full pages of photos with the Pike kids. In the center, a picture of two plastic rings. Ilya recognizes it instantly from his own Instagram.

He squeezes Shane’s arms. “Are you sure you don’t want four?”

“Fuck no,” Shane laughs.

Crayon drawings and names surround the photos. Ruby. Jade. Arthur. Amber.

At the bottom:

You will always be their favorite uncles. Thank you for being part of our family. Love, Jackie.

“I didn’t realize they had all these,” Shane whispers, brushing his fingers over a photo of Ilya rocking baby Amber.

“I am glad they saved them,” Ilya says.

The next spread includes Yuna and David from Christmases over the years.

“I told them to delete these.” Shane protests.

“I am glad your parents do not listen,” Ilya says, kissing behind Shane’s ear. “Is good to have these.”

Shane exhales. “Yeah. It’s nice. But fuck. Between these and the ones with the Pikes, things could have gotten out so much sooner.”

Ilya tightens his arms around him, just enough to be grounding.

“But they did not,” he says, then presses a kiss lightly to Shane’s shoulder. “And we are here now. Same place we would have ended up anyway, yes?”

Shane breathes out, tension easing.

Notes from Yuna and David follow, a full page each, they’re tender enough that Ilya has to blink back the moisture gathering in his eyes.

The next pages are recent. Post-coming-out. Candids, mostly. People catching them when they weren’t paying attention.

Notes from most of the Centaurs players fill the margins.

In the corner of one page is a photo of two empty goal nets. Below it reads:

Every game needs two goals. You make more sense as part of the same rink. — Wyatt

Ilya snorts. “Fucking goalies. Can’t even follow instructions.”

“I think it’s supposed to be artistic?” Shane suggests.

“Maybe Luca can explain,” Ilya says, flipping the page.

The final photos all include Anya.

“My baby girl,” Ilya murmurs. “Moy khoroshiy shchenok.”

Moments later, “Chiron!” he says delightedly. There’s a photo of all four of them.

The note below reads:

From our furry family to yours. Love, Troy and Harris.

Ilya flips the page.

Blank pages.

He looks up, eyes bright.

“There is space,” he says.

“For what?” Shane asks, turning his head to look back at Ilya.

“There are a few missing, yes?” Ilya says. “And we will take many more now that we can.” He pauses, grinning. “And maybe some sexy ones too.”

Shane watches the way Ilya’s fingers rest on the page like it’s a promise. A promise of the future they deserve.