Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Original Character(s)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Harris Drover, Zane Boodram, Troy Barrett, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Chiron (Game Changers), Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

References to Depression, Fluff, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov's Montreal Jane, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Supportive Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Player Ilya Rozanov, Protective Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Good Parent Yuna Hollander, Protective Yuna Hollander, Supportive David Hollander and Yuna Hollander, POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Friends in Ottawa AU

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-04 Completed: 2026-06-12 Words: 32,571 Chapters: 16/16

Friends In Ottawa

Summary

Gabriella Marchaud runs the box office for the Ottawa Centaurs. She likes spreadsheets, quiet evenings, and the predictable rhythm of processing ticket requests. Then Ilya Rozanov, the team's enigmatic new captain, shows up in her doorway with a hypothetical question about sneaking a guest into the stadium undetected. She expects to never see him again. Instead, he keeps coming back. With questions about chosen family, logistics, and a sadness that looks a lot like her own.

or

Centaur's Box office Manager, Gabriella Marchaud just wanted to do her job. But Ilya Rozanov wants to sneak a friend into the stadium to watch him play. Neither expected to end up friends.

Notes

Slight Canon divergence from TLG.

Takes place in Ilya's first year in Ottawa. The Irina Foundation has not been announced yet. And Chiron is already Ilya's favourite thing about the team.

The rest is pretty much the same. Except, Ilya has a friend now.

Chapter 1: The Box Office

Chapter Notes

The Ottawa Centaurs' box office was a masterclass in controlled chaos. Gabriella Marchaud had learned this within her first week on the job: the phones rang constantly, emails piled up faster than she could answer them, and somewhere beneath the administrative avalanche was the actual work of making sure VIPs got their champagne and players' families got their seats.

Eight months in, she had systems. Spreadsheets with colour-coded tabs. Form letters saved as templates. A coffee mug that said "I survived event night" that she drank from every single morning.

What she did not have was a system for Russian hockey captains appearing in her doorway like lost puppies.

"Excuse me."

Gabriella looked up from her monitor. Standing in the frame of her open door was Ilya Rozanov, a six-foot-something wall of muscle with a scowling reputation, and he was currently shifting his weight from foot to foot like he was about to ask for directions to the bathroom.

She blinked. "Can I help you?"

He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. "You are the box office manager, yes?"

"That's what the sign says." She gestured to the plaque on her door: GABRIELLA MARCHAUD, BOX OFFICE MANAGER.

"Ilya Rozanov."

"I know who you are." She did. Everyone in Ottawa knew who he was, the controversial signing, the former Bear, the man the sports commentators couldn't stop talking about. "You usually handle ticket requests through the team portal. Or email. I believe Harris sent out a memo."

"Ah." He nodded slowly, still not leaving. "Yes. I received the memo."

"Then..."

"I have a question." He stepped fully into the office and closed the door behind him.

Gabriella's eyebrows rose. "Okay."

He didn't sit. Instead, he stood in front of her desk like he was about to be cross-examined, his massive hands gripping the back of the visitor chair. "Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically?"

"Hypothetically." His accent thickened on the word, stretching it into something almost musical. "How would one acquire a ticket for a guest without anyone knowing who they were?"

Gabriella set down her pen.

"And," Ilya continued, "where could this guest watch the match in peace? Without being noticed by... anyone."

She studied him for a long moment. His face was carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes, a flicker of something vulnerable, something that didn't match the reputation she'd read about online.

"Well," she said slowly, "hypothetically..."

He leaned forward.

"There's an unused press box on the east side of the stadium. It has a private entrance from the concourse, separate from the main flow. We don't use it for media anymore because the sightline isn't quite centred, but for watching a game? It's fine." She pulled up a seating chart on her computer. "And if your guest entered through the loading dock entrance between periods one and two, and left the same way, there wouldn't be any record of them coming through the main gates. No ticket scan. No name on a list."

Ilya's eyes widened slightly. "You could arrange this?"

"I could arrange many things." She turned the screen toward him. "That's my job. Making problems disappear so rich people can watch hockey in comfort."

He stared at the screen, then at her. A slow smile spread across his face, not the cocky grin from his press photos, but something smaller. More real.

"I like you," he said.

"That's nice. I still need you to fill out form 34-B for any official ticket allocation changes."

He laughed, a surprised sound, like he hadn't meant to let it out. "Form 34-B."

"It's a very important form."

"I will fill out your very important form." He finally sat down, the chair groaning under his weight. "But first... the press box. It is secure? Private?"

"Completely. No cameras. No staff access except maintenance, and I can schedule that for a different day."

"And the entrance?"

"The loading dock has a security guard, but he's usually playing solitaire on his phone by the second period. I can make sure he has a reason to be elsewhere."

Ilya frowned, thinking it through. "How would the guest know where to go? How would they avoid being seen while navigating all of this?"

"I would give you a very detailed map and instructions before the event," she said. "Step by step. Timed to avoid any staff movement. I would account for every eventuality."

He studied her for a long moment, assessing, she realised. Deciding whether to trust her.

Then he nodded slowly, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across her desk.

"These are the dates."

Gabriella unfolded it. Six home games, neatly circled in blue ink. "You've been planning this."

"I have been... considering options."

"Right." She tucked the paper into her drawer. "I'll get you the details forty-eight hours before each game, maps, timing, everything your guest will need to move through the building undetected." She paused. "But I will need to know who the guest is. For security purposes. I cannot clear a path for someone I don't know."

He hesitated. Just a fraction of a second, but she caught it.

"For the record," she said, "I am very good at discretion. It's sort of my whole thing."

"Your whole thing."

"Seventy percent of my job is keeping secrets for people who would be embarrassed if those secrets got out." She shrugged. "Celebrities sneaking in mistresses. CEOs bringing their kids instead of their wives. Sponsors wanting better seats than the people sitting next to them." She met his eyes. "I don't care what the secret is. I only care that it stays secret."

Ilya held her gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded.

"The guest," he said quietly, "is named Jane."

"Jane," she repeated, making a note. "Okay."

"And Jane is... very important to me."

"Understood."

"That is all you need to know."

"That's all I want to know." She pulled out a fresh form from her drawer, a generic internal request form, the kind that left no trace in the official system and slid it toward him. "Fill this out. Use a pseudonym if you want. I'll handle the rest."

He looked at the form, then back at her. "You are not curious?"

"I'm curious about a lot of things." She picked up her pen again. "But I'm also paid to ignore that curiosity."

Ilya signed the form with a flourish. When he stood up, he was almost at the door before he turned back.

"Gabriella."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

She nodded once. "Go fill out form 34-B. The team portal. It's not hard."

He laughed again, that same surprised sound, and disappeared down the hallway.

+++

A week before the first match, Ilya appeared in her doorway again, but this time before the admin building had fully woken up. He was wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low, like he was trying not to be recognized.

"Walk me through it," he said. "The route. I need to see it."

Gabriella grabbed her keys and a clipboard. Props, mostly, in case anyone asked what they were doing and led him out of her office.

They wound through the back hallways of the stadium, past storage closets and electrical rooms and the sad break room with the flickering fluorescent light. Gabriella pointed out every camera, every security checkpoint, every spot where a guard might be stationed during game hours.

"The loading dock entrance is here," she said, pushing open a heavy metal door. "Your guest will enter between periods one and two. I'll have the security guard reassigned to a different post for those fifteen minutes. Probably inventory check in the basement, something boring that keeps him occupied. It won't raise any suspicion."

"You can just reassign a guard?"

"I can do a lot of things." She glanced at him. "If it's Fred on shift, he usually goes to the basement anyway to eat his sandwich and play solitaire. Either way, I'll make sure the path is clear."

Ilya shook his head, but he was smiling. "You know his sandwich schedule?"

"I know everything."

Ilya shook his head, but he was smiling.

They climbed a narrow stairwell. Staff only, no cameras, and emerged in the east wing press box. It was dusty, the chairs draped in canvas covers, but the view was spectacular. Ilya walked to the glass and looked out over the ice.

"No one would see them here," he said. It wasn't a question.

"No one would even know they were in the building."

He turned in a slow circle, taking in the sight lines, the privacy, the quiet. "It is perfect."

"I know."

He looked at her then, not with the guarded suspicion he'd worn in her office weeks ago, but with something softer. Grateful.

"Thank you, Gabriella."

She shrugged, tucking her clipboard under her arm.

He smiled at her. "Walk me back? I have no idea how to get back to the locker room from here."

She laughed. "This way, captain."

Chapter End Notes

This story came from a weird hung over lucid dream I had. It came to me almost like a movie, a complete story, even the conclusion was fully formed. I hope I have done it justice to translate to the page.

It is my first ever fiction - I really should have been working on my actual non-fiction book - but this story took over my brain. So here it is.

Enjoy the ride.

Chapter 2: Flower Deliveries

Chapter Summary

Ilya has a new request...

The first game went off without a hitch.

Gabriella had coordinated everything from her office: the loading dock guard reassigned to "inventory check" in the basement, the east press box unlocked and stocked with water bottles and notepads she'd swiped from the media centre, the hallway cameras looped to show empty corridors for exactly the twelve minutes it would take Jane to enter and exit.

She didn't see Ilya at all that night. Didn't see Jane either. That was the point.

But the next morning, a delivery arrived at her desk.

Flowers. Pink carnations, twelve of them, arranged in a simple glass vase. The card read:
For services above and beyond. Thank you. —C

She stared at the C for a long moment.

The team had two captains. Well, one captain and one alternate who everyone called captain anyway. But only one of them had shown up in her office asking about hypotheticals.

"Gabi!"

She looked up. Harris Drover, the team's Social Media Manager was leaning in her doorway, holding a pastry box and grinning.

"Those are nice," he said, nodding at the carnations. "Someone important thank you for something important?"

"They're from a vendor," she said, tucking the card into her drawer. "And my name is Gabriella."

"Sorry, sorry." He held up his hands. "Gabriella. Got it. You want a croissant? I stole them from the executive lounge."

"I'm not supposed to eat in here."

"Live dangerously."

She took the croissant.

+++

Ilya showed up again three weeks later.

This time, he didn't hover in the doorway. He walked straight in, closed the door, and sat down in the visitor chair like he belonged there.

"The press box worked well," he said.

"I know. No one saw anything."

"The guest was very... comfortable."

"That's the idea."

He nodded, drumming his fingers on his thigh. Then: "I have another question."

"Okay, shoot."

"Family tickets." He said the words like they were foreign. "How do they work?"

Gabriella studied him for a moment, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands gripped the arms of the chair. "For players' families? There's an allocation process. You submit names, we verify relationships, they get tickets in the family section."

"And if the family is not... blood?"

"That depends. Adopted family? Fiancé's family? We have different categories."

Ilya's jaw tightened. "What category is for people who are not blood but who... treat you like family anyway?"

She considered him. He looked tense, more tense than she'd seen him before, which was saying something given how tightly wound he'd seemed during their first meeting.

"That would be 'chosen family,'" she said carefully. "We process those on a case-by-case basis. Usually requires a conversation with management."

"I do not want to have a conversation with management."

"I gathered that."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "There are people. In Ottawa. They have... adopted me. Semi-adopted." He made a face like the word tasted strange. "They want to come to matches and support me. But if management knows who they are, it becomes... complicated."

"Why would management care about your guests?" She stopped mid-thought. "Ah. Because they're connected to another team."

His head snapped up.

Gabriella frowned, thinking it through. "Let me guess they're from Ottawa. They live here. But they can't be seen at Centaurs games. That means their faces are recognizable. Which means they're connected to someone the public knows." She tilted her head. "Someone who plays or works for another team. People whose presence at a Centaurs game cheering for you would turn into a headline." She paused. "Am I close?"

Ilya stared at her for a long, unnerving moment. "How do you do that?" he asked quietly.

"Seventy percent of my job," she said. "Secrets."

He was thoughtful for a moment. Then: "Yuna and David," he said quietly. "They are... the people."

Gabriella nodded, making a mental note of the names. "And Yuna and David are connected to..."

"The Montreal Voyageurs." He said it sheepishly, like a confession.

"Ah." She leaned back in her chair. "Okay. We have options."

"We do?"

"Yes. Option one: we put them on the books under an alias. Different name, different address, no connection to you or to Montreal. They sit in the family section, no one questions it, life goes on."

"And option two?"

"Option two: we keep them off the books entirely. They're not in the system, they don't have tickets assigned to their names, they just... show up. I put them in a box that doesn't exist on any official map, and no one ever knows they were here."

Ilya considered both options. "And which do you recommend?"

"That depends." She leaned forward. "Do you want them to keep coming regularly? Because if this is a one-time thing, option two is cleaner. But if they're going to be here all season, coming to games that don't clash with Montreal..." she paused at the flicker of something in his eyes, "...then maybe you should just be open about it."

"Open."

"Put them on the books. Let them sit in the family section. Let people see them." She spread her hands. "By the time this team has a full stadium and a cup run, no one will care that people connected to a rival team are sitting in the stands. It won't be a story anymore. It'll just be Ottawa pride. It'll just be family."

Ilya was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded slowly. "I will think about it."

He sat there for a moment, staring at the seating chart. When he spoke again, his voice was softer almost vulnerable.

"If we do this I would like to collect the tickets," he admitted. "Hand them over myself so there is no trail. And so I can see them smile when I give them."

Gabriella felt something twist in her chest. "That's very sweet."

"It is practical." But his ears were pink.

"Of course."

He stood up, then paused, his thoughts clearly somewhere else now. "If it helps to know, I started a charity," he said, as if they'd been talking about it all along. "With Yuna and David and... Shane Hollander." He looked at her intently, like he was seeing her for the first time.

She considered this. "That does help if you decide to make it official. Not just family connections, but business partners too. It gives them a legitimate reason to be seen with you." She paused. "What kind of charity is it?"

"For mental health. For young athletes." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Hockey players, especially. We are supposed to be tough. We are not supposed to struggle, but we do. So many of us do and no one talks about it." He paused. "I want to change that. A place where people can go to get help without feeling like they are weak. Where they can talk to someone who understands."

Gabriella was quiet for a moment, letting his words settle. "That's really important," she said softly. "That's the kind of thing that could help a lot of people."

He nodded. "It is the only thing I have ever done that matters more than hockey."

She looked into his eyes and saw something she hadn't noticed before. Not the famous hockey player. Not the captain. Just a man trying to make something good in a world that hadn't given him much kindness.

"Now I think you know more about my connections in Ottawa than anyone else in this organisation," he said. "Maybe more than the GM." He paused, considering his own words. "More than anyone anywhere, I think."

"That's a lot of trust to put in a box office manager."

He shook his head. "You are not just a box office manager." He said it simply. "I looked up that word you used last time. Discretion. You have it. You listen. You do not ask unnecessary questions." A small smile tugged at his lips. "You are discrete. I appreciate it."

Then he turned and walked out, leaving Gabriella staring at the empty doorway.

She looked down at her desk and the empty vase on her filing cabinet. The one that had held the carnations he sent after that first game. She had kept it without even realising.

"Discretion," she repeated to herself, like a promise.

Then she went back to her spreadsheets.

+++

The next morning, Ilya appeared in her doorway again before she'd even finished her first cup of coffee.

"You're here early," she said, not looking up from her monitor.

"I could not sleep."

"Thinking about Yuna and David?"

He crossed the room and sat down in the visitor chair, pulling out a folded stadium map from his jacket pocket. He spread it across her desk, smoothing out the creases with his palm.

"I have been looking at this all night," he said. "The family section is here..." he pointed, "...but it is too open. There would be too many people and too many questions."

"So don't put them in the family section."

"Then where?"

Gabriella set down her coffee and leaned over the map. She traced her finger along the east side of the stadium.

"There's a small section here. Section 112. It's technically part of the family section, but it's separated by a partition. Mostly it's used for players' extended family, cousins, grandparents, people who don't want to be on camera." She tapped the spot. "It has its own entrance, its own concourse access, and it's close to the tunnel where players come out after the game."

Ilya leaned closer, studying the map. "And no one would notice them?"

"People would notice them. But they would not really notice them, if you know what I mean. They would look like family, because they are family. Just not the kind that shares a last name or sits in the main section."

He looked thoughtful. Then: "I think Yuna would like that. Being close to the tunnel. She likes to wave at me after games."

Gabriella smiled. "I figured." She glanced at him. "And David, what would he like?"

Ilya considered this. "David likes quiet. He does not like the screaming crowds too much."

"Then he'll like Section 112. It's calmer than the main family section. Less chaos and noise." She paused. "He'll actually be able to watch the game instead of watching the people around him."

Ilya looked up at her, something soft in his expression. "How do you know all this?"

"I pay attention." She shrugged. "It's my job to know where people will be comfortable. Where they'll feel safe. Where they'll actually enjoy the game instead of just enduring it."

"You are very good at your job."

"Seventy percent of it."

He snorted. "Yes, yes. Secrets." He folded the map back up, but he didn't put it away. Instead, he held it in his lap, his thumb tracing the edge.

"There is something else," he said.

"I figured."

"I want them to have real tickets. Not the ones that say 'guest' or 'family of player.' Real tickets with their names on them."

"That's a risk."

"I know." He met her eyes. "But you said, if I want them to keep coming, if I want them to be part of this... then I should stop hiding them."

"I did say that."

"You were right."

She blinked and decided to joke with him. "I'm sorry, can you say that again? I want to record it."

To her relief he laughed. "Do not push your luck, box office manager," he retorted

"I'm just saying. 'Ilya Rozanov admitted someone else was right' is a headline I'd like to see."

"I will never admit it again. So enjoy it now."

She grinned. "Noted."

He stood up, tucking the map back into his jacket. "Section 112. Real tickets. Their names."

"I'll make it happen." She paused, tapping her pen against her notebook. "Do you want me to run it past management? Or do you still want to keep it semi-secret?"

Ilya hesitated. His hand hovered over the pocket where he'd tucked the map.

"What would you do?" he asked.

"If it were me?" She considered it. "I'd start with semi-secret. Put them in the system under their real names, but don't advertise it. Let them come to a few games and see how it feels. If anyone in management asks, you can say they're family friends. Which is true."

Ilya was quiet for a moment, processing. "You have thought about this."

"I think about a lot of things."

"Clearly." He nodded slowly. "Okay. Semi-secret. For now."

"I'll handle the paperwork."

"And the tickets? You will make sure they are real? With their names?"

"I'll hand them to you myself," she said. "So you can see them smile."

Something flickered across his face, gratitude, maybe, or surprise. "You remembered."

"I pay attention," she said again.

"Thank you. For paying attention and for not making this weird."

"It's my superpower."

He tilted his head. "Making things not weird?"

"Listening and discretion." She picked up her coffee. "The not-weird thing is just a bonus."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Your number. I should have it. In case I have questions."

She looked at him for a moment. Then she opened her drawer and pulled out a cream-coloured card, thick paper, her personal information printed in simple black font. Her cell number. Her personal email. The one she gave to friends and family, not to clients.

She slid it across the desk.

"For when you need to talk," she said. "Box office questions. Or just to chat."

Ilya stared at the card. Then at her.

"You are giving me your personal number."

"I suppose I am."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I think you'll need it. Also, you keep showing up with questions. It seemed like the next logical step, maybe save you a long walk across the arena."

He was quiet for a moment, turning the card over in his fingers. Then he looked up at her.

"Are we friends?"

She met his eyes. "I think we could be, if that's something you would like."

He nodded slowly, as if testing the idea. Then he tucked the card into his pocket.

"I have never had a friend who works in a box office before."

"First time for everything."

He smiled, that small real smile. "First time for everything."

Then he held up his phone again. "Okay, you give me your number properly. In case I lose your card."

She recited it. He typed it in, saved the contact, and sent a quick text.

Her phone beeped.

He grinned. "In case you need anything. Box office questions. If I mess up the forms on the portal." A pause. "Or to talk."

She looked at the message. A simple Hello from Ilya followed by an emoji of a hockey puck.

She laughed despite herself. "Did you just text me a hockey puck?"

"It is appropriate. I'm a hockey player."

"You're strange."

"I am charming."

"You're strange," she repeated, but she was smiling. "Charmingly strange, maybe."

"I will take it." Then he was gone.

Gabriella looked at her phone. The hockey puck stared back at her. She saved his contact as Ilya (Hockey Puck) and tucked her phone away.

He flashed his real smile again and disappeared down the hallway.

An hour later, her phone buzzed.

Ilya (9:14 AM): Section 112
Ilya (9:14 AM): I like it
Ilya (9:15 AM): It feels right
Gabriella (9:17 AM): Good. I'll process the paperwork.
Ilya (9:18 AM): Form 34-B?
Gabriella (9:19 AM): You're learning.
Ilya (9:20 AM): I have a good teacher

She smiled at her phone and got back to work.

Chapter 3: Secrets and Talking

The texts kept coming. At first, they were practical questions and then slowly something shifted.

Ilya (10:43 AM): Do you think it is weird to have people who want to watch you play hockey
Ilya (10:43 AM): Like they actually want to be there
Ilya (10:44 AM): Not because they have to be

Gabriella stared at her phone. She was in the middle of reconciling three different spreadsheets and had exactly zero time for a philosophical conversation about parental attendance.

But something about the question made her pause.

Gabriella (10:47 AM): Why would that be weird?
Ilya (10:48 AM): Because I never had it before
Ilya (10:48 AM): My family... they did not come to games
Ilya (10:49 AM): They did not come to anything

She stopped what she was doing.

Gabriella (10:52 AM): That's not weird. That's just not what you're used to. There's a difference.
Ilya (10:53 AM): Yuna wants to come to the game on Friday
Ilya (10:53 AM): And she asked if she could bake me cookies
Ilya (10:54 AM): I do not know what to do with this
Gabriella (10:56 AM): You say yes. And then you eat the cookies.
Ilya (10:57 AM): That is your professional opinion?
Gabriella (10:58 AM): As the box office manager of the Ottawa Centaurs, I am advising you to accept baked goods from your chosen family.
Ilya (10:59 AM): Chosen family
Gabriella (11:00 AM): That's what you called them. Semi-adopted, remember?
Ilya (11:01 AM): I remember
Ilya (11:01 AM): It still feels strange to say
Gabriella (11:03 AM): It gets less strange the more you say it.
Gabriella (11:03 AM): Try it. "I have a chosen family in Ottawa."
Ilya (11:04 AM): I have a chosen family in Ottawa
Ilya (11:05 AM): That was not so bad
Gabriella (11:06 AM): See? Progress.
Ilya (11:07 AM): You are very good at this
Ilya (11:07 AM): At the talking
Gabriella (11:09 AM): Seventy percent of my job.
Ilya (11:10 AM): Yes yes, secrets and talking.

She smiled at her phone. Then she went back to her spreadsheets.

+++

Ilya started showing up at her office more often after that. Not every day. He had practice, games, travel, press obligations. But one or two times a week, he would materialise in her doorway, close the door behind him, and sit in the visitor chair like it was his personal throne.

Sometimes he had questions. Ticket allocations. Charity logistics. Whether there was a way to get Yuna and David into the building without going through the main entrance. There was, and she had already set it up and they had already used it.

Sometimes he tested out chirps for certain players, muttering insults under his breath like he was workshopping material for a comedy set.

Once, he tried to convince her she was his good luck charm because he had scored twice after texting her. She pointed out he had also talked to Jane that morning, and that they had lost. He called that a minor detail. She called it basic science. He stopped bringing it up after that.

Other times, he just sat there. No questions. No agenda. Just silence.

"What is up, Ilya?" she said one afternoon, looking up from her computer.

Ilya startled. "What?"

"You've been here for twenty minutes and you haven't asked me a single question. You're just sitting there. Staring at my wall."

"The wall has interesting texture."

"It's drywall, Ilya."

He sighed, a heavy, exhausted sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. "I am... adjusting."

"To Ottawa?"

"To everything." He ran a hand through his hair. "The team is new. The city is new. Yuna and David are... not new, but the way they treat me is new."

She waited. She had learned, by now, that the pauses meant he was deciding whether to say more.

"And Jane," he finally said quietly. "There is also Jane."

Gabriella nodded. She already knew about Jane. The way Ilya's voice went softer when he said the name, even now, as if Jane were a thousand miles away. She had never asked for details. That was not her role. But she could at least ask how Jane was doing.

"How is Jane?" she asked carefully.

"Far away." His jaw tightened. "My friend Svetlana used to come to games when I was with the Bears. She was there. In the crowd. But she is in Russia now, and Jane is... Jane is somewhere else, busy with work and there is no one here and I..." He broke off.

"You're lonely."

The word hung in the air between them.

"Ilya." She kept her voice soft. "Are you okay?"

He looked at her with pleading eyes, like he couldn't work something out. There was something raw in his expression, something she suspected he didn't show many people.

"I do not know," he said simply.

He paused.

"I think maybe I am not okay. But I do not know what to do about it."

She considered him for a moment. She realised he looked exhausted. Not just tired, the kind of worn-down that came from carrying something heavy for too long without anywhere to set it down.

"You know you have people who want to be here for you, right?" she said. "Yuna and David. Probably the guys on the team too, even if you have not let them in yet. I'm sure you could talk to them. Tell them how you are feeling."

"I am letting you in," he said, defiant.

"You are." She held his gaze. "And I am not going anywhere. Literally. I practically live in this office."

He was quiet for a long moment. Something softened in his face, the tension around his eyes, the set of his jaw. Like he'd been bracing for something and realised, finally, that he didn't have to.

"Jane would like you," he said quietly. "She is also very good with the listening."

"Is that so?"

"She listens to everything. Even the things I do not say." He paused. "You do that too."

It was not a question, so she did not answer it.

"Well, if you need me to do more listening," she said instead, "I am always available."

She hesitated, then decided to trust him. "And I know what it is like to be sad. Down. Depressed. Whatever label you want to put on it." She shrugged, trying to make it feel less like a confession. "I have been there. I am there, some days. More days than I would like to admit."

She set down her cup. "So... my office is always open. My phone is always on. That is not a work thing. That is a me thing. A friend thing."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.

"Yes," he said. "I know."

He stood up, paused at the door, and looked over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Gabriella."

"Go eat some cookies, Ilya."

He laughed, that surprised sound she was starting to enjoy, and disappeared down the hallway.

+++

A few hours later, she received a text.

Ilya (5:17 PM): Yuna's cookies were good today
Ilya (5:17 PM): She used chocolate chips and also something else I cannot identify
Ilya (5:18 PM): Maybe love
Gabriella (5:20 PM): That's very poetic for a hockey player.
Ilya (5:21 PM): I am full of surprises
Gabriella (5:22 PM): Apparently so.
Ilya (5:23 PM): Thank you
Ilya (5:23 PM): For the listening
Gabriella (5:25 PM): That's what friends are for.
Ilya (5:26 PM): Yes
Ilya (5:26 PM): I think maybe they are

She set down her phone and looked at the filing cabinet where she kept her private records. In the third drawer, under a false bottom she had installed herself, were four manila folders. One was labelled 'Jane'. It contained six loading dock access logs, three security guard reassignments, and a handwritten note that said simply: East press box. No cameras. Jane.

She had built this system. She had kept this secret. And she had never once asked who Jane was, or why she mattered so much to a man who pretended not to need anyone.

Some questions, she had learned, were better left unasked.

But some answers, she was starting to realise, came whether you asked for them or not.

Chapter 4: Sunflowers

Chapter Notes

Despite everything Gabriella said, the flowers kept coming.

Every time Ilya asked for a favour, every ticket arrangement, every closed-door consultation about Yuna and David, every time she helped him slip Jane into the stadium undetected, a new bouquet appeared on her desk the next morning.

Carnations, mostly. Sometimes lilies. Once, an arrangement of sunflowers so large she had to put them on the filing cabinet.

The cards were always signed the same way: —C

"You're going to run out of space," Harris observed, leaning in her doorway with a coffee in each hand.

"I have a lot of space."

"You have a twelve-by-twelve office." He set one of the coffees on her desk. "At this rate, you'll be drowning in flowers by Christmas."

"I like them."

"You like the captain."

She looked up sharply. "I like my job. And my job involves helping players with their ticket requests."

"Uh-huh." Harris's grin was infuriating. "And does your job also involve texting the captain at all hours?"

"I don't..." She stopped. "How do you know about that?"

"Because I have eyes and you two are not subtle." He held up his hands. "I'm not judging. He seems happier lately. You seem happier lately. If your thing is helping each other be happy, I'm all for it."

"It's not a thing."

"Sure it's not."

"It's friendship."

"Friends who text all night."

"Harris." The look she gave him was sharp enough to cut glass.

"I'm going!" He backed out of the doorway, still grinning. "But for the record, I've rarely seen him smile like he does when he leaves your office." He pointed at her. "And I hadn't seen you smile at all until he started showing up."

Gabriella opened her mouth to argue. She wanted to tell him that Ilya smiled at his phone all the time when Jane texted. Harris just never saw it. The smile Ilya wore when he left her office was not special. It was just Ilya being Ilya. He smiled at Jane. He smiled at Chiron. He sometimes smiled at her. None of them meant the same thing. Not even remotely.

But Harris was already gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

She closed her mouth.

I've never seen him smile like he does when he leaves your office.

The words stuck with her. She thought about the way Ilya's face softened sometimes, the careful walls around him cracking in places only she seemed allowed to see. She thought about the surprised laughs she had pulled from him, the ones he never meant to let out. She thought about the way he said her name, Gabriella, like it was its own sentence.

Then she thought about Jane. The way Ilya's thumb moved across his screen when he thought no one was watching. The soft curve of his mouth when a text came in. She had seen that smile a few times now. The first time was when she walked past the team lounge after a game and caught him hunched over his phone. She had recognised it immediately for what it was.

That's what people looked like when they were loved.

But Harris didn't know about Jane. No one did. That was the point.

"It's not a thing," she said aloud, to the sunflowers, to the empty doorway, to no one.

The sunflowers did not respond.

+++

Ilya (9:14 AM): Question
Ilya (9:14 AM): Hypothetical
Gabriella (9:15 AM): You and your hypotheticals.
Ilya (9:16 AM): They are useful
Ilya (9:16 AM): Hypothetically if someone wanted to thank a friend for being a good friend
Ilya (9:16 AM): What would that friend want
Gabriella (9:17 AM): Are you asking me what I want as a thank you for being your friend?
Ilya (9:17 AM): Hypothetically
Gabriella (9:18 AM): Hypothetically, I don't need a thank you. That's not how friendship works.
Ilya (9:19 AM): But flowers are nice
Gabriella (9:20 AM): Flowers are very nice. But you don't have to bribe me to keep being your friend. I'm just going to keep doing that.
Ilya (9:21 AM): Oh
Ilya (9:21 AM): Okay
Ilya (9:21 AM): That is good to know

+++

Their conversations deepened slowly, like laying foundations for something neither of them had planned to build.

He told her about the Bears. The good years and the bad ones. The teammates who had become friends and the ones who had never quite accepted him. He told her about the trades, the loneliness of constantly losing friends and connections. He told her about the pressure of being the guy everyone expected to perform, night after night, even on the days when he could barely get out of bed.

She told him about living abroad. The cities she had called home before Ottawa. London, Madrid, Melbourne. The way she had learned to build a life out of spreadsheets and customer service because it was easier than building one out of people. She told him about the nights she had spent alone in furnished apartments, eating takeout over the sink, convincing herself that this was what freedom felt like.

He told her about the different locker rooms. The jokes and the rituals. He was frustrated no one spoke Russian. Few guys understood what it was like to leave everything behind and start over in a country where the words felt wrong in his mouth. But they tried anyway. They teased him and defended him and made him earn his place. Day by day, game by game, he found his footing among strangers who eventually became something like family.

She told him about the box office. The patrons who made her laugh and the ones who made her want to quit. The particular satisfaction of solving a problem no one else could figure out. The small thrill of taking a mess and turning it into a neat, colour-coded system.

He told her more about Svetlana. The friend who had watched his games in Boston, the one who was too far away now. He talked about her less often as the weeks went on, but when he did, his voice went soft. He never talked about his family. He never talked about Russia — the place. She did not ask.

She told him about the friends she had lost touch with. The ones who had drifted away when she stopped reaching out first. The ones who had stopped reaching back. She told him about the loneliness of realising you were the one always making the effort, and the harder loneliness of deciding to stop.

"You are cutting yourself off," he said one night, they were texting, the way they often did after games, when he couldn't sleep and she couldn't stop thinking about the spreadsheets waiting for her in the morning.

Gabriella (11:42 PM): I'm not cutting myself off. I'm focusing on work.
Ilya (11:43 PM): Same thing
Gabriella (11:44 PM): It's not the same thing.
Ilya (11:45 PM): It is for people like us

She stared at the words. People like us.

Gabriella (11:47 PM): What does that mean?
Ilya (11:48 PM): People who are adrift
Ilya (11:48 PM): People who are sad without meaning to be
Ilya (11:49 PM): People who do not know how to let other people in
Gabriella (11:51 PM): That's very self-aware for a hockey player.
Ilya (11:52 PM): I have had a lot of time to think
Ilya (11:52 PM): Jane helps
Ilya (11:53 PM): But Jane is not here

She stared at the screen. She wanted to ask more: who is Jane, really? how did you find each other? what does it feel like to have someone like that? But she didn't. That wasn't her role.

Instead, she typed:

Gabriella (11:59 PM): That sucks. That she's always away
Gabriella (11:59 PM): But it must be nice having a person
Ilya (12:00 AM): It is
Ilya (12:00 AM): You will have one someday
Gabriella (12:02 AM): Maybe. Someday.
Ilya (12:03 AM): Not maybe
Ilya (12:03 AM): Definitely
Ilya (12:04 AM): You are too good to not have a person

She didn't know what to say to that. So she said nothing.

But she saved a screenshot.

Chapter End Notes

My entire playlist for this is simply these songs on repeat...
Kasteye - Gabriella
The Cure - This is the End
Peter Peter - Hollanov

Next up, a surprise call from some chosen family.

Chapter 5: Chosen

Chapter Notes

I wasn't going to post this today, but it is Mothers Day here.... so Happy Mothers Day to all those who celebrate.

The call came on a Tuesday afternoon.

Gabriella was deep in a spreadsheet as usual. Ticket allocation for the January home stand. The stadium was still half empty most nights, but that did not make her job any easier. Three chaotic games. A visiting team with an unusually large family contingent. A logistical nightmare dressed up as routine.

Then her phone rang.

Unknown number.

She almost did not answer. But part of her job was answering unknown numbers, because sometimes they belonged to VIPs who'd lost their concierge contact and needed someone to fix their hospitality suite's champagne situation.

"Gabriella Marchaud."

"Hi! Is this Gabi?"

She stiffened. "It's Gabriella. How can I help you?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Gabriella. Of course." The voice on the other end was warm but firm she thought, though she wasn't certain. "This is Yuna. Yuna Hollander."

Gabriella's fingers froze over her keyboard. "Yuna Hollander. As in..."

"As in Ilya's Yuna. Yes." A gentle laugh. "He talks about you, you know. Quite a lot."

"He does?"

"All the time. 'Gabriella this, Gabriella that, Gabriella says I should eat the cookies.'" She could hear the smile in Yuna's voice. "I wanted to thank you. For taking care of him."

"I'm just doing my job."

"No, you're not." Yuna's tone shifted, still warm, but with an undercurrent of steel. "You're doing much more than your job. So I wanted to say thank you for that, and I want to ask a favour."

Gabriella leaned back in her chair. "What kind of favour?"

"I want to come to more games. More than he knows about." A pause, and when Yuna spoke again, her voice was softer. "He will tell me not to come. He will say I should support my real son first." A small, sad smile in her voice. "But I want to support both of my sons. One of them has always had me in the stands. The other has never had anyone."

Gabriella's chest tightened.

"And I know," Yuna continued, "that if I ask him, he will say no. He will say he does not want to take me away from the Montreal games. He will say he is fine on his own. He will make it about what is best for me." She let out a small breath. "That is the kind of person he is. He thinks he does not deserve things. So he pushes them away before they can be taken from him."

She paused, her voice dropping lower.

"But I am his mother now. And I will not let him push me away."

"So you want me to help you surprise him?"

"I want you to help me be there for him. Even if he doesn't know it yet."

Gabriella thought about Ilya, about the way he didn't know what to do with Yuna's cookies. About the loneliness he carried like a second skin.

"I can do that," she said. "What games are you thinking?"

They worked out the details, four games, spread across the next two months, tickets held under a fake name, seats in the usual family section where Ilya wouldn't see her until she wanted to be seen.

"Thank you," Yuna said when they'd finished. "I would like to drop by after lunch to collect the tickets, if that's all right. I want to meet you. Properly."

"You don't have to..."

"I want to."

+++

Yuna Hollander arrived at exactly 2:17 PM.

Gabriella knew this because she'd been watching the clock, which was ridiculous. She'd met famous people before, Ottawa was not a small market, and the Centaurs had their share of local celebrities. But Yuna was not famous for being famous. She was famous for being the mother of Shane Hollander, the face of Canadian hockey, the man who had broken every record and then broken them again.

And apparently, she was also the semi-adopted mother of Ilya Rozanov, which made her something else entirely.

"Gabriella." Yuna closed the door behind her and crossed the small office in three quick strides, extending both hands. "It is so good to finally meet you."

She was smaller than Gabriella had expected, not short, exactly, but fine-boned and elegant. Her handshake was firm, and she held Gabriella's gaze without hesitation, the kind of woman who knew exactly how much space she deserved and took every inch of it.

"It's nice to meet you too," Gabriella said. "I have the tickets here."

"In a moment." Yuna sat down in the visitor chair, Ilya's chair, Gabriella thought, though she tried not to let that show on her face. "First, I want to talk."

"About?"

"About Ilya." Yuna's dark eyes were sharp, assessing. "How is he doing? Really?"

Gabriella hesitated. "He seems to be adjusting well. The team likes him. He's playing well."

"Yes, I've seen the games. I meant..." Yuna leaned forward. "How is he doing? The parts they don't show on television."

"He is..." Gabriella chose her words carefully. "He's settling in. But it's hard, starting over somewhere new. He doesn't have many people here yet."

"He has you."

"I'm just..."

"You're his friend." Yuna said it simply, like it was obvious. "You make time for him. He says you listen and you do not judge. Do you know how rare that is? For someone like him?"

Gabriella shook her head.

"Most people see the money. The fame. The talent." Yuna waved a hand. "They don't see the person underneath. The one who's lonely. The one who's scared. The one who doesn't know how to let people love him because no one ever bothered to try before."

There was something in her voice, something personal, something that made Gabriella think she wasn't just talking about Ilya.

Gabriella weighed her options. Should she tell Yuna everything? Or should she protect Ilya's privacy? Protect her own? Yuna had already been open with her about her maternal feelings for Ilya.

In the end, Gabriella decided to trust her.

"He's doing well," Gabriella said quietly. "But you're right. He seems... sad sometimes. I recognise it because..." She paused. "Because I get sad too. The same way."

Yuna's expression softened. "Oh, sweetheart."

"It's fine. I manage. But I see it in him. The way he goes somewhere else sometimes, even when he's right in front of you."

"That's exactly what David says. My husband, that is" Yuna reached across the desk and took Gabriella's hand. "You're very honest. I appreciate that."

"I don't see the point in lying. Especially not about things that matter."

"No." Yuna squeezed her fingers. "Neither do I."

They sat like that for a moment, Yuna holding her hand, Gabriella not pulling away. After a pause, they eventually let go.

"I know about the charity," Gabriella said finally. Her voice was quieter than she had intended. "The one with you, Ilya, and Shane."

She hesitated, fingers twisting together in her lap.

"I know it is not fully launched yet, but I would like to help. If you need people. I could volunteer at events or behind the scenes. Whatever you would be willing to let me do."

She glanced up at Yuna, then quickly away.

"It is not just about supporting him. I mean, I want to support him, obviously. But also the mission. What you are trying to build." She swallowed. "I just thought maybe I could be useful. Somehow."

Yuna was quiet for a long moment, studying her from across the desk. Then her expression softened.

"Ilya was right about you," Yuna said.

Gabriella blinked. "He was?"

"He said you were special. That you see things other people do not." Yuna tilted her head. "He also said you were terrible at asking for things you actually wanted."

Gabriella's cheeks flushed. "He said that?"

"Of course he did." Yuna's smile was warm but knowing. "He talks about you constantly. And he is very perceptive. And now that I am sitting here, watching you fold your hands and look at the floor..." She tilted her head. "I can see he was right about that too."

She leaned back in her chair.

"You spend all day solving problems for other people. Getting them what they need. But you never ask for anything for yourself, do you?"

Gabriella opened her mouth, then closed it. There was no point in denying it.

"I would still like to help," she said quietly. "If you'll let me."

Yuna considered her for a moment longer. Then she nodded slowly.

"We will find you a place," she said. "At the charity. With us." She stood up, smoothing her blouse. "I will be in touch. And Gabriella?"

"Yes?"

"Keep an eye on my other son for me. The one who does not know how to let people love him."

She took her tickets and was gone before Gabriella could respond.

Gabriella sat alone in her office, stared at the door, and let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

+++

A few weeks later, Ilya gave Gabriella the green light. Yuna and David could be official.

She scheduled a meeting with management, laid out the situation carefully, and watched the director's jaw twitch twice. In the end, they agreed. Ilya was their star player. If he wanted a rival team's parents in Section 112 every home game, then Section 112 was where they would sit.

Gabriella texted him the moment she had the approval.

Gabriella (2:15 PM): Chosen family. Approved. Official.
Ilya (2:16 PM): *celebration emojis*
Ilya (2:16 PM): Party at my place
Gabriella (2:17 PM): I am not coming to a party.
Ilya (2:18 PM): Fine. More cake for me

The next morning, the most obscene bouquet arrived. Roses. Lilies. Carnations. Something purple she could not identify. It took up half her desk.

The card read: For making the impossible possible. Again. —C

Gabriella stared at it and smiled. She thought about Yuna and David, now officially on the books. A chosen family, approved and documented. She was happy for Ilya.

But something was tugging at her. She still did not understand how the Hollanders had come to adopt him. To choose him. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what role Shane Hollander played in all of this.

How did they go from rivals, to friends, to business partners? She could understand how it happened. Two elite athletes, respect forged on the ice, a friendship built over years of competing against each other. That made sense.

But why did his family consider Ilya family? That was different. Had the Hollanders simply met Ilya and decided to claim him? Or was there something else? Something she was still missing?

She shook her head. It was not her place to pry. Ilya would tell her when he was ready. She trusted him.

She picked up her phone.

Gabriella (11:04 AM): The flowers are ridiculous.
Ilya (11:05 AM): You said no flowers as a thank you
Ilya (11:05 AM): These are not a thank you
Gabriella (11:06 AM): Then what are they?
Ilya (11:07 AM): A celebration

She laughed out loud. Then she texted him back.

Gabriella (11:12 AM): Thank you.
Ilya (11:13 AM): You said Thank You without arguing
Gabriella (11:14 AM): Do not get used to it.
Ilya (11:15 AM): Too late. I am already used to it

Chapter 6: Side Quest: Talk with the GM

Chapter Notes

This wasn't supposed to be a chapter, but I wrote the conversation between the GM and Gabriella, so here it is because I don't want to delete it.

So we are going on a side quest before returning to the story...

The executive suite smelled like polished wood and old money. Gabriella had been in the room often enough now that the décor no longer intimidated her, the framed photos of past captains, the retired jerseys, the mug that matched her own, reading I Survived the Rebuild. The room didn't need to say anything. It already had power.

Derek Whitmore was seated behind his desk when she entered.

"Miss Marchaud. You asked for a meeting."

"Yes. Thank you for making time."

He gestured for her to sit. She did, placing a slim folder on her lap.

"You said this was about Rozanov."

"It is." She opened the folder. "He is requesting an addition to his family ticket allocation. Two seats. Permanently assigned."

Whitmore's brow lifted slightly. "That is routine."

"It would be, yes. Except for the names."

She slid a printed page across the desk.

Yuna Hollander.
David Hollander.

The pen in Whitmore's hand stopped moving. Gabriella noticed the tiny muscle in his jaw twitch. Once.

"Shane Hollander's parents," he said slowly.

"Yes."

He set down his pen and folded his hands. "Let me understand this. Rozanov wants the parents of the Montreal Voyageurs' franchise player sitting in our family section?"

"Section 112," Gabriella said. "Not the main family section. Quiet. Out of the way."

"And how does Rozanov know the parents of Ottawa's long-lost son? The Prince of Canadian Hockey?"

Gabriella allowed herself a small breath. "They are his chosen family. When he arrived here in Ottawa, they seem to have semi-adopted him. I do not know all the details. I just know they mean business. Literally." She met his eyes. "They are starting a charity together. Mental health services and support for young athletes."

Whitmore leaned back. "The Hollander parents. Rozanov. A charity."

"Yes."

"And Hollander himself?"

"Shane is also involved. The charity includes all of the Hollanders."

Whitmore tapped his fingers on the desk. The muscle in his jaw twitched again. Twice. "The league will have questions. Two star players from rival teams, thick as thieves, one set of parents defecting to our side." He shook his head. "That is a headline waiting to happen."

"It could be," Gabriella said. "Or it could be what it is. Two athletes using their platforms for good. Parents supporting their son's friend. People who live in Ottawa, supporting their local team."

"The commissioner will not see it that way."

"Then we give him the charity. The business partnership. The legitimate reasons for them to be seen together." She paused. "We do not give him anything else."

Whitmore studied her. His gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary.

"You are protecting something," he said quietly.

She paused, not long, but enough that he noticed. She thought of the east wing press box. Of the folder marked Jane in her hidden drawer... and pushed it away.

She steadied herself. "I am protecting Ilya. He came to Ottawa alone. No family. No support system. He has been managing on his own, but it is not sustainable. If having the Hollanders in Section 112 keeps him grounded, keeps him playing well, keeps him happy, then it serves this team."

"You believe that."

"I know it. I have seen him when they are here. He is better. On the ice. Off the ice. Everything."

Whitmore was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, almost casually, "Rozanov has always been... private about certain things."

Gabriella's heart ticked faster. She said nothing.

"His personal life," Whitmore continued, watching her carefully. "His off-ice relationships. He keeps them close. Closer than most." He paused. "That level of privacy often means there is something worth protecting."

She held very still.

"I am not asking you to confirm anything, Miss Marchaud." His voice was mild, but his eyes were sharp. "I am simply observing that when a player surrounds himself with a chosen family rather than a biological one, there are often reasons. And when that chosen family happens to be connected to another player, a very prominent player of another team, it raises... questions."

"The charity..."

"The charity is admirable," he cut her off gently. "But I have been in this league long enough to know that charity is not the only thing that brings people together."

Gabriella felt the weight of what he was not saying.

Whitmore picked up his pen, turned it over in his fingers, then set it down again.

"I do not need to know the details," he said. "What I need to know is whether this arrangement, these tickets, this family - this connection to Montreal - creates any risk for this organization."

"What kind of risk?"

He met her eyes. "The kind that gets lawyers involved. The kind that prompts calls from the league office. The kind that turns a hockey story into something else entirely." He paused. "We need transparency, Miss Marchaud. We need competitive integrity. Do you understand?"

Gabriella understood. He knew something, or at least suspected there was something more. Either way, he was giving her a chance to steer the conversation away from whatever he was implying.

"There is no risk," she said carefully. "There are two people who want to support a player they care about. There is a charity that will do good work. There is a friendship between two athletes who respect each other. That is all."

She hoped.

Whitmore studied her for a long moment. His expression was unreadable.

"I hope you are right," he said finally. "Because if there is more to this story, if there is something that could be used against this team, against Rozanov, against any of us, I would prefer to know about it now."

Gabriella held his gaze. "I have told you everything I can."

He nodded slowly. Not in agreement. An acknowledgment.

"Section 112," he said. "Real tickets. Their names in the system. Quietly."

"Yes."

"No announcement. No press. If anyone asks, it is standard family allocation."

"Agreed."

He wrote something on the paper and slid it across the desk. "Approved. Make sure Communications is aware and prepared with the talking points."

Gabriella looked at the signature. "Just like that?"

"Rozanov is our best player. He does not ask for much. When he does, I listen." He leaned back. "Besides, Yuna Hollander is formidable. If she wants to adopt a stray Russian captain, I am not going to be the one who tells her no."

She stood up, tucking the signed paper into her folder. "Thank you, Mr. Whitmore."

"Tell Rozanov to be careful." There was something in his voice now. A warning wrapped in concern. "The league is small, Miss Marchaud. People talk. People notice things. The more visible he becomes with the Hollanders, the more questions people will ask."

"I understand."

"Do you?" He tilted his head. "Because I am not just talking about the parents."

She said nothing.

Whitmore picked up his pen again. "That is all."

She turned to leave, then paused at the door.

"Mr. Whitmore?"

"Yes?"

"Ilya is going to win you a cup. Having the Hollanders in Section 112 will not change that. If anything, it might help."

He did not look up from his paperwork. "I hope you are right. For his sake as much as ours."

She walked out of his office with the signed paper in her folder and a quiet sense of relief, and a new understanding. Derek Whitmore knew more than he let on. He had suspicions. And he had chosen to approve the request anyway, not despite them, but because of who Ilya was to the team.

She thought about the twitches. One when she said the names. Two when he mentioned the league. There was a pattern there. Stress. Surprise. Concern.

He was not just a GM. He was a pragmatist. And pragmatists protect their own.

She went back to her office. She chose to be positive. The request was approved. That was what mattered.

Like Whitmore, she would be a pragmatist. Deal with the problems in front of her. Cross the other bridges when she came to them.

She texted Ilya the good news.

Chapter 7: Rumours and Plans

Chapter Summary

The rumours are starting. People are plotting.

Chapter Notes

Over the half way mark and time to hustle through the end game plot...

The rumors started subtly.

Nothing overt, no one was gossiping, not really. But people noticed things. Ilya Rozanov wasn't supposed to be in the administration building so often. Players had no business on the box office floor. That was the rule, or at least the understanding. Tickets were handled through the portal. Forms were submitted by email. There was no reason for the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs to wander past the HR offices, the accounting cubicles, or the break room with the sad coffee machine.

And yet, there he was. Almost daily.

People noticed the way his car sometimes appeared near the admin entrance instead of in his reserved spot closer to the locker room. The way he seemed to know exactly when Gabriella took her lunch break, always showing up with a coffee for her and a question about nothing in particular. The way he'd linger in the hallway outside her office, pretending to check his phone, waiting for whoever was inside to leave so he could close the door behind him.

No one said anything. Not yet. But they noticed.

And Gabriella noticed them noticing.

She tried not to care. She let them look. Let them wonder. Let them whisper behind their hands and speculate in the break room. She had spent years building a life out of spreadsheets and customer service, out of being efficient and invisible and exactly what everyone needed her to be. She had perfected the art of getting everything done without ever taking up space. But this, this was different. This was hers and she would not let their noticing ruin it.

But she did care. A little. About the closed doors. The way Ilya's eyes were red-rimmed sometimes. The way he would lean into her space like he was drawing warmth from her presence. The way she let him, every time, because he hugged well and she had forgotten what it felt like to be held.

She was not shrinking back down. She was standing her ground. And sometimes, standing her ground meant letting someone stand close.

So she let him.

+++

One afternoon, after Ilya had spent nearly half an hour talking about Jane and the distance and the particular ache of loving someone he could not touch, she decided to speak up.

"I am going to say something," she said. "And I need you not to take it the wrong way."

He looked up from where he had been staring at his hands.

She waited until she was sure she had his attention. "I care about you. You know that, right? I am happy to listen to all your worries and your chirps. But... I cannot be your therapist." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I do not have the qualifications. I do not have a comfortable couch. And honestly? I do not think I would be very good at it."

He was sitting on the edge of her desk now, not something she usually allowed, but he'd ignored her when she'd told him to get in the chair.

She could see him puzzling out the answer. Then he softly said, "I am not trying to make you my therapist."

She studied him for a moment, the way his shoulders had tensed, the way he was bracing for her to push him away. She did not want to push him away. She just needed him to understand.

"Then what is this?" she asked gently. "What are you looking for from me? Because I want to help. I just need to know what you need."

He relaxed, just a fraction. "I am trying to be your friend." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Friends listen to each other. Friends let each other be sad. Friends do not need degrees or comfortable couches."

"I am happy to be your friend." She looked at him for a long moment. "But I worry that is not how most people see it." She pointed towards the door.

"Most people are wrong."

"Friends don't usually cry in each other's offices during business hours."

"Maybe they should." He shrugged. "Maybe more people should cry. Maybe then everyone would not be so..." he gestured vaguely, "...full of feelings they do not know what to do with."

"That's very philosophical before lunch."

"I am a very philosophical person."

"You're strange."

"I am charming."

"Yes, I know you're strangely charming," she allowed. "Happy?"

"I will take it." He nodded at the latest bouquet, white lilies this time, still in their wrapping because she hadn't found a vase yet. "Do you like the lilies?"

She sighed. "I like the lilies. I do not like the reason you keep sending them."

"I need to stop asking you for favours."

"You need to stop asking me for favours and then sending flowers as a thank you. We have been over this. Repeatedly." She gestured at the lilies, then at the carnations still on her filing cabinet. "I am doing my job and being a friend. There is no need for rewards or bribes."

He considered this. "What if I send flowers just because? For no reason. Not as a thank you. Not as a bribe. Just because I wanted to."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "That is a loophole and you know it."

"Will it work?"

"No."

He grinned. "I will try again next week."

"You are impossible."

"You are just noticing this now?"

She shook her head, but she was smiling. "Go to practice, Ilya."

"Yes, I will go to practice," he said. "And you will go back to your spreadsheets."

"I always have spreadsheets," she said. "It is my curse."

He raised an eyebrow. "A curse you secretly enjoy."

She did not deny it.

He grinned and headed for the door, hand on the frame. "Text me if you need to talk."

"You will be at practice."

"Text me anyway."

He left. Gabriella stared at the lilies.

Then she went back to her spreadsheets.

+++

The week wore on. The rumours did not stop, and neither did the flowers. Then, one afternoon, her phone buzzed.

Ilya (4:15 PM): Had a shoot today for the new winter merchandise
Ilya (4:15 PM): [image attached: Ilya wearing an Ottawa Centaurs pom-pom hat, holding a hot drink with a blob of whipped cream on the end of his nose]
Gabriella (4:15 PM): Looking good. The pom-pom does wonders.
Ilya (4:15 PM): The pom-pom is stealing my spotlight
Gabriella (4:15 PM): The pom-pom has better angles than you.
Ilya (4:15 PM): I am deeply offended
Gabriella (4:15 PM): You will survive. The pom-pom, however, is the real star.
Ilya (4:15 PM): I looked very handsome despite the competition
Gabriella (4:15 PM): Handsome is a strong word.
Ilya (4:16 PM): You are ruining my confidence
Gabriella (4:16 PM): You have enough confidence for both of us.
Ilya (4:16 PM): Fair point.
Ilya (4:16 PM): But the best part of the shoot... there was cake afterwards.
Gabriella (4:16 PM): Tell me more about this cake...
Ilya (4:16 PM): Chocolate. Raspberry filling.
Ilya (4:16 PM): Is your favourite, yes?

Gabriella started texting and deleting several times.

Ilya (4:17 PM): I can bring you soooome
Ilya (4:17 PM): If you let me...
Ilya (4:17 PM): Loophole
Gabriella (4:17 PM): That loophole is getting a lot of use.
Ilya (4:17 PM): It is a very good loophole
Gabriella (4:17 PM): ...how big is the piece?
Ilya (4:17 PM): Large
Gabriella (4:17 PM): OK. Fine. You can bring some.
Ilya (4:17 PM): I knew it!
Gabriella (4:18 PM): Do not get used to it.
Ilya (4:18 PM): Too late *cake emoji *

He brought her the cake before he went home. She did not complain. She did not resist.

She may have said thank you. He may have flounced away happy.

+++

The whispers followed her everywhere, the break room, the parking lot, even the loading dock. But she kept her head up. She had survived worse than gossip.

No one except Harris had been bold enough to say anything to her face.

Until now.

The thing about professional hockey players, Gabriella had learned, was that they were observant. Not about box office logistics, most of them couldn't find their own ticket allocations without a map and a prayer. But about people. About emotions. About the quiet things that made their teammates smile or flinch.

Zane Boodram, the alternate captain, was the most observant of all. Or at least the one least likely to keep what he saw to himself.

She'd noticed it before: the way he watched the locker room, the way he seemed to know when someone was struggling before they said a word. But she hadn't realised how much he actually noticed her until the day he appeared in her doorway. Silent as a ghost. No knock. No warning.

She looked up from her spreadsheet and found him looming there.

"Jesus Christ!" She jolted in her chair, one hand over her chest. "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing." Bood stepped inside and closed the door. "We need to talk."

"We need to..." She stared at him. "You can't just close the door. People will talk."

"Let them." He sat down in the visitor chair. Ilya's chair, she thought (again), though Bood was bigger, broader, and the chair groaned beneath him. "This is about Cap."

"Cap." She blinked. "Ilya?"

"How many captains do we have?"

"Two, and you are one of them." She shook her head. "I do not have time for this. If you have a problem with your captain, you should talk to your coach. Not the box office manager."

"This isn't a team problem." Bood leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "This is a personal problem. Cap's personal problem."

"And why would you think I can help with that?"

"Because I have been watching." He said it simply, without apology. "Did you know that Cap is only happy on certain occasions?" He ticked off on his fingers. "On the ice. With Chiron. With the team, sometimes, but especially when we beat Montreal. When he gets back from one of his disappearing acts." He paused. "And after he visits you."

Gabriella's mouth went dry.

"He does not... I am not..."

"I am not finished." Bood held up a hand. "You have seen his smile. The real one. Not the one he gives the cameras or the sponsors. The one that comes out when he forgets to perform." He met her eyes. "The same smile he has when he scores. The same one he has when Chiron steals his gloves. He wears it after he leaves this office."

She didn't know what to say to that.

"I've seen you two," Bood continued. "In the hallway. After the games. That time you were watching from the press box and he waved at you like you were the only person in the building." He shook his head. "I've never seen him look at anyone like that off the ice."

"Bood..."

"We want you to ask him out."

The words hung in the air.

"I'm sorry," Gabriella said slowly. "You want what now?"

"We want you to ask him on a date." Bood said it like it was obvious. "We want you to take him out. Wine and dine him. Make him smile, like he's on the ice."

"Who is 'we'?"

"We are us. The team." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "We want him to be happy. He doesn't seem like he always is. And he should be. We want him to be."

"You want me to wine and dine the captain." She was having trouble processing this. "Romantically?"

"No!" Bood's eyes widened. "No. Not if you don't want to! It can be a buddy-date. A hang out. Dinner with a bud..."

Gabriella looked at him.

Then she picked up her phone.

Gabriella (2:34 PM): Want to go on a buddy-date sometime? Get dinner?
Ilya (2:34 PM): Sure
Ilya (2:35 PM): Why not
Ilya (2:35 PM): Tonight good?
Gabriella (2:35 PM): Yes.

She looked up. Bood was still talking.

"...doesn't have to be romantic, just something to get him out of the house, you know? He spends too much time alone, and we all know he's not..."

"Done."

He stopped. "What?"

"I asked him. He said yes. We're going out tonight." She picked up her pen. "On a buddy-date."

He looked shocked for a moment. Then Bood stood up and punched the air. "Yes!"

"Goodbye, Bood."

"Wait, you have the Cap already in messenger?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

She waved him toward the door. "Goodbye, Bood."

"CAP'S GOT A DATE!" he shouted as he bounded into the hallway.

"It is a buddy-date," she called after him.

"CAP'S GOT A BUDDY DATE! WOO!"

Gabriella closed the door and put her head in her hands.

She could hear him celebrating all the way down the hall.

Well. This was not going to stop her colleagues from talking.

She banged her head against her desk.

Hockey players were so stupid.

And so was she, for getting involved with any of them.

Chapter 8: Buddy-Date

The restaurant was called Luigi's, a 1950s-style pizza parlor with red velour booths and checkered floors and a jukebox that only played Italo disco or Frank Sinatra. Gabriella had discovered it her second week in Ottawa, during the lonely period before she'd learned to stop eating dinner alone in her apartment. But she'd never brought anyone with her before.

Ilya was already outside when she pulled up, leaning against the hideous orange Lamborghini she'd spotted in the players' parking lot. He was smoking, which was not a surprise anymore. She'd seen him do it a dozen times now, always in the same spot behind the loading dock, always with the same faraway look in his eyes. She supposed it made sense given how tightly wound he always seemed. The cigarettes were just another way of holding himself together.

"You're early," she said, walking up.

"You're late."

"I'm exactly on time." She fell into step beside him and smiled. "Hi."

"Hi." He stubbed out his cigarette and dropped it into the nearby bin. Then he opened his arms.

The hug was automatic now. She walked into them without thinking. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, hers around his waist, his chin resting on top of her head because he was so much taller.

"You smell like smoke," she said into his chest.

"You smell like spreadsheets."

"That's not a smell."

"It is when you do it all day." He released her and held open the door. "After you."

The restaurant was mostly empty. A couple at the bar. A family in one of the corner booths. The owner wiping down the counter. Gabriella led Ilya to the two-seater in the back, the one with the poster of Marcello Mastroianni above it and the view of the kitchen.

They sat. The vinyl squeaked under them. Neither spoke for a moment.

Gabriella picked at a loose thread on the menu. Ilya studied the laminated specials like they contained the secrets of the universe. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, exactly, but aware. Like both of them had suddenly realised they'd never done this before, actually sat across from each other with nothing to do but talk. No work to distract them.

The server appeared. They ordered.

Gabriella asked for prosciutto e fungi, thin crust, extra mushrooms. Ilya ordered chicken barbecue, which she pretended to be disgusted by, even though it sounded amazing. He got a beer. She got ginger ale.

He chuckled. "Of course it's ginger ale."

"What's wrong with ginger ale?"

"Nothing." But he was still smiling. "My sweetheart is addicted to it. It's cute that you both like it."

She snorted. "Your sweetheart?"

He shrugged. "Yes, Jane. They are not a fan of alcohol. Ginger ale is the default."

"Ah. Well, I do drink when I am not working. Gin and tonics, mostly. But ginger ale is my substitute when I do not want to be impaired."

The waiter arrived with their drinks. Gabriella murmured a thank you and took a sip of her ginger ale.

"So, tell me, how did you two meet?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. Not yet. That is a story for another night." He set down his beer and met her eyes. "I have done a lot of talking over the past few months. About Jane. About the charity. About how I feel. And you have listened, as you always do. But tonight I want to know more about you."

She raised an eyebrow. "You already know a lot about me."

"I know some things. I know you have lived in other countries. I know you like spreadsheets and ginger ale, and chocolate cake. I know you are good at your job." He paused. "But I do not know what you wanted to be when you were young. I do not know what you dream about. I do not know what makes you laugh when no one is watching." He held her gaze. "Tell me something real. Something I could not learn from watching you do your job."

She blinked at him. "That's very self-aware."

"I am full of surprises, remember?"

"Okay," she said, laughing despite herself. "What do you want to know?"

He considered this. "What is your type?"

"My type?"

"For dating. For romance." He gestured vaguely. "What do you look for in a person?"

She considered the question. "Well, not you, obviously."

He blinked. "Not me? Impossible. I am everybody's type."

She snorted again. "Yes, but I know you are unavailable." She took another sip of ginger ale.

This was the moment. She could lie. She could deflect. She could make some joke about spreadsheets and call it a night. Instead, she told the truth.

"I tend to prefer people with confidence, good smiles and nice arse." She paused. Looks at him seriously. "But not your arse, though."

He clutched his chest. "Agh, you wound me."

"You will survive." She shrugged smiling. "I guess my taste in men started with old movies, honestly. Gene Kelly is my dream man. That man could move. Great smile, great arse. Athletic. Charming. The whole package. He is the ideal."

Ilya nodded slowly. "Gene Kelly. I know that name. Singer in the Rain?"

"Singin' in the Rain. Yes." She smiled. "After Gene I discovered Toshirô Mifune. Have you seen any old Japanese samurai films? He was amazing. Stoic. Beautiful. Incredible sword skills. He could stand there doing nothing and you could not look away."

She wistfully continued. "Then came Tony Leung. He is a Hong Kong actor. Beautiful. Debonair. So hot. He keeps getting better with age." She paused. "Have you seen In the Mood for Love? The way he looks at her? It is devastating." Another pause. "He also has amazing sword skills. Which seems to be a pattern I am just now noticing."

Ilya chuckled. "I can already confirm there is a pattern."

"Well, get used to it, because there is also Tadanobu Asano." She laughed. "He's not conventionally handsome, but I am obsessed with him. Have you seen Ichi the Killer? He was dangerously terrifying, but also so beautiful on screen. Then he got older and more refined. Like a modern Mifune, but not as recognised.” She shrugged. "So yeah, these men influenced my tastes a lot."

Ilya stared at her. "I think you watch too many films."

She chuckled, thinking of her unattainable cinematic ideals. Knowing she was not sharing everything. "Probably."

He pulled out his phone. "I need to see these dream men."

He typed, tapped, scrolled. His eyebrows rose.

"Gabriella."

"Yes?"

"These men are all over sixty. Or dead."

"I have an appreciation for classic cinema."

"That is what someone with an old man fetish would say. Next you will tell me you like Scott Hunter."

"That crypt keeper? Never.” She cackled. "Fine, you want real people?"

"Please. Before I think you only date the elderly."

"Okay." She counted on her fingers. "My first real love was a guy in an experimental band who worked at a knife shop. Great hands, but he loved his bass more than me." She ticked off another finger. "Then a mountain climber. Spectacular arse. Absolutely zero personality, very good in bed."

She pointed to a third finger. "A stunt man who worked on Japanese films here in Canada. Did you know they use Canada for Japan a lot in movies? I finally got to date my samurai, even if it was fake. He was fit and charming... but he was always so busy. Emotionally unavailable."

Ilya raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like another pattern."

"It does, doesn't it?" She took a sip of her drink. "But none of them really stuck. Not until..." She hesitated. "Ines."

Ilya tilted his head. "Ines?"

She let out a breath. "Ines," she said. "My last relationship. A beautiful Spanish Goth I met in Madrid." She looked at him. "You know what a Goth is, right? Dark makeup, black dresses, obsessed with The Cure." He nodded. She smiled at the memory. "She was absolutely stunning. And... I loved her."

"Was she good to you?"

She blinked at the simplicity of the question. "Yeah. She was."

"Then she sounds nice." He raised his beer. "I approve."

She laughed. "You approve of my ex?"

"I approve of anyone who is good to my friends." He shrugged. "That is the rule."

He paused. "What happened between you two?"

"I came back here. It ended."

"I am sorry."

She shrugged. “It was nice while it lasted.”

The warmth settled between them. His expression shifted, thoughtful. "Hmm," he said finally. "I think we may have the same taste in men."

She looked at him. "You have an old man fetish too?"

"No." He smiled. "But it seems I also prefer Asian men. Charismatic. Athletic. Good smiles." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Well, actually, one specifically. One man." Another pause. "And my days of dating women are long gone."

Gabriella's heart hammered against her ribs. Holy shit. Was this it?

She set down her ginger ale. "Are you saying what I think you are saying?"

He nodded slowly. "We are the same?"

She smiled, a real smile, the kind she did not show many people. "I am bisexual. Well, I might be pan, but generally... bisexual."

He grinned and reached across the table to fist-bump her.

"Very good," he said. "But you cannot have my Jane, yes?"

She laughed. "I would not dream of it. He is all yours."

Something flickered across his face, gratitude, maybe, or relief. He looked down at the table for a moment, then back at her.

"You know the code name, Jane," he said. "We picked it impulsively when we were young. To hide in plain sight." A softness crept into his voice that she had not heard before. "It was a joke at first. Something stupid. But then it was not a joke anymore. It became serious."

He paused. "It worked for us then. It still works now." His voice dropped lower. "I just wish I could say his name out loud. Tell the world who he is, how I feel, what he means to me." He swallowed. "But I can't. Not yet. Maybe never."

Gabriella sat very still. She wanted to reach across the table. She wanted to say something reassuring, something that would make the longing in his voice less painful. But she also knew that sometimes the best thing to do was simply to be there. So she nodded. Just once. A small acknowledgment.

He smiled, pained and relieved all at once.

She did not ask for his real name. She did not need to. The pieces had been falling into place for months. Now she understood. All because of a single quiet confession.

We are the same.

It was so obvious now. All of it. The distance. The ache. The charity. She had been right.

She forced herself to breathe. This was his story, and he had just told her more than he probably realised.

He cleared his throat and reached for his beer.

She let him have the moment. The noise of the restaurant filled the silence. Clinking glasses. Distant laughter. Sinatra still crooning from the jukebox.

Then she took a chance, hoping she would not spook him.

"You do not have to worry. I am not trying to date the sexiest man in the NHL." She studied him over the rim of her glass, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Remind me. Where were you on the list again?"

He looked displeased. "Number three."

She giggled. "Oof. And who was number two?"

"Troy Barrett." Ilya snorted. "He is an asshole."

"He is," she agreed. "But apparently a very attractive one. The magazine said so."

"The magazine is wrong." He shook his head. "I should be number two."

She raised an eyebrow. "You want to be number two? Not number one?"

"Behind Jane? Yes." He made a face. "Behind Troy Barrett? Never."

She laughed, not sure he was aware of what he had just admitted out loud. Inside, she celebrated quietly.

"Well," she pivoted again, "either way, I am not really looking to date right now anyway."

Ilya studied her for a moment, not with judgment, just quiet curiosity. Then he nodded.

"That is fair," he said simply. "Dating is exhausting. Even when you find the right person."

She looked at him. "Yeah?"

He shrugged. "Especially then."

She didn't ask why. She didn't push any further. He took a sip of his beer and let the silence sit comfortably between them.

She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For not making it weird."

He grinned. "That is your job. Remember? You are the one who makes things not weird."

She laughed. "Seventy percent of my job."

"Yes, yes. Secrets, talking, not making it weird." He smiled. "And now also not dating. Very busy schedule."

She threw a napkin at him. He caught it.

+++

Their pizzas arrived. They ate. They talked.

They talked some more about films. He liked action. Loud. Explosive. The kind where things blew up and nobody asked questions. She preferred classic Hollywood musicals and samurai films. But they both loved The Babadook and agreed he was a queer icon.

"It is a horror movie about grief," Ilya said, "and somehow the internet decided the monster is gay."

"The internet is not always wrong," Gabriella replied.

He raised an eyebrow. "You have thoughts about the Babadook?"

"I have thoughts about a lot of things." She shrugged. "But mostly I just like that a generation of queer kids looked at a monster in a top hat and said 'that one is ours.'"

Ilya nodded slowly. "It is good. But it is not enough."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, we deserve more. Horror movies are always about straight people being punished for having sex. Or gay people as the villain. Or the victim." He gestured with his hands. "Where are the movies where the bisexual person survives? Where the queer couple fights the monster together and wins? Where the monster is not a metaphor for our existence but just... a monster?"

She blinked at him. "That is... a very specific critique. I didn't know you were deep into queer film theory, our conversations could have been much different before now."

"I have had a lot of time to think about it." He shrugged. "Also, Jane and I have watched a lot of bad horror movies."

She laughed. "I would love to hear Jane's thoughts on this."

"He agrees with me. Obviously."

"Obviously."

+++

They also talked about travel. He'd been everywhere, thirty five countries, forty-two if you counted airports. She'd been most places, though always for work, always passing through. They'd both hated the same hotel in Prague, the one with the paper-thin walls and the breakfast buffet that somehow made eggs taste sad.

They talked about interests. He played video games to quiet his mind. She read romance novels because she liked knowing the ending would be happy. They both hated when the good character died for no reason, and why no one could make a decent film or television adaptation of a book or game.

And they talked about the sadness again.

"You feel it too," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"The way it comes out of nowhere. The way it sits in your chest and doesn't leave."

"Yes." He set down his fork. "You learn to live with it. You learn to function around it. But it never really goes away."

"No," she agreed. "It doesn't."

They were quiet again.

"I want to be here for many years," she said finally. "If I get the chance. I want to build something that lasts."

"Me too." He reached across the table and touched her hand, just briefly. "I do not want to leave if I can help it. Some days it is hard to imagine a future at all. But I want one. I want to not feel so much all of the time." He paused. "But I also want a future. A real one.."

“With Jane.”

He nodded. “With Jane.”

The words hung in the air between them. Heavy. Honest.

"We are like mirrors," he said quietly. "Twin mirrors, yes? We like the same type of people. We are sad without meaning to be." He paused. "Maybe that is why I feel so comfortable with you. You do not try to fix me. You just... stay."

She nodded, her throat tight. "That is all I know how to do."

She turned her hand over, letting their palms press together.

"I wish I was a multimillionaire though," she said. "That would help me out somewhat."

He raised an eyebrow. "You are saying the worst team in the league does not pay you enough? I am shocked!"

"My time will come." She pulled her hand back, smiling. "Maybe I'll win the lottery. Or maybe I'll become a cat lady. All valuable options."

"I would enjoy visiting your cat sanctuary."

They looked at each other, eyes narrowing, each trying to figure out if the other was making a joke or a confession. Then they both started laughing.

"Okay," she said, wiping her eyes. "We have to go now. Not because I want to, but because I cannot tell if you are flirting with me or planning my future as a lonely cat lady."

Ilya paid the bill, she tried to stop him, he ignored her, and they walked out into the cold Ottawa night.

"Will you be okay getting home?" he asked.

"Yes." She paused. "Jane arrives in a few days, right?"

He nodded. "The hard part is the in-between. You help with that."

"I'm glad."

"You are a good friend."

"So are you." She nodded toward the orange Lamborghini. "That is hideous," she said, staring at it.

"Hideously expensive and I love her." He looked at the monstrosity with genuine affection.

"I'll walk you to your car," he said.

After a few minutes, she stopped beside her Corolla. "Well, this is me." She gestured at the chipped paint and dented bumper. "Zero horsepower. The dream."

Ilya looked at the car, his expression hovering somewhere between horror and pity. "What is your dream car?"

"I'd like one of those small electric hybrids. A Panda or a Kia. But my dream..." she laughed at herself, "...even though it's colonialist and whatever, is the Mini Coopers with the Union Jack lights. So damned cute. Not sure about the boot room, but I'd look great in one."

"I am sure you would." He nodded approvingly. Then she saw a sparkle in his eye.

"Ilya. No." She said sternly. "You cannot buy me a car."

He looked affronted. "I wouldn't dream of it." Then he winked.

She groaned out loud. "You are insufferable. You cannot keep buying me things just for being your friend. It is forbidden."

He smiled, utterly unbothered. "Forbidden by who?"

"By me. I am forbidding it."

"You cannot forbid someone from being generous."

"I can when the generosity comes with a price tag." She pointed a finger at him. "No cars. No flowers. No extravagant gestures."

He tilted his head. "What about small gestures?"

"No."

"Medium gestures?"

"Ilya."

"Fine." He held up his hands in surrender, but his smile didn't waver. "No gifts. Only friendship."

"Only friendship," she repeated.

"Friendship is not nothing," he said quietly. "Friendship is everything."

She looked at him for a long moment, something soft settling in her chest. "Yeah," she said finally. "It is."

Then she shoved her hands in her pockets. "Thanks. For tonight, I mean. I had fun. Even if we're only on a buddy date. I like hanging out with you." She glanced up at him. "I hope Jane's okay with that."

"Yes. I think he would like to know I have a friend outside the team." He paused. "Even though you technically work for the team."

She smiled. "May I hug you again?"

"Yes, of course. You are my mirror twin. We can always hug."

“That makes no sense.” She said as she leaned in.

He squeezed her and she let herself sink into it. His arms were warm and solid and she felt, for the first time in a long time, like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

"You want to hear something real?" she murmured into his chest. "One day, if you want, I will tell you about the time my cousin hugged me so hard he cracked my rib."

He froze. Then slowly, gently, he set her down and held her at arm's length, searching her face. "Are you okay?"

She nodded. "I am fine now. That was years ago."

"But you remember."

"I remember." She touched his arm. "Not because it hurt. Because he loved me that much. He just did not know his own strength."

Ilya was quiet for a moment, processing. "I will try not to break your ribs."

She smiled. "I would appreciate that."

"And you will tell me the full story one day?"

"I will."

"Good." He nodded, satisfied. "I want to know everything about you. Eventually."

“And i want to know everything about you and Jane. Eventually.”

“I will.”

He smiled and waved at her as he walked away. "Have a good night, Gabriella. Go home and do whatever makes you happy."

"You too," she called after him. "Go home and talk to Jane."

She smiled to herself as she climbed into her car.

She was learning, slowly, what happiness looked like. Tonight, it looked like pizza and bad jokes and a Russian who refused to let her be alone.

It was a good night.

Chapter 9: The Photos

Chapter Summary

There's photos from the date online...

Chapter Notes

By the time Gabriella got to work the next day, the photos were everywhere.

She didn't know this yet. She'd driven straight to the stadium, parked in her usual spot, and walked through the loading dock entrance without checking her phone. She'd stopped for coffee. She'd greeted Fred the security guard. She'd unlocked her office and sat down at her desk and opened her email.

Then Bood crashed through her doorway.

"Gabi!"

"It's Gabriella." She didn't look up from her computer. "And you're not supposed to be here."

"Check your phone." He was practically vibrating. "Check your phone right now."

"What? Why?"

He held up his own phone. On the screen was a photo of her and Ilya, outside the pizza parlor, wrapped in one of their hugs. In another, him kissing her cheek. In another, them both laughing, heads tilted together, looking like... Looking like we're dating, she realised.

"Oh no," she said.

"Oh yes!" Bood sat down in the Ilya's chair. He didn't even ask this time and grinned. "How was your buddy date? Looks like it went well to me."

"Where the hell did these come from?"

"Paparazzi. They're everywhere and nowhere. It's a mystery." He shrugged. "But just so you know, you two look great in these photos."

She grabbed her phone. Dozens of notifications.

Family members texting: Are you really friends with Rozanov?
Friends messaging: Wow, you're looking good! We should catch up!

She looked at he link and the comments. God, the comments were... not good.

Who is that? Did he lose a bet?
She looks like she works in HR. Wait. She probably does.
He downgraded. Hard.
Imagine having the whole league and ending up with... her?
This is his rebound from the models? Embarrassing.
He can do so much better. Actually, he has. Remember [ex model's name]?
I hope she's at least funny, because... yikes.

She closed the app, but her face had already given her away.

"Hey." Bood's voice was softer now. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You do not look fine."

"I am fine," she repeated. "I am just... processing."

Bood was quiet for a moment. He watched her wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. He saw her reach for her coffee, then set it down without drinking. He saw her trying to hold herself together.

He looked at his phone, checked the website again, then set it down.

"Gabriella." His voice was gentle. "I'm sorry, this is my fault."

She looked up at him.

"I shouldn't have shown you the pictures," he said. "It was stupid of me. I was just excited about how happy you both looked. I did not think about the comments or how they would affect you."

He sighed and leaned forward.

"Ignore them, please." He took her phone out of her hand and set it on the desk. "Look, you know I have seen Cap with a lot of people. Reporters. Fans. Teammates. Random women who throw themselves at him. But with you, he is different. He relaxes. He stops performing. He is softer, gentler."

She blinked. "Bood..."

"I am not finished." He held up a hand. "The internet saw a few photos of you both and decided they know your whole story. They judged you based on a photo of a hug and a pizza. Nothing more."

He shook his head.

"But you and Cap? You were there last night. You know what actually happened. I know you saw the smile, the real one." He held her gaze. "The friendship you have is real. The rest is just noise. People shouting about things they do not understand."

She wiped her eyes. "It does not feel like noise."

"I know." His voice softened. "But it is. And it will pass. What stays is the friendship. That is what matters."

She looked at him, really looked. "That is... actually helpful."

"Been practicing." He shrugged. "Now stop reading the comments. They're not for you. They're for people who need something to be angry about."

He headed for the door, then paused.

"For what it's worth? I'm glad he has friends like you."

She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

He slipped out, closing the door quietly behind him.

+++

Gabriella sat there for a long moment, staring at her computer screen. She ignored Bood and opened the link again.

This is the best he could find in Ottawa? Yikes.
She's obviously one of many. No way he'd settle for her.
He deserves someone on his level. This is not it.
Sorry but she brings nothing to the table. Nothing.
Her? Make it make sense.

The comments swam as her eyes filled with tears.

She closed the link. Opened her email. Stared at it. Closed it.

The tears came anyway, slowly at first, then faster, dripping onto her keyboard. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and tried to focus on her spreadsheet, but the numbers wouldn't hold still.

She could text Ilya. He'd be at practice, but he'd answer. He always answered.

But what would she say? Hey, your fans think I'm ugly and boring, just wanted to let you know in case you wanted to stop being friends with me?

No.

She needed a cigarette. She needed to do some work. She sat still for god knows how long doing neither.

She was reaching for her cigarette pack when her phone rang.

Unknown number.

She almost let it go to voicemail. But her job, her actual job, once again required her to answer unknown numbers. She pulled herself together.

"Gabriella Marchaud."

"Hi, Gabriella. My name is Shane Hollander."

Her hand tightened on the phone. "Shane Hollander. As in The Shane Hollander."

"Yeah, that's me." There was a hint of amusement in his voice. "I'm sorry to call you out of the blue. My mum, ah Yuna, gave me your number. I hope that's okay."

"Yuna gave you..." She stopped. "Yes. Yes, that's fine. What can I do for you?"

"I'm in town later this week. I was wondering if we could meet for lunch or coffee?" A pause. "I wanted to talk about our mutual friend. If you have time, that is."

Gabriella's brain was not processing this quickly enough. "You want to meet with me? To talk about Ilya?"

"Is that strange?"

"Yes."

"Well." She could hear him smile. "Even if it is strange, would you meet with me?"

She paused "I think so. Yes. When were you thinking?"

"How about Friday at eleven? I know a nice place not too far from the centre. Exclusive enough for us to talk freely. I'll text you the address."

She glanced at her calendar. "Okay. I can make that work."

"Great." She could hear the warmth in his voice. "And Gabriella? Could you not tell Ilya about this? He does not know I have your number."

She hesitated. "If he asks directly, I won't lie to him."

"Understandable. I wouldn't expect you to."

"Okay." She took a breath. "And um, Shane?"

"Yeah?"

"The photos. They're not what they seem. We're just friends."

"I know." His voice was gentle. "That's why I called. To make sure you're okay and to tell you to ignore the paparazzi if you can. The internet was a mistake."

"True." She almost laughed. Almost.

"Listen," he said, "save my number when I text you. Then you'll have it in case anything changes before Friday. Or if you ever need to reach me for any other reason."

"Okay." She paused. "Should I save you as Shane, or...?"

"Shane is fine." A pause. "Or Hollander. Whatever works."

"Thank you, Shane Hollander."

"Thank you, Gabriella. I'll see you on Friday."

He texted almost the moment they hung up and she saved him as Shane Hollander (Jane?) and then immediately deleted the question mark.

Chapter End Notes

You guys, I have to confess that because I have been rewriting and obsessing over each chapter repeatedly (and also not doing my actual job in the meantime) I have become a little obsessed with these characters. They have taken over my brain and refuse to leave. And because of this I have already started to plot a sequel.

So, fair warning - if I can get the ending right for all of the characters in FoO and also for part 2, then the next story will follow not long after.

The same world. The same friendships. Some more characters thrown in for fun (Original Book and OC mixed together).There will be more chaos/meddling. And definitely more greenhouse-levels of flower deliveries from Ilya.

I am working on it. xoxo

Chapter 10: Fixing It

Chapter Summary

Flipping POV, Ilya tries to fix everything

Ilya saw the photos before practice.

The guys had printed them out and hung them in his locker for fun. The hug, the cheek kiss, the laughing together under the restaurant's neon sign. They were whooping and hollering when he walked in.

"How was your date, Cap?"

"We're friends, guys. It was a buddy-date. And it wen't well"

"We're sure it did!" Bood clapped him on the shoulder. "You look good together, is all we're saying."

Ilya looked at the photos. They did look good together, her head tilted back in laughter, his arm around her shoulders, both of them glowing in the warm light of the pizza parlor.

He felt proud.

He also felt worried.

Bood watched him for a moment. "Just so you know," he said quietly, "I saw her this morning. She was pretty upset when she saw the comments."

Ilya's smile faded. "I know. I saw them." His jaw tightened. "I will fix it."

Because he'd also seen the comments. He'd checked his phone on the way to practice, scrolling through the notifications, and his stomach had dropped with every terrible thing they said about her.

Not good enough for him.
So plain.
Who does she think she is?

She was his friend. His good friend. The only person in Ottawa, aside from the GM and the Hollanders, who knew the truth about him. The only person who looked at him and saw someone worth listening to, not just someone worth using.

And they were shitting on her.

+++

"Harris!" Ilya spotted the social media manager in the hallway, scrolling through his phone. "Harris, have you seen this?" He held up his phone.

"Oh yes." Harris looked up, his expression already shifting from casual to concerned. "Your buddy date with Gabriella. It's everywhere."

"We are good friends." Ilya gestured at the phone, his jaw tight. "She has been good to me since I arrived. The people on the internet are being mean to her. She is a normal person. She does not deserve this."

Harris nodded slowly, his eyes scanning Ilya's face. "No, she doesn't." He paused. "So what do you want to do about it?"

"I want to fix it."

Harris opened his mouth, probably to make a joke, but then he saw the look on Ilya's face. Serious. Determined. So he thought about it instead.

"We could post something officially," he said carefully. "Say you are friends from work. Keep it simple."

Ilya considered this, his brow furrowing. "No. That is boring. And I am not sure she would like it. It would feel like damage control, not..." He trailed off.

"Not genuine?"

"Da. Not genuine." Ilya nodded. "She deserves genuine."

"You are right." Harris paced the hallway, his footsteps echoing off the concrete. "It needs to be personal. She is your friend, not just a colleague. You need to show people that she matters to you."

"Yes." Ilya's voice was emphatic. "Exactly."

"So post about her as your friend. But be careful." Harris held up a finger. "You do not want people thinking you are hard-launching a relationship."

Ilya waved a hand. "I will make it clear we are just friends. Very clear. Extremely clear."

"How?"

Ilya stopped pacing, thinking hard. His brow furrowed. His lips moved silently, as if he were testing words and discarding them.

"What if I post about more than her?" he said finally. "What if I post about everyone? All my friends in Ottawa. Like everyone." He looked up, eyes bright. "Then I put her somewhere in the middle. Safe. And then no one will think we are more than friends." He searched Harris's face. "Would that work?"

Harris considered this, his head tilting as he worked through the logistics. "Yeah. Yeah, that could work." He nodded slowly, building momentum. "A whole series. Show people you have a community here, that she is just part of it. Not the focus. Just... one of many."

"Yes!" Ilya's whole face lit up. "Yes, this is good. This is very good." He was already pulling out his phone. "I will take photos. Many photos. With you, with Chiron, with the team, with everyone."

"Use a hashtag," Harris suggested. "Something unifying."

"Hashtag..." Ilya thought for a moment, his thumb hovering over the screen.

"How about simply #FriendsInOttawa?" Harris said. "It is easy and precise."

Ilya grinned. "Yes, it's perfect."

They set the plan in motion, then Ilya went looking for her.

+++

The smoking bay was actually just an access ramp that no one used, a concrete ledge behind the loading dock with a view of the parking lot and, if you squinted, a sliver of the Ottawa River. Gabriella had discovered it her second week on the job, during a particularly stressful event night when she'd needed five minutes away from a VIP who wouldn't stop complaining about the champagne temperature.

She was there now, leaning against the railing, a cigarette burning between her fingers. Her breath clouded in front of her face. The snow had been falling for hours, dusting the parked cars and muffling the city noise. It was freezing, but she barely noticed.

She didn't hear Ilya approach.

"Gabriella?"

She startled, nearly dropping the cigarette. Then she saw who it was and slumped back against the railing, pulling her puffer jacket tighter around her.

"I was looking for you." He walked toward her, hands in his pockets, a knit hat pulled low over his ears. "I did not know you smoked."

"There's a lot you don't know about me." She took a long drag, exhaled toward the sky. "That is the thing about being the listener. No one ever asks about you."

Ilya stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "I am asking now."

She looked at him, saw the earnestness in his eyes, and something in her face cracked. Just a little. Just enough.

"Sorry," she said. "I am being a bitch. I know you listen."

"No." He shook his head. "I am sorry. About the photos. About the things people are saying about you online. You have every right to be upset."

"It is not your fault that I am me and not..." She gestured vaguely with her cigarette. "Not one of those models you used to date."

"I never dated models."

"The internet says you did."

"The internet says a lot of things that are not true." He turned to face her fully, his expression fierce. The usual chaos in his eyes had settled into something steadier. Something that meant business.

"Look, you matter to me, Gabriella." He took a step closer, closing the distance between them. "It is not the same way Jane matters, that is different, that is... everything. But you matter. You are important to me, and I will always take care of you."

He held her gaze, willing her to believe him. She couldn't look away. All his attention was fixed on her, on the tears she was trying to hide, on the tremble in her hands.

"You do know that, right?" His voice dropped, softer now. "I'll always be here. I will not let the internet or anyone else make you forget who you are. Who we are."

Ilya stared deep into her eyes, willing her to believe him. "I do not want you to forget that, ever"

She let out a sad, surprised laugh. "That is a hell of a thing to say to someone who is currently crying into her cigarette."

"It is the truth." He paused. "Will you be okay?"

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "No. Maybe. I do not know." She stubbed out the cigarette. "The internet is very mean, Ilya. I do not know how you put up with it."

"I try to ignore it," he said. "The internet is full of people who have nothing better to do than be cruel to others." He opened his arms wide. "Can I hug you?"

She looked at him, this strange, wonderful, ridiculous man who had walked into her office months ago and decided she was worth trusting. Then she nodded.

He pulled her in gently, careful with his strength, and she let herself be held.

They stood like that for a long time, his chin resting on top of her head, her face pressed into his chest. The parking lot was quiet. The river glittered in the distance.

"I have a plan," he said finally.

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him. "A plan?"

"To make the internet be nice to you."

She raised an eyebrow. "No, no, no, no, no. No more internet for me today. Nope. Absolutely not."

"But this is Harris-approved." He launched into his explanation, the photos, the hashtag, the series of posts showing all his friends in Ottawa. "This way it is not just you. People can see I have many friends. Including you. You would be safe in the middle."

She stared at him. "That is... actually not a terrible idea."

"Of course not." He grinned. "Harris approved it. We can only win."

"Where would we take the photos?"

He rocked back on his heels, looking far too pleased with himself. "I have ideas."

+++

They started outside the stadium, the golden hour light catching the fresh snow and making it sparkle. Their breath fogged in the cold air as they moved from spot to spot, leaving footprints behind them.

First, a face-off photo in front of a massive banner of Ilya's face, Gabriella pretending to challenge him, him pretending to be intimidated. Then one of her handing him tickets from the box office window, a job she didn't actually do but played along with because he looked so excited. A three-way shot with Harris, all of them pulling ridiculous faces. A handshake photo like they were brokering a deal.

And then, the last one.

"I have an idea," Ilya said, crouching down. "Get on."

"Absolutely not."

"Get on, Gabriella."

"I am not getting on your back like a child."

"You are getting on my back like a friend who deserves to be carried." He looked over his shoulder at her. "Trust me?"

She hesitated. Then she climbed on.

He stood up easily. She weighed nothing to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, laughing despite herself. He jogged toward the entrance of the facility, both of them grinning, their boots crunching on the snow.

Harris took the photo.

It was perfect.

Chapter 11: The Posts

Later, Ilya sat down after his gym session. His phone was in his hand, and he was still catching his breath. His thumb hovered over the first photo.

He could do this. For her. For himself. For all of them.

He started to post.

Image 1: Chiron asleep on top of Ilya.
Text: Since arriving in Ottawa, I have made many new friends. They have supported me and lifted me up during this transition. I would like you to meet some of them.
First of all, this is Chiron. He gives me snuggles and tries to steal my gloves. He makes me happy every single day. I love you, Chiron. #FriendsInOttawa

Image 2: A locker room selfie with most of the Ottawa Centaurs crammed into the frame. Ilya in the middle, grinning like he'd just won the Stanley Cup.
Text: My team. You guys took me in like a stray puppy and you let me boss you around. We're going to do something special together. I can feel it. I love you, Centaurs. #FriendsInOttawa

Image 3: Harris and Ilya with their faces smooshed together.
Text: Harris. You have tried to teach me how to be eloquent on the internet even though it is a dumpster fire. You also bring me cider and cake and Chiron. You may be my favourite person on the ground floor staff. I love you, Harris. #FriendsInOttawa

Image 4: Coach, caught off guard, looking up from his iPad with a rare smile.
Text: Coach. You took a chance on a notorious loudmouthed Russian who had a dream of becoming the best Canadian hockey player. Your belief in me will not go unrewarded. I will do you and Ottawa proud. I love you, Coach. #FriendsInOttawa

And then Gabriella.

Image 5: Gabriella and Ilya doing a face-off. Gabriella and Ilya exchanging box office tickets.
Text: Gabriella. My friend. You listen and hear what I am truly saying. You make me laugh when I am down and you make sure to always be there when I need support. Friends in the mirror. I love you, Gabriella. #FriendsInOttawa

He posted that one fifth. Not first, not last. Somewhere safe in the middle.

The rest came quickly.

Image 6: Shane, looking disgruntled in an old photo Ilya had saved on his phone.
Text: Shane. We have always stood together at the top, and now we stand together in Ottawa (geographically). I love you, Shane. #FriendsInOttawa

Image 7: Masha, the owner of the Russian restaurant handing Ilya a plate of pelmeni while he grins with his mouth full.
Text: Masha. You feed me like I'm your own son. You keep me on track, you make sure I'm ready to win games, and your food is divine. EVERYONE GO EAT AT @MASHASRUSSIANEATERY. I love you, Masha. And your pelmeni. #FriendsInOttawa

Image 8: Yuna, looking elegant in a black dress, standing next to Ilya at some charity gala.
Text: Yuna. When I moved to Ottawa, you took me under your wing and made sure I felt at home. I hope I do you proud. I love you, Yuna. #FriendsInOttawa

Image 9: David, sitting at a table covered in puzzle pieces, Ilya's hand reaching for a corner piece.
Text: David. I have never known peace like I do finding pieces of a puzzle with you. Thank you for letting me into your home. I love you, David. #FriendsInOttawa

Image 10: The Centaurs mascot, mid-dance, Ilya laughing beside him.
Text: Now that you have met some of my friends in Ottawa, please send them love. They have given me everything. And in turn, I'll give this city everything I have. Much love to my #FriendsInOttawa

He posted the final image and closed the app.

The notifications would come. The comments would hopefully shift. For now, that would have to be enough.

+++

Ilya went home meaning to call Shane. Not because he hadn't told him about Gabriella before, he had, weeks ago, in bits and pieces. She's different, Shane. She listens. She doesn't ask for anything. But tonight he wanted to tell him everything. The photos. The hashtag. The way she'd cried into her cigarette and then laughed on his back. The way she'd looked at him when he opened his arms and said, "Can I hug you?" like she wasn't sure she deserved it.

He wanted Shane to know he had a friend. A real one. Someone who saw him and didn't flinch. And he wanted Shane to hear it in his voice, the happiness. Because Shane would know what that meant.

But first, he waited.

He sat on his couch, phone in hand, staring at the screen. Gabriella hadn't texted yet. She would. He knew she would. She just needed time.

He could be patient. For her, he could be patient.

His phone buzzed.

Jane (8:47 PM): I saw the posts. Call me when you can. I'm proud of you.

Ilya smiled. He'd call Shane. Soon.

But first, he waited a little longer.

+++

Gabriella had been home for an hour before she turned off the Do Not Disturb on her phone.

She'd spent the afternoon in a fog, responding to emails, avoiding social media, pretending she wasn't thinking about the comments. When she got home, she'd made dinner, ate it without tasting it, and curled up on the couch with her phone on silent.

Now, finally, she looked.

Hundreds of messages. People she hadn't heard from in months suddenly surfacing like they'd never disappeared.

You know Rozanov?!?!
You look great! We should grab coffee sometime.
Can't believe you're famous now.

Her mom: That's my girl.
Her sister: Um, explain???
Her cousin's friend in Vancouver: So uh... you single? Asking for a friend. (The friend is me.)

And then... the posts.

Ilya had tagged her in two photos. They looked happy. Laughing. Like people who genuinely enjoyed each other's company.

She read the caption.

Gabriella. My friend. You listen and hear what I am truly saying. You make me laugh when I am down and you make sure to always be there when I need support. Friends in the mirror. I love you, Gabriella. #FriendsInOttawa

She started crying.

Not sad tears, not entirely. The kind of tears that come when someone sees you, really sees you, and decides you're worth keeping around.

She scrolled through the rest of his posts, Chiron, the team, Harris, Coach, Masha, Yuna, David, Shane ... and felt something loosen in her chest. He had a community here. A chosen family. And somehow, impossibly, she was part of it.

Shane had posted to the hashtag as well.

Image: A candid shot of Ilya and Shane in front of some Ottawa landmark.
Text: Ilya. You make me a better person, on and off the Ice. I am glad you found so many #FriendsInOttawa I love you, Ilya.

It was not everything. It was not the whole truth. But it was enough. Enough for the people who needed to know. Enough for Ilya to read it a dozen times, she guessed, sitting alone in his house. Enough for the rest of the world to see two rivals who loved each other like brothers, or maybe more, if anyone was paying close enough attention.

But no one ever paid that close attention.

That was the thing about hiding in plain sight. You could say "I love you" on the internet and everyone would assume you meant it like a teammate. Like a friend. Like a brother.

Only the people who mattered would know differently. And apparently, she was one of them.

She opened her own Instagram. She didn't post often, a few photos of sunsets, some travel photos, a fabulous sunset shot of a pastel de nata in Lisbon, her cat who'd died two years ago and still sometimes made her cry when she thought about him.

But tonight, she posted.

Image: Ilya giving Gabriella a piggyback ride, both of them smiling, her arms wrapped around his neck, his hands gripping her thighs.
Text: Ilya. You walked into my office as a colleague and left as a friend. Your hugs and support mean more than I can put into words. In the words of the Golden Girls: thank you for being a friend. I love you, Ilya. #FriendsInOttawa

She turned off her phone and smiled herself to sleep.

Chapter 12: The Next Morning

Chapter Notes

The next morning, she arrived at the office to find Ilya already waiting in the hallway. He was holding a single sunflower wrapped in paper.

"You are here early," she said.

"I could not sleep." He held out the flower. "This is for you."

She took it carefully. "No card?"

"The card is me." He pointed at himself. "I am standing right here."

She looked at the sunflower, then at him. "You came all the way here to deliver one flower?"

"I came all the way here to see you and make sure you are okay." He nodded toward her office door. "Can we talk?"

She unlocked the door and they walked inside. He closed it behind them, then sat down in his chair.

She sat across from him. He slid the sunflower towards her, placing it on the desk between them.

"Thank you," she said meekly.

"You did not text me last night," he said quietly.

"I know. I posted though." She shrugged. "It was faster than trying to explain myself in a text. "

"Okay. And the Golden Girls?"

She smiled. "It felt right."

He tilted his head. "I do not know what that is, but I am glad it made you smile."

"It is a TV show from the eighties. Four older women living together in Miami." She paused. "They are friends, real friends. They fight and they tease each other, but at the end of the day, they show up." She met his eyes. "The theme song is about thanking someone for being a friend."

He considered this. "Send me the song. I will listen."

"Really?" She looked at him sceptically.

"Really. If it made you smile, I want to know why." He paused. "I was worried about you last night."

She looked down at the flower. "I know. I am sorry."

"Do not apologise." His voice was gentle. "You needed time, I understand that."

She nodded. "I needed to sit with it first. The comments and the posts. All of it." She met his eyes. "I am okay now."

"You are sure?"

She nodded. "I am sure."

He studied her for a long moment, searching for something beneath the surface. Then he leaned back.

"Good," he said. "Because I need you to be okay."

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"Yesterday was a disaster online, but I think we fixed it. We changed the narrative." He met her eyes. "Jane taught me that. Narratives can be changed if you fight hard enough and if you are loud enough. Things can get better."

She blinked. "Ilya..."

"I know you are strong." He held her gaze. "I know you do not need me to fight your battles. But I wanted to protect you from it. To stand between you and the trolls so you did not have to see a single bad word." He looked down at his hands. "I tried at least. You are my friend and I will not let anyone talk about you like that. Not ever."

Her throat tightened.

"I wanted to call you last night," he continued. "To check in. To make sure you were okay. But I did not know what to say. 'I am sorry' did not feel like enough and 'it will be okay' did not feel true." He looked back up at her. "So I waited. I hoped you would text me when you were ready. "

She swallowed. "Sorry. I did not have the words."

"Me neither." He gestured toward the sunflower. "That is why I am here. I thought a flower might say it better than I could."

She looked at the sunflower. Then at him.

"It is a good flower," she said quietly.

He almost smiled. "Sunflowers mean warmth and happiness. That is what I wanted to give you."

"You know the meaning?"

"I have been sending them for a while. I never told you why." He paused. "Because I did not know how to say it. But I am trying now."

She looked down at the flower, then back at him.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For the posts. For the flower. For... all of it."

He nodded. "And thank you for your post. For the Golden Girls and for being my friend when I did not deserve it."

"You always deserved it."

He shook his head. "I did not always believe that. But I am starting to."

The words hung in the air between them. Then he straightened in his chair.

“Good," she said softly.

"Good," he said. "Because I need you to be okay. You are my mirror twin. If you are not okay, then I am not okay."

She raised an eyebrow. "That is not how mirror twins work."

"It is how this mirror twin works." A small grin appeared. "Plus I made it up, so I make the rules." He pointed at her. "And you are stuck with me."

She laughed. A real laugh, the first one since yesterday. "Yes. I guess I am."

He nodded, satisfied. Then he stood up.

"Okay. I have practice." He glanced at his watch, then back at her. His expression softened. "You know I could not have gone out there without knowing you were okay. Not after last night."

She nodded. "Thank you, for checking in. I will be okay. "

“Good.” He paused at the door, his hand on the frame. "Also, Harris says hello. He is very proud of his hashtag."

She almost smiled. "Tell him I said thank you."

"I will." He opened the door, then looked back. "Gabriella? Next time, text me. Even if you do not have the words, just send me the hockey puck. I will know what it means."

She nodded. "Okay. A hockey puck."

He held her gaze for a moment longer. "You are not alone in this."

Then he was gone.

For a moment, she just sat there, letting the quiet settle around her.

Then she picked up her pen.

There was work to do. That, at least, had not changed.

Chapter End Notes

Next up: Whitmore returns. This wasn't in the original outline, but now that the side quest is part of the main story, he needed to address the posts.

Also, this is a series now. I have plotted at least two more stories. One fun little ditty takes place during the playoffs at the end of this season. The other covers the following season and is much longer. I think I know where everyone is headed. Now I just need time to write and to figure out whether I want to change some canon events or not.

Enjoy.

Chapter 13: The Reckoning

An hour later, her phone buzzed with a summons. Derek Whitmore wanted to see her again.

When she arrived, Whitmore was seated behind his desk, but this time he was not writing. He was waiting for her.

"Miss Marchaud. Close the door."

She did.

"You saw the hashtag," she said, sitting down.

"I saw the hashtag." He folded his hands on the desk. "I also saw the captain telling the world he loves you and he also loves the Hollanders. And in return, Shane Hollander told the world he loves him back. And then approximately ten thousand people joined in."

"The hashtag was about friendship."

"The internet does not know that."

"It does now, that was the whole point." She met his eyes. "Ilya posted about all his friends. His team. His dog. The woman who feeds him pelmeni. We are all part of his community. That was the point."

Whitmore nodded slowly. "I am aware of the communications perspective on this. Harris briefed me."

"Then why am I here?" She held his gaze. "If you already know the facts, if Harris has already explained the strategy, then this is not about the hashtag. This is about something else."

He did not answer immediately. The silence stretched between them, heavy and deliberate.

She waited.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Because I am worried. And I thought we had an understanding after we last spoke."

Gabriella stayed quiet.

"The Hollanders," he continued. "Section 112. The charity. The friendship. The 'I love you's' on Instagram." He shook his head. "It is a lot, Miss Marchaud. Especially when you look at it all together. The league has a long memory."

"I am sure the league saw a player thanking his friends. That was the point of it all."

"The league saw what Rozanov wanted them to see. But there are people in that office who watch. Who notice. Who ask questions." He paused. "I have already received a call."

Gabriella's stomach tightened. "From who?"

"Someone who wanted to know why Rozanov and Hollander were declaring their love for each other on a public platform." Whitmore held up a hand before she could speak. "I told them it was a friendship thing, a joke among players. They seemed satisfied."

"But?"

"But I do not know how long that will last." He leaned back in his chair. "You told me the charity would give them cover. You told me the business partnership would explain the connection."

"And it will. They are launching the charity next month with a press conference."

"Yes, but you did not tell me they would be posting love letters to each other on Instagram before then."

"It was not a love letter."

"It looked like one from a distance."

Gabriella held his gaze. "Ilya is allowed to love his friends. He is allowed to love his chosen family. That is not a scandal. That is being human."

Whitmore stared at her for a long moment. Then he sighed.

"You are very good at this. But I need Rozanov to be careful."

"You should talk to Ilya directly if you are this worried. The posts were Harris approved. This should not be a big deal."

"And I will. He and I have an understanding. But I need you, as his colleague and friend, to help him."

"I will support him in any way that I can."

"I know." He picked up his pen, then set it down again. "Look, I am not angry, Miss Marchaud. I am concerned. There is a difference."

She nodded.

"The Hollanders are a complication," he continued. "The charity is a complication. Shane Hollander is a complication. And now the entire internet is watching." He met her eyes. "Now despite all of this tell me clearly, what is your relationship with Rozanov? Truly? Do I need you to declare something to HR?"

She wondered if he wanted her to lie. If he wanted her to say that she and Ilya were in a relationship, something simple, something explainable, something that would make all of this make sense to him. But she could not. She would not.

She did not hesitate. "There is only friendship and community. He needed someone to listen and I was there. No need for HR reporting."

Whitmore studied her. "And has that changed? Since you first started working with him?"

"No." She shook her head. “I am still supporting him. So are Yuna and David. So is Shane, from a distance. So are his teammates." She paused. "And full disclosure, I am going to be helping with the charity. As a volunteer. I am meeting with the Hollanders tomorrow to discuss the launch." She held his gaze. "I wanted you to know. So you do not get the wrong idea when you hear about it."

Whitmore was quiet for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he almost smiled.

"I appreciate the heads up," he said. "That is more than most people would give me."

She said nothing.

He leaned back in his chair. "Just keep it professional. All of it. The charity. The friendship. The... whatever else is going on."

"That is the plan."

He studied her for a moment longer, his gaze sharp but not unkind. Then he nodded slowly.

"As I said, I am not mad about the hashtag or the posts. I am not even mad about Shane Hollander's name appearing on my feed." He paused. "But I need you to be careful. All of you. The league is watching. The press is watching. And if someone decides to dig deeper, I need to know there is nothing for them to find."

Gabriella held very still. "There is nothing that would damage this team."

"That is not what I asked."

She met his eyes. "I have told you everything that needs to be known."

Whitmore studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded.

"Alright." He picked up his pen. "Keep a low profile. Keep the Hollanders in Section 112. Keep the charity professional. And keep Rozanov focused on hockey and tell him to stop wandering around the administration building."

She nodded. "Will do."

"Good." He looked up at her. "You are loyal, Miss Marchaud. I respect that. Just make sure your loyalty does not blind you."

"It will not."

He waved his hand. "Go. I have work to do."

She walked out of his office with the weight of his words on her shoulders and a new understanding. He definitely knew about Ilya. He suspected something about the Hollanders. And they all had to work together to keep it quiet. Or at least platonic.

She stopped in the hallway and leaned against the wall.

This might be too many secrets for her. She had told Ilya that seventy percent of her job was keeping secrets. But this... this was starting to feel like the other thirty percent was getting very crowded.

She shook her head. She had to cross one bridge at a time.

She went back to her office and tried to get back to work.

+++

She did not get back to work.

She picked up her phone and texted Ilya.

Gabriella (12:34 PM): I need you to be straight with me
Ilya (12:35 PM): Sorry, no can do. Not straight at all
Gabriella (12:36 PM): Very funny. Bisexual menace.
Ilya (12:37 PM): No longer a menace. You know this
Ilya (12:37 PM): A little bit of a menace. But not slutty
Ilya (12:37 PM): Only slutty for Jane
Gabriella (12:38 PM): OK but Seriously.
Gabriella (12:38 PM): What does Whitmore know about you? You said when we first met that I might know more than him. The implication was that he knows something about you.

She stared at the screen. The three dots appeared, then disappeared. Appeared again. Stopped.

He did not reply after that.

Ten minutes later, he was in her office.

He closed the door behind him without asking. His face was unreadable.

"What did Whitmore say?" he asked.

Gabriella set down her phone. She took a breath. This was not going to be easy.

"He is concerned about the posts. Especially about the Hollanders being included so publicly."

Ilya's brow furrowed. "But it was Harris approved. I just wanted to make the internet be nice to you."

"I know." She paused. "And that is commendable. But there is something I should have told you before. Something I did not think about when we agreed to the photos and the hashtag."

"And what is that?"

"In the first meeting I had with Whitmore about Yuna and David," She met his eyes. "He told me he was worried about their visibility. About people noticing them. About the attention it could bring. But he said it would be okay if we kept it quiet, and to warn communications in case something happened"

Ilya's jaw tightened. "Ah. And you did not tell me this."

"No, and I am sorry." She looked down at her hands. "I thought it would be best to keep doing what we were doing. I didn't think about it when we planned the posts. I was upset about the comments and I was not thinking clearly." She looked back up at him. "I just wanted it all to stop. I... I should have warned you. I am sorry."

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed. "It is okay."

He sat down in his chair, rubbing his face with both hands.

"So Whitmore is worried about the Hollanders being seen."

"Yes."

"And now they have been seen. In the posts and with the hashtag. And I said I love you."

"Yes."

He leaned back. "What else did he say?"

Gabriella took another breath. "He said the league is watching. He said he already received a call."

Ilya's hands dropped. "A call? From who?"

"He did not say. Someone who wanted to know why you and Shane were declaring your love for each other on a public platform."

Ilya stared at her, his expression unreadable. She searched his face for something familiar, but all she found was a storm she could not name, anger maybe, or fear?

"And what did you tell him?" he asked quietly.

"I told him it was a friendship thing, community. A simple hashtag and nothing more." She paused. "He seemed satisfied."

"There seems like there is a but?"

She leaned back in her chair. "But he also asked about us. Our relationship. He wanted to know if we needed to declare something to HR." She paused. "I think he wanted me to lie."

Ilya's eyes widened. "What did you say?"

"The truth." She held his gaze. "That you are my friend. That I am here to support you. Professionally and personally. No need for HR. No need for declarations."

Ilya exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "That is good. That is all true."

"Yes." She paused. "But Ilya, he clearly knows something. Something he is not saying to me." She tilted her head. "Maybe you already know what it is?"

Ilya was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "When I first signed, I told him I am bisexual and I told him I have a partner. I assured him I did not want to come out, not yet. Maybe one day, but not now." He paused. "He asked if it would be a distraction. I said no. He said he trusted me."

"You told him.”

“Yes”

"And now, because you wanted to help me, he thinks..." Gabriella's voice caught. "He thinks he knows who your partner is? Who Jane is?"

“Yes.”

"Oh shit, Ilya." Her eyes filled with tears. "I am so sorry."

He stood up and stepped toward her, pulling her into a hug. "No. This is my fault. I got greedy. I wanted to tell you all I love you, and I did not think it through. I thought I would get away with it." His voice was thick. "It is my fault."

"No, Ilya." She pulled back, wiping her eyes. "It's not! You should be able to say you love your people. Your family. Without having to worry about shit like this."

"Yes. That would be nice." He gave her a sad smile. "But is not realistic."

He pulled back and sat on the edge of her desk.

He sighed again. "I will speak with Whitmore. Let him know we are just friends, business partners, chosen family or whatever. I will reassure him that it will not affect my game. It is not the whole truth, but maybe it is enough."

He paused, staring at her intently. "Thank you, Gabriella. For protecting me."

She shook her head. "I am not sure I really did."

"You have looked after me. You have looked after Jane. You have looked after Yuna and David. You always have my back, as you said professionally and personally." His voice softened. "I appreciate that. I appreciate you." He gestured toward the flowers on her filing cabinet. "The flowers. The cards. I mean all of it."

The room became blurry again.

She blinked hard. "I know. But Ilya..." She couldn't continue.

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded.

“No buts... It will be okay Gabriella.”

He patted her on the shoulder and left, closing the door behind him.

Gabriella stared at the empty office.

She thought about Whitmore. About the questions he had asked. About the way he had looked at her when she said she had told him everything he needed to know.

He knew Ilya was bisexual. He knew Ilya had a partner. He knew about the Hollanders. He knew about the charity. He knew about the extra trips to Montreal. He had the same pieces of the puzzle she had once held. The same scattered clues. The same questions without answers. And he was not stupid. He had already figured it out... Or he was close to it. At the very least, he suspected.

But he did not know who Jane really was.

Not yet.

Fuck.

She stared at her spreadsheet. The numbers blurred. She blinked, tried to focus, and blurred them again.

Ilya had said it was not her fault. He had meant it, she knew he had. But she could not stop thinking that it was. That it was her fault. If she had warned him about Whitmore's concerns before the posts. If she had said something sooner. If she had been paying attention instead of worrying about internet trolls.

If. If. If.

The word looped in her head like a record stuck on repeat.

She was supposed to be protecting him. Instead, she had made everything harder.

She wiped her eyes and tried again to get some work done. Seventy percent of her job was secrets. But lately, she felt like she was failing at all of it.

She pulled up the next form and forced herself to focus. One cell at a time. One spreadsheet at a time. One day at a time.

That was how she would fight her way back.

+++

A little while later, as she was still failing to get any work done, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, half expecting another summons from Whitmore. Instead, it was Ilya.

She stared at his name for a moment, then opened the message.

Ilya (3:07 PM): I spoke with Whitmore

Her heart skipped. She typed back quickly.

Gabriella (3:07 PM): And?
Ilya (3:07 PM): It will be okay. He understands
Gabriella (3:08 PM): What did he say?
Ilya (3:08 PM): Stay under the radar. No more public declarations. At least not until the charity launches
Gabriella (3:08 PM): Smart plan.
Ilya (3:08 PM): Whitmore is smart. That is why he is the GM
Gabriella (3:09 PM): And the Hollanders?
Ilya (3:09 PM): Stays the same. Quiet. No announcements
Gabriella (3:09 PM): Good.

She hesitated. Then typed.

Gabriella (3:10 PM): Did you tell him Jane would be here this weekend?
Ilya (3:10 PM): No
Gabriella (3:10 PM): Ilya.
Ilya (3:10 PM): He did not ask.
Gabriella (3:11 PM): That is not the same thing, and you know it.
Ilya (3:11 PM): Jane will be careful. Same as always
Gabriella (3:11 PM): And if someone notices?
Ilya (3:11 PM): No one will notice. You're good at your job

She stared at the screen. She wanted to argue. But the system worked. It had worked all season.

Gabriella (3:12 PM): Fine. But if Whitmore asks, I am telling him I had no idea.
Ilya (3:12 PM): You are the box office manager. You literally hold the keys to the building
Gabriella (3:12 PM): Details.
Ilya (3:12 PM): Very important details
Gabriella (3:12 PM): You are a bad influence.
Ilya (3:12 PM): *angel emoji*

Her brow furrowed in worry.

Gabriella (3:13 PM): Everything will be okay, right?
Ilya (3:13 PM): Yes
Ilya (3:13 PM): It has to be
Gabriella (3:13 PM): That is not reassuring.
Ilya (3:13 PM): It is the truth
Ilya (3:13 PM): We have made it this far. We will keep making it work
Gabriella (3:14 PM): And if we do not?
Ilya (3:14 PM): Then we figure it out together

She stared at the screen. Together

Ilya (3:14 PM): That is what friends do

She set down her phone and worried about what would happen after her lunch tomorrow. She had not told Ilya about it. She really hoped this would not backfire. She did not want a third meeting with Whitmore, and she did not want to keep anything from Ilya.

Fuckity Fuck.

+++

She felt so guilty that she decided to take a leaf out of Ilya's friendship playbook. If he could send flowers to say what he could not put into words, then she could send emotional support donuts. She went out and bought a dozen of his favourites and dropped them off at security with a note that simply said: Together.

"These are for Rozanov," she said. "Can you make sure he gets them?"

Fred took the box, peering inside. "Oh you bought the party pack. Fancy."

"It is an emergency."

He raised an eyebrow but did not ask. "I will get them to him."

As she walked away, she heard him call out to a trainer passing by.

"Emily! Can you take these up to Rozanov's locker? Apparently it's an emergency."

"An emergency? With donuts?"

"Do not ask questions. Just go."

"Rozanov gets all the good stuff," Gabriella heard the trainer grumble.

"He's the Captain," Fred pointed out.

Gabriella smiled and kept walking before anyone could ask her what kind of emergency required a dozen donuts.

Well, at least Ilya could enjoy the donuts before he found out about her lunch with Shane. After that, she would probably need to buy a second box. One for the apology. And one for keeping secrets in the first place.

Chapter 14: Lunch with Shane

Chapter Summary

Turns out Gabriella and Shane have a lot to talk about...

Chapter Notes

By Friday, the hashtag was still going.

It was not as strong as it was on the first day, nothing could sustain that level of momentum, but people were still posting, still adding their own photos and stories about friendship in Ottawa. Ilya and Harris had managed to shift the narrative completely. The cruel comments had been buried beneath wave after wave of support.

Despite all Gabriella's conflicting feelings about the GM and her upcoming lunch with Shane, she was glad to see the hashtag succeeding. People were posting, the comments had evolved for the better, and the noise had faded. For the first time in days, the internet no longer felt like it was on fire and she could finally get some work done.

And yet, every time she thought about the hashtag, she felt herself getting emotional.

She knew Ilya had influence, he was famous after all. But she wondered if he truly understood the impact he had on people. Not just the fans who bought his jersey or the kids who wanted to be him. The real impact. With a few posts and a silly hashtag, he had changed the narrative around her. He hadn't just uploaded photos or typed a few supportive words. He had meant them. He had wanted to help. He had wanted to be there. And somehow, impossibly, he had made her believe that someone could stand between her and the trolls and actually make a difference.

She suspected he did not know the effect he had on people.

She had suspected as much from the number of times he had wandered into her office just to stare at her drywall. From the way he settled into his chair and quietly asked if she was okay when she so obviously wasn't. He had no idea how much those small moments had mattered.

He thought he was just showing up. He did not realize that showing up was everything.

She had to find a way to repay him for his kindness.

The problem was that you couldn't simply buy something for your multimillionaire friend. He already had everything money could buy. If she wanted to give him something meaningful, she would have to be creative. She would have to find the one thing he didn't even know he needed.

She'd figure it out. Just as soon as she got through lunch with Shane.

+++

Gabriella arrived early to the restaurant Shane had suggested. It was a small modern Italian place tucked between a bookstore and a florist, a place you would walk past a dozen times without noticing.

Inside was all dark wood and marble countertops, the decor gave the room a quiet elegance. Conversations stayed low, the atmosphere expensive without being showy.

Shane was already there. He occupied a booth near the back, hidden behind high partitions that could shield him from the rest of the dining room if he wanted. As she approached, he stood automatically and offered his hand.

"Gabriella. It's so good to finally meet you."

"Shane." His handshake was warm and calloused, familiar in a way she hadn't expected. The hand of someone who spent his life gripping a hockey stick. It was just like Ilya's.

He smiled what appeared to be a genuine smile, one she hadn't seen on the posters before.

"You know," he said, "without Ilya's posts, I wouldn't have known what you looked like. So I'm relieved you resemble your photos."

Gabriella laughed. "Well, lucky me. You definitely look like yours, maybe better."

"Good." His grin widened. "That would've been awkward."

They slid into opposite sides of the booth. A waiter appeared. Gabriella ordered ginger ale without thinking. Shane raised an eyebrow.

"Ginger ale?"

"What's wrong with ginger ale?"

"Nothing." His smile returned. "Ilya said we had things in common. He neglected to mention this one."

"Ah. The ginger ale club."

"A highly exclusive organization."

He ordered the same, along with plain salmon and steamed vegetables. Gabriella ordered guanciale pasta because life was too short to eat plain salmon when pasta existed.

When the waiter left, Shane's expression shifted. Not dramatically, just enough that she could tell he was working up to something.

"I actually invited you here to thank you."

She blinked. "For what?"

"For being there for him."

The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard.

Gabriella leaned back in her seat. "Oh. We're just diving straight into that, huh?"

"Yeah." Shane rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "Sorry. If I don't say it now, I'm just going to spend the entire lunch being weird about it."

She laughed. "OK. Well you better get it off of your chest then.."

He took a breath, gathering himself.

"So. Again. thank you." His gaze settled on hers. "Ilya doesn't let many people in. I'm sure you've noticed that."

"I've noticed."

"But he chose you." Shane shook his head slightly, like the fact still surprised him. "Usually he puts up walls. Aggressively and all at once. Like he's preparing for a siege nobody is actually planning."

Gabriella laughed softly.

"That is... an alarmingly accurate description."

"I've known him a long time." Shane rolled his water glass between his hands. "So when I found out he'd been talking to someone at work, someone he trusted..." He grimaced. "Yeah. I panicked."

"You panicked?"

"I absolutely panicked."

The admission surprised her.

"I thought, who is this person? What do they want? Are they going to hurt him?"

His expression turned serious.

"You see, I've seen people try to use him before. For money. Access. Attention. Whatever they could get." He looked down at the table for a moment. "The thing about Ilya is that underneath all the walls and the attitude and the terrible jokes, he's incredibly open. He cares so much more than he lets people see."

"Yeah."

His eyes lifted to hers.

"You know that?"

"I do." The answer came easily. "I see how happy he gets when someone is kind to him. The way he almost doesn't know what to do with it." She paused. "And the way he expects people to have an angle because so many of them do."

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then she added softly, "I don't have an angle, Shane. I am just someone who happened to be there when he needed somebody to listen."

Shane studied her. After a moment, he nodded.

"That is what I realised."

Something in his shoulders relaxed.

"After I got over myself, I realised he needed someone on his side. Someone who could listen without carrying all of my baggage too." He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. "I'm a lot, Gabriella. I know that. The pressure, the expectations, people watching everything I do. And because he loves me, he carries some of that with me."

He paused.

"But with you..." He gestured between them. "With you, he gets to be just Ilya. Not the captain. Not my partner. Not the guy everyone wants something from."

His smile softened.

"Just himself."

Gabriella felt something tighten in her chest.

"That's all I've ever wanted."

"I can see that."

For a moment, neither of them looked away.

Then Shane leaned back and cleared his throat, suddenly looking a little self-conscious.

"Anyway." He rubbed the back of his neck. "That is actually why I wanted to meet you. To say thank you." He hesitated. "And to tell you that if you ever need anything, anything at all, you've got a friend in me too."

She blinked.

"You don't even know me."

A small smile crossed his face.

"I know you're discreet. I know you listen. And I know you made him smile when he hadn't been smiling much." He shrugged. "Honestly, that's enough for me."

She didn't know what to do with that kind of kindness. So she said the first thing that came to mind.

"You know he never actually told me it was you."

Shane frowned.

"What?"

"I mean, officially." She smiled. "I kind of figured it out."

His hand stilled on the table.

"He didn't tell you?"

"Not really."

She shook her head.

"I just kept collecting pieces of the puzzle. Eventually they started fitting together." She ticked them off on her fingers. "Jane. The way he talked about her. Then the way he stopped saying her and started saying them. Then him. The texts. The cottage. The charity."

She met his eyes.

"The way he says your name."

Something flickered across Shane's face.

"The closest I ever came to asking," she continued, "was when I made a joke about you being the sexiest man in the NHL."

A laugh escaped him.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes," Gabriella grinned. "He accidentally said Jane instead of Shane."

Shane dropped his head into one hand.

"No, he didn't."

"He absolutely did."

She was laughing now.

"I don't think he even realised he'd done it."

Shane groaned.

"That's very on brand for him."

"It really is."

He shook his head, smiling despite himself.

"So you figured us out. Huh?"

"Yeah, Jane. I did."

"Bloody Ilya." He laughed softly. "The man has all the subtlety of a sledgehammer."

"Maybe." Gabriella tilted her head. "But he loves you."

A faint pink flush crept across his cheeks.

"Well," he muttered, suddenly very interested in his water glass, "that's mildly embarrassing."

Gabriella laughed.

"I think it's kind of sweet."

The last of the tension dissolved between them. For a moment, they sat there smiling at each other, comfortable in a way that would have seemed impossible an hour earlier.

Then Shane's expression softened.

The smile lingered, but something more thoughtful settled behind it.

"There is something else I need to say," he said quietly. "About something Ilya told me."

She waited. "Okay."

"He told me about the meeting with the GM."

The warmth of the moment faded, replaced by something more serious, again.

"He said you protected him before you even knew what you were protecting." Shane paused, holding her gaze. "He told me you walked into that office alone and argued for us. For our family. For something you didn't even fully understand yet."

A small smile touched his mouth. "That's a brave thing to do. And I'm grateful."

Her throat tightened. "I just did my job."

Shane shook his head.

"No. You did more than your job, Gabriella. You know that, right?"

She opened her mouth, but he continued.

"And the press box." His expression softened. "You found me a place in the arena. You made room for someone you had never met. Someone who, technically, isn't supposed to be there at all."

She looked down at her hands. "It was just an empty room."

"It wasn't."

His answer came immediately.

"It was somewhere I could watch him play without worrying who was watching me. Somewhere I didn't have to hide and I didn't have to explain myself." He paused. "You gave me a place to belong in his world."

The words landed harder than she expected.

"I know it probably seemed small to you," Shane continued quietly. "But it wasn't small to me. And it wasn't small to him."

The praise made her uncomfortable. Not because she disliked it. Because she never quite knew what to do with it. So she said nothing.

Shane reached across the table and squeezed her hand briefly.

"Thank you, Gabriella."

His smile returned, warm and sincere.

"For all of it."

They sat there quietly for a moment. Gabriella tried to pull herself together, but her thoughts had become a tangled knot of gratitude, embarrassment, and emotions she wasn't quite ready to examine. She could feel the tears coming and she wanted to temper them down.

She took a slow breath and blinked them back.

Eventually, she nodded.

"I knew he and Jane were special." A small smile touched her lips. "And I'm glad it's you. I'm glad he has you, his person."

She hesitated.

"And I need you to know that I'm not going to tell anyone."

He let out a breath, long and slow, like he'd been holding it for days. "My mother said you were a good person."

"Your mother is biased because Ilya likes me."

"My mother is never wrong." A hint of a smile returned. "It's annoying, actually."

"She seems wonderful."

"She is." He picked up his water glass, then set it down without drinking. "Can I ask you something? Something personal?"

"You can ask. I might not answer."

“Fair enough." He leaned forward. "Why do you do it? The box office thing. You're clearly smart, you're good with people. You could do anything. Why tickets?"

She considered the question. No one had ever asked her that before.

"Because it's safe," she said finally. "Spreadsheets don't hurt you. Forms don't leave. I can control the box office in a way I can't control anything else in my life."

Shane's expression softened. "That sounds lonely."

"It is." She shrugged. "But I'm working on it."

"The friendship thing?"

"The friendship thing." She nodded toward him. "Apparently I'm collecting hockey players now."

He laughed. A real laugh, warm and surprised. "That's a dangerous hobby."

"Tell me about it. They're very tall. Very emotional. Very bad at filling out forms."

"Ilya is bad at forms?"

"He once submitted a ticket request with the name 'Big Guy' in the guest field. No last name. No contact information. Just 'Big Guy.'"

Shane put a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. "What did you do?"

"I processed it. And then I made him fill out form 34-B correctly the next time he showed up in my office."

"You made Ilya Rozanov fill out a form?"

"Several forms." She allowed herself a small smile. "He's very good at them now. I've trained him."

Shane was quiet for a moment. Then: "Thank you."

"You already said that."

"I'm going to keep saying it." He looked at her, really looked, the way Ilya did sometimes, like he was seeing past the surface to something underneath. "He's been alone for so long, Gabriella. Even when he was with the Bears. Even when he was with me, sometimes. There's a difference between having people around and having people who see you. And you see him."

She felt her throat tighten. "He sees me too."

"Yeah." Shane nodded. "I know."

+++

After that, they kept to safer topics while they ate.

She asked him what it was like in Montreal, the city, not the team. He talked about his favourite bookshop, a tiny place in Plateau Mont-Royal that smelled like old paper and had an excellent sports history section. She teased him lightly about his taste in literature, almost forgetting he was not Ilya and she had to play nice.

"Hockey books?" she said, staring at him.

"Biographies. Strategy. Mental preparation." He shrugged. "They are useful."

"That is not reading. That is homework."

"It is still reading."

"Name one fiction book you have read in the past year."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "...Does a scouting report count?"

She laughed. "No."

"Then no."

She paused. "Wait. How would a scouting report even be fiction?"

He looked incredibly serious for a moment. "Sometimes the projections are optimistic. Creative, even." He tilted his head. "You could call it speculative fiction."

She burst out laughing. "That is not how any of this works."

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I tried."

She shook her head, still smiling. They joked and chatted some more over the food, the conversation flowing easier than she had expected.

Then, because she could not help herself, she asked about his thoughts on The Babadook.

Shane set down his fork. "Ilya told you about that?"

"He may have mentioned it."

He sighed, but he was smiling. "He has opinions."

"He does." She leaned forward slightly. "What was your perspective?"

He shook his head. "He made me watch it with him three times. Three times, Gabriella. He kept pausing it to explain why the monster deserved better representation."

"That sounds like him."

"It drove me crazy." He picked up his water glass, then set it down without drinking. "The first time, I thought it was a horror movie about grief. The second time, I thought it was still a horror movie about grief, but now with more pausing. The third time..." He paused. "The third time, I realised he was not going to stop until I agreed with him."

She laughed. "Did you?"

He considered the question. "Eventually, yes. I told him I thought it was too intense and too sad. I did not see a gay icon. I just saw a monster in a top hat."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what did Ilya say to that?"

Shane's expression flattened. "He said I have no gaydar."

She burst out laughing. "He did not."

"He did. He said the Babadook is obviously queer-coded, and the fact that I could not see it was proof that I have been spending too much time in straight locker rooms."

"That is... actually a fair point."

They carried on jovially through the rest of the meal, the weight between them lifting a little more with each laugh.

+++

When they finished eating, Gabriella decided to be brave.

Slowly, over the course of the meal, she had started to feel good about this. Like maybe she had not ruined everything. Like maybe the world was not going to collapse because she had lunch with Shane without telling Ilya first.

But there were still some things she needed to say.

"Where does Ilya think you are right now?" she asked. "Did you tell him?"

Shane shook his head. "No. I wanted to talk with you first. Make sure we were on the same page."

She nodded slowly. "And are we?"

"I think so." He met her eyes. "He trusts you. I trust you. That is a good place to start."

"Yeah," she said. "I think it is."

She paused, gathering herself.

"Can I be serious with you for a moment?" She hesitated. "About Ilya. I know this is not really my place, and I am sure you already know what I am going to say. But I need to make sure we really are on the same page."

He nodded, setting down his napkin. "Go ahead."

"Again, I know it is not my place... But you should know we're alike, him and me. More than just the surface stuff." She chose her words carefully. "We're both sad. Not in a way that breaks us, not all the time, but it's there. It's a constant hum in the background and we're both trying to figure out how to live with it."

She paused. "The difference is he has you. He has your parents. The team. He has people who catch him when he falls. And the charity..." She trailed off. "The charity changes everything for you two, doesn't it? Being able to be together in public. Slowly and on your terms."

Shane was quiet for a moment. "That's the hope."

"I know you will get there. It might take time. It might be hard. But you will get there." She paused again, gathering herself. "But even with all this support, even when you both become more open, he will still need help."

She hesitated, searching for the right words.

"I don't mean you need to fix him. You cannot fix someone who feels the way we do. That is not how it works. The sadness does not go away just because someone loves you enough."

She looked down at her hands, then back at him.

"But you can show up. You can stand beside him while he figures it out. You can be there when he can't find the words. You can sit in the dark with him until he's ready to turn on the light."

Her voice softened.

"It is hard, you know. Not knowing how to ask for help. Feeling like you're drowning and not knowing who to reach for. Having people who love you and still not believing you deserve it."

She looked down at her hands.

"That is where he is sometimes. That is where I have been. That is where a lot of us live, every single day."

When she looked up again, her gaze was steady.

"So I need to know something."

She hesitated.

"When he pushes you away because he thinks he doesn't deserve you, will you stay?"

The question hung between them.

"Will you still be there?"

Shane didn't hesitate. "Of course I will. Always."

"You sound very sure."

"I am very sure." He held her gaze. "He's my person. That doesn't change just because it's hard."

She nodded, something loosening in her chest. "Good. Because Ilya doesn't give up on things that matter. And you matter, more than hockey, more than the spotlight. More than anything he has ever fought for."

Shane looked down at the table. When he looked up, his eyes were bright.

"You're very good at this."

"At what?"

"At saying the thing people need to hear. The thing they don't even know they need to hear until you say it."

She shrugged, a little embarrassed. "Seventy percent of my job."

"I thought seventy percent of your job was secrets."

"Secrets and talking." She smiled. "They're the same thing, really. Knowing what to say and knowing what not to say. When to hold something close and when to let it out. Same skill set."

Shane nodded slowly and leaned forward. "You're not alone anymore, Gabriella. Not if you do not want to be."

She felt the tears coming and blinked them back.

"This is very intense for a first lunch date," she managed.

"We're not on a date."

"Buddy-date."

"You Centaurs are weird."

"We are." She smiled at him. "Okay. Friends, then?"

"Friends." He nodded. "And Gabriella?"

"Yeah?"

"The charity. Do you really want to help?"

She did not hesitate. "Yes. I've already spoken with your mother and Ilya about it. I will do whatever I can. Sell tickets, volunteer at events, stuff envelopes in the middle of the night." She paused. "I want to be part of something that matters. Something that tells people like us that we are not alone. That we can all get through this."

Shane smiled a small, dazzling smile that reminded her so much of Ilya. "I am sure my mum is thrilled to have you."

"Really?"

"Really. She likes having people to boss around. And she already likes you."

"So I've gathered." Gabriella smiled back. "She told me to keep an eye on her other son."

"Which one?"

"Both of them, apparently."

Shane laughed, a real laugh, the kind that crinkled his eyes. "Yeah. That sounds like her."

They sat there for a moment longer, the weight between them lighter now. Two strangers who had become something else, possibly friends, bound by a quiet understanding that they both loved the same impossible man.

"Can we meet again next time I am in town?" Shane asked.

"I'd like that."

So would Ilya, she thought. But she didn't say it.

She didn't have to.

+++

They took a photo together before leaving, standing under a tree in front of the restaurant, both of them smiling, Shane's arm around her shoulders.

Shane's Instagram (1:47 PM): I made a new friend in Ottawa. Gabriella. I know we will do great things together. New projects and friendship await. #FriendsInOttawa

She saw it on her phone as she walked to her car. Ilya had already liked it. Of course he had.

Her phone buzzed.

Ilya (1:50 PM): Are you trying to steal my Jane?
Gabriella (1:50 PM): He is very handsome. I understand the appeal.
Ilya (1:51 PM): Do not get any ideas
Gabriella (1:51 PM): Dont worry, your Jane and I have an understanding
Ilya (1:51 PM): What kind of understanding?
Gabriella (1:52 PM): We will only share spreadsheet tips and gossip about you.
Ilya (1:52 PM): I am very interesting
Gabriella (1:52 PM): You are very something.
Ilya (1:52 PM):: I will take that as a compliment
Gabriella (1:53 PM): You would.
Ilya (1:53 PM): I'm oddly happy that you met

Gabriella stared at the message for a second. A warmth settled in her chest.

Gabriella (1:53 PM): Me too.

Then, after a moment:

Gabriella (1:54 PM): For what it's worth, I like him.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Ilya (1:53 PM): Me too

She laughed softly and liked the message.

Then she tucked her phone into her purse and headed back to the arena. Back to her spreadsheets. Back to ticket requests and seating charts and making sure wealthy sponsors had their champagne and players' families had their seats.

None of it was different than it had been that morning.

And yet, somehow, everything felt different.

For over a year, Ottawa had felt like a city she happened to live in.

Now, for the first time, it felt like a place she belonged.

Chapter End Notes

I have tinkered with this chapter so much, the epilogue is probably redundant now. but I will still be posting it later this week before i leave for my holidays... Enjoy.

Chapter 15: Epilogue

Chapter Notes

Lovingly posting this from Luca Haas' hometown as the church bells ring.

The flowers arrived the first thing in the morning. It was a game day, so she was in the office early.

Pink roses, twenty-four of them, arranged in two vases. The card read: For being my mirror twin. —C

Gabriella set them on her filing cabinet next to all the others. The office was beginning to look like a greenhouse. She didn't mind.

Her phone buzzed.

Ilya (10:04 AM): Did you get them
Gabriella (10:05 AM): I got them.
Ilya (10:06 AM): Good
Ilya (10:06 AM): You deserve flowers
Ilya (10:07 AM): You deserve all the flowers
Gabriella (10:10 AM): I'm going to run out of space.
Ilya (10:11 AM): I will buy you a bigger office
Gabriella (10:13 AM): That's not how budgeting works.
Ilya (10:14 AM): I do not care about budgeting
Ilya (10:14 AM): I care about you having enough space for flowers

She smiled and set down her phone for a moment. Then she looked at the flowers and at the filing cabinet with the false bottom. She knew the secret now, and she would keep it. That was what she did. That was who she was.

Discretion, she apparently had it and she intended to keep it that way.

Gabriella (10:15 AM): You do not need to send me pregame flowers.
Ilya (10:15 AM): Yes, I do.
Gabriella (10:15 AM): Are you getting superstitious in your old age?
Ilya (10:15 AM): No. I wanted you to have something pretty. Just because
Ilya (10:16 AM): Not superstition
Ilya (10:16 AM): I am creating *vibes*.
Gabriella (10:16 AM): Vibes for what?
Ilya (10:16 AM): Winning

Gabriella laughed. She really enjoyed Ilya and his illogical logic.

Gabriella (10:17 AM): Sounds like superstition to me
Ilya: (10:17 AM): you are wrong
Gabriella (10:17 AM): Score many goals today.
Ilya (10:17 AM): For you? Maybe
Gabriella (10:17 AM): For science.
Ilya (10:17 AM): OK. Ok, Deal. For Science

She tucked her phone into her drawer and turned her attention to the afternoon's preparations. The arena hummed with pre-game energy. Staff shouted down hallways and the smell of popcorn drifted from the concourse.

She did the rounds of the usual boxes, making sure everything and everyone was in place. VIPs had their champagne in their boxes. All of the families' tickets were allocated and waiting. The chaos was under control. Good. That meant she had time to spend in the east wing.

She greeted Charlie the (other) security guard on her way over and headed to Jane's hideaway.

When she arrived, she removed the covers from the chairs, wiped down the surfaces, and made sure all of her extras were in place. The notepads she had borrowed from the media centre. The Centaurs pens she had swiped from supply. A small vase with a few of Ilya's flowers, the ones he had sent "just because." Some ginger ale in a mini fridge she had convinced facilities to install. A few healthy veggie snacks she was sure Jane would like.

She straightened the vase of flowers and adjusted the notepads.

She was not sure when she had started caring so much about making it nice. At first, it had been practical. A clean room. A safe route. No paper trail. But somewhere along the way, it had become something else.

She wanted Jane to feel welcome. She wanted him to know that someone had thought about him in this space. That it was not just a hiding place. It was also a safe space, a place where he could breathe.

She smiled. This was not in her job description. But neither was any of the rest of it.

She was just helping Ilya create his vibes, she told herself and smiled.

+++

Then, at 4:45 PM, her phone buzzed with a text from a different contact.

Shane (4:45 PM): Is it okay if I come in early today?
Gabriella (4:46PM): Of course. What time were you thinking?
Shane (4:45 PM): I can be there in 15 minutes?
Gabriella (4:46PM): Great. Meet me at the dock entrance.

After sending Charlie off on an errand, she met Shane at the loading dock. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and a grey hoodie. He looked excited, not nervous.

She led him through the back hallways, past the security checkpoint she had already cleared, up the narrow staff stairwell to the east wing. She studied his expression as she led him in.

Shane stepped inside and walked to the glass, looking out over the ice. The arena was still mostly empty. The Zamboni was making its final pass. Soon the stands would fill. The game would begin.

Then he turned and noticed the new additions. The flowers. The mini fridge. He reached out and touched the petals of Ilya's roses.

"Did you set this up by yourself?" he asked quietly.

"Of course, I set up all the secrets," she said. "It is what I do."

He turned to her, and a small smile crossed his face. "Thank you for doing this. For keeping on doing this."

"Of course," she said. "Will you be okay up here? I will check on you when I can."

"You don't have to."

"I know." She headed for the door. "But I want too."

She paused at the threshold.

"He is going to play well tonight," she said. "He always plays better when you are in the building."

Shane nodded. "I know."

She gave him one last smile. “Enjoy the game Jane.”

Then she slipped out and made her way back to her office.

+++

Gabriella managed to visit Shane twice during her rounds. Each time she stepped into the box, he looked elated.

"They are doing well today," he beamed at her.

"Yes, it seems they remembered they could play as a team."

"Hayes has been a great addition. Next year's rookies will probably bolster them even more."

"Yes, I hear the rookies in development are impressive."

"Yeah." He grinned. "They might not suck forever."

"That is the hope."

"I need the Centaurs to become contenders," he said earnestly.

She tilted her head. "For you or for Ilya?"

"Yes."

They both laughed.

They watched the game together for a while, side by side in the hidden press box. Every time Ilya did something magnificent on the ice, and he was always magnificent on the ice, Shane's face lit up with pride.

Gabriella said nothing. She just watched and enjoyed the moment.

Eventually she had to head back to work though.

"Well, I should head back. Text me if you need anything."

"Thank you, Gabriella."

"You are welcome, Shane."

As she exited the room, she stopped in the hallway abruptly.

She was pretty sure that was the first time she had said "you are welcome" to a client in a box without being sarcastic. No eye roll or silent complaint about entitled VIPs. Just genuine sentiment.

Something bloomed in her chest. Unamed.

She stood there a little too long, trying to name it. Trying to decide if she wanted to.

What is this? she asked herself. And why does it feel so strange?

They had said they would be friends, back at the restaurant. But that had felt like an understanding. A polite agreement. We are on the same page. We both love him. We will not make this weird.

But this was different. This was not an obligation. She had not said "you are welcome" because it was expected. She had said it because she meant it.

Maybe they were actually friends now.

She liked that idea.

+++

Later, with the arena roaring around her as the Centaurs stayed unexpectedly up by two, her phone buzzed during the second intermission. She glanced at the monitor in her office and watched Ilya's replay, a clean breakaway, a quick fake, and the puck sliding past the goalie's glove. His second of the night.

Ilya (8:01 PM): Two goals. One for you. One for Jane
Gabriella (8:01 PM): Which one was which?
Ilya (8:01 PM): You will never know
Gabriella (8:02 PM): That is not science.
Ilya (8:02 PM): That is friendship

Gabriella stared at the message. That word again Friendship.

The word felt different now. Not theoretical. Not something she said to other people. Not advice she handed out whenever Ilya was being ridiculous.

Real. Concrete. Present.

Friendship was flowers appearing in her office for no reason. Friendship was Shane trusting her with his secret. Friendship was knowing someone would show up if she asked. The thought made her uncomfortable. And oddly happy.

Maybe that was the problem.

She had spent so long preparing for disappointment that she had never learned how to accept kindness. She had spent months teaching Ilya that affection was not transactional. That people could care simply because they cared. Now she was being forced to learn the same lesson.

Mirror twins indeed.

Well, shit.

She picked up her phone.

Gabriella (8:05 PM): Thank you.
Ilya (8:05 PM): For what?
Gabriella (8:05 PM): The goal. And for being there.
Ilya (8:05 PM): Oddly emotional for you. Are you sick?
Gabriella (8:06 PM): Shut up. I take it back.
Ilya (8:06 PM): No you don't
Gabriella (8:06 PM): No. I don't.

She smiled and returned to her work, a stack of forms she needed to sort and sign. Of course, near the bottom of the pile sat a familiar document. Form 34-B. Guest Name: Jane. She signed it without hesitation and slid it into the hidden drawer.

Outside her office, the crowd erupted. The third period was beginning.

She glanced toward the arena, then at the flowers sitting on her filing cabinet. The chair across from her desk sat empty. For now.

For the first time in a very long time, Gabriella stopped trying to talk herself out of being happy.

Maybe concussed hockey players could teach her something after all.

They already had.

She had friends in Ottawa. Real ones.

She was done hiding from that.

Chapter End Notes

This is the end of this part of the story, but there is still a bonus chapter that will come sooner rather than later.

Enjoy. Let me know your thoughts :)

Chapter 16: Bonus Chapter: Generosity

Chapter Summary

Gabriella receives a surprise.

Chapter Notes

Posted lovingly from my next destination - Porto, where i am about to see Baxter Dury play (aka the one responsible for Lips on Episode 3 of the soundtrack).

Gabriella was having a bad day, and it was only ten in the morning.

She had not slept well. She had spilled coffee on her shirt, she did not have a spare in her car and had to turn back home to change. When she finally hit the road again, she realised she had left her phone on the kitchen counter and had to turn back a second time. By the time she reached the stadium, she was in no mood for whoever had stolen her parking spot.

In her usual reserved spot —the one with her name on it— sat a small green car. She drove past it, blinked, and kept going. Probably a new player or a staff member who could not read reserved parking signs.

Grumpily, she found a spot three rows away, further from the entrance than she had parked in months. As she grabbed her bag and her mostly empty coffee cup, Fred the security guard approached her with a manila envelope in his hand.

"Mademoiselle Marchaud." He handed it over with a knowing smile. "This arrived for you this morning. Special delivery."

She frowned. "From who?"

"Monsieur said it would explain itself."

Gabriella opened the envelope inside was a single key fob. A Mini Cooper logo and a small tag attached with her name typed neatly on it.

Her heart stopped.

She pulled out her phone, fingers moving faster than her brain.

Gabriella (10:03 AM): What did you do?
Ilya (10:03 AM): Nothing. What do you think I did?

She walked towards the car, already knowing what she would find. In her spot stood a four door green Mini Cooper, gleaming under the morning light. British Racing Green with white racing stripes and Union Jack tail lights. It was spotless, immaculate and absolutely beautiful. Her dream car.

She took a photo and sent it.

Gabriella (10:04 AM): [Image attached]
Ilya (10:04 AM): Ah. That was not me. I am forbidden, remember?
Ilya (10:04 AM): You made a whole speech.
Ilya (10:04 AM): Very dramatic. Very clear. No cars.
Gabriella (10:04 AM): Then who?
Ilya (10:05 AM): Maybe another generous friend.
Ilya (10:05 AM): Someone else who likes ginger ale?
Ilya (10:05 AM): Someone else with terrible taste in hockey teams?
Ilya (10:05 AM): Someone else who also thinks you deserved a car?
Ilya (10:05 AM): Strange. There seem to be several of us.
Ilya (10:06 AM): You should probably examine your life choices.

Gabriella stared at the screen. Then at the car and then back at the screen.

She unlocked the door. The interior smelled like new leather and something faintly sweet, like vanilla. The seats were cream coloured, soft as butter. The steering wheel fitted perfectly in her hands.

She opened the glove compartment. Inside, alongside the registration and insurance documents, was a handwritten note on thick cream paper.

To help you get to our next meeting safely. Drive well. - SH

She dropped her head against the steering wheel and groaned loud enough to startle a pigeon.

"Shit," she muttered. "There are two of them."

She grabbed her phone.

Gabriella (10:10 AM): SHANE
Gabriella (10:10 AM): HOLLANDER
Shane (10:10 AM): That is my name :)
Gabriella (10:10 AM): You cannot just buy me a car.
Shane (10:11 AM): Well. I did.
Gabriella (10:11 AM): Do I need to give you the same speech I gave Ilya? Because I will.
Gabriella (10:11 AM): I have it memorised. I can do it in two languages.
Shane (10:12 AM): You told him *he* could not buy you a car. So he didn't?
Gabriella (10:12 AM): Finding a loophole in my conversation with him is not okay.
Shane (10:13 AM): This was not for doing your job. This was for being a good friend.
Shane (10:13 AM): For taking care of him. For being there in ways I cannot be
Shane (10:14 AM): And for taking care of me too...

Her throat tightened.

Shane (10:14 AM): Also you mentioned you wanted one. I pay attention too.

She slammed her head against the steering wheel again. It honked.

Gabriella (10:15 AM): You two are going to be the death of me.
Shane (10:16 AM): Maybe. But you will at least have a safer car until then.

She was still staring at the message when a click went off beside her.

She looked up. Harris was standing three feet away, phone raised, camera pointed directly at her.

"What," she said flatly, "is this?"

He grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Ilya called me. Said you were getting a new car today. He wanted photos. He said..." Harris dropped his voice into a terrible Russian accent, " 'I want to see her smile, Harris. Make her smile.'

Gabriella climbed out. "I am not smiling."

"You are not. You look like someone just cancelled your favourite spreadsheet."

She groaned, running a hand through her hair. "Why are hockey players like this?"

"Like what?"

"Stupid. Thick. Incapable of accepting the word no."

Harris considered this. "The concussions," he said finally. "Definitely the concussions. But also..." He shrugged. "They mean well. They just do not know how to do small. Everything is big. Everything is loud. Everything is now."

She sighed. "I cannot accept this."

"Then tell Ilya to return it."

"It wasn't him, " she whined.

Harris cocked his head in surprise, interest flickering across his face. "Oh? Then who..?."

He saw her expression and reconsidered whatever question he had been about to ask.

"Never mind," he said quickly. "I am sure whoever sent it had a good reason and good taste." He gestured at the Mini. "This is gorgeous, by the way. Very you."

"I can return it, right?" she asked, more to herself than to him.

Harris shrugged. "Do you have to, though? Or are you just being proud?"

She was quiet for a moment and winced, "Probably proud."

"Thought so." He nudged her with his elbow. "Come on. Let us do a photo shoot for Ilya and get to work. I have actual things to do today. Social media does not manage itself."

She let him pull her in front of the car. She posed, reluctantly at first, then less so. Harris was good at this, she had to admit. He made her laugh and caught her off guard.

When they were done he scrolled through the photos and stopped on the one of her with her head against the steering wheel, looking thoroughly exasperated with the world.

"That one," he said, grinning, "is going straight to Ilya."

Her phone buzzed almost instantaneously.

Ilya (10:28 AM): You are very photogenic
[Image attached: Gabriella, head against the steering wheel, looking like she was questioning every life choice that had led her to this moment]
Gabriella (10:28 AM): I hate you.
Ilya (10:28 AM): No you don't.
Gabriella (10:28 AM): No I don't.
Ilya (10:29 AM): *Smiley face*

The next photo Harris and Ilya sent was worse. Or better, depending on your perspective. Gabriella, making a rude gesture at the camera, clearly mid rant about something.

Ilya (10:30 AM): You need to treat your friends better
Gabriella (10:30 AM): You know how I feel about paparazzi.
Ilya (10:31 AM): Oh, burn. I am still sorry for the pizza photos. That was my fault
Gabriella (10:31 AM): No. I am sorry. Bad joke. Ignore me.
Ilya (10:32 AM): Never *Green heart*

Her phone buzzed again. Different contact this time.

Shane (10:33 AM): [Image attached: The happy car photo, Gabriella smiling despite herself, one hand on the bonnet] Suits you.

She stared at the photo. She did look happy. Reluctantly, undeniably happy.

Gabriella (10:34 AM): I suppose I should say thank you.
Shane (10:34 AM): You are welcome.
Gabriella (10:34 AM): Thank you.
Shane (10:35 AM): *Smiley face*
Gabriella (10:35 AM): Do not do it again.
Shane (10:36 AM): I make no promises.

She opened her mouth to type something else, something about boundaries, about not needing to be rescued, about how she had been fine with her chipped paint Corolla, thank you very much, when another message came through.

Shane (10:37 AM): Also, send me your updated insurance premiums when they come through. I want to make sure you are properly covered.

She dropped her phone and let out another loud groan.

"What?" Harris asked.

"They want to pay for my insurance as well..."

"WHO?"

She ignored him, scooping up her phone.

Gabriella (10:38 AM): Fuck my life.
Shane (10:39 AM): Is that a yes?
Gabriella (10:39 AM): You two are the worst.
Shane (10:40 AM): *Angel emoji*

She shoved her phone in her pocket and turned to Harris.

"They are going to be the death of me."

"Who are “they”?"

"Urgh, Never mind."

She grabbed her bag and started walking towards the admin entrance. Harris fell into step beside her.

"For what it is worth," he said, "I think it is nice. Having people who care enough to show up. Who notice what you want and find a way to give it to you, even when you try to refuse. Even when you do not want them to."

She was quiet for a moment, turning his words over in her head. He was not wrong. That was the irritating part.

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Yeah. It is."

They walked in silence for a few steps. "I still think they are idiots," she added.

"If I have understood correctly, “they” are hockey players?"

She nodded. "Unfortunately."

"Well, then." He shrugged, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Stupidity and earnestness come with the territory. It is practically a job requirement."

She laughed despite herself. "Fair point."

+++

In her office, she set down her bag and looked at her phone one more time.

Ilya (10:51 AM): See? I was right. You look good in a Mini Cooper

She smiled and typed back reluctantly.

Gabriella (10:51 AM): You are still not buying me flowers.
Ilya (10:51 AM): Too late. Already ordered next week's delivery
Gabriella (10:52 AM): why are you like this?
Ilya (10:52 AM): You know why
ilya (10:52 AM): because you're my twin and I want you to be happy

Gabriella (10:52 AM): *crying emoji* you can't just be kind and earnest like this in the morning
ilya (10:53 AM): watch me

She set down her phone and smiled. She took in the traces of Ilya's earnestness in her office. The giant sunflowers still on her filing cabinet and at the keys to her new car sitting on her desk.

She thought about how he had wanted to buy her a car but had listened when she said no, even if he had immediately told Shane about it. She thought about Shane, who had found the loophole and driven through it without hesitation. She thought about both of them, three hundred kilometres apart, coordinating to make sure she was safe and happy and maybe slightly exasperated.

She thought about the word love, and all the shapes it could take.

Then she picked up her phone one last time.

Gabriella (10:55 AM): Thank you. Both of you. Even if you are impossible.
Shane (10:55 AM): We know. *Smiley face*
Shane (10:56 AM): Drive safe. And Gabriella?
Gabriella (10:56 AM): Yeah?
Shane (10:56 AM): Welcome to the club.
Gabriella (10:57 AM): What club is that?
Shane (10:57 AM): The one where we take care of our own.

The one where we take care of our own.

She was apparently one of their own now. She had no say in it, they had decided.

She should have been annoyed, she should have pushed back. She should have told them both, again, that she did not need to be rescued.

But deep down she was not annoyed. She was sitting at her desk, surrounded by flowers, with keys to a new car in her hand, trying very hard not to cry.

She blinked hard, then set down her phone, turned on her computer, and started work.

But she was smiling.

Ugh. She loved these idiots.

FIM / END PART 1

Chapter End Notes

I have three chapters already written for part two, more to come! See you soon.