Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Nikolai Petrov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, the Petrov Family

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, POV Ilya Rozanov, Abused Ilya Rozanov, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Found Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ilya Rozanov Gets a Family, and they love him like A LOT

Language:

English

Series:

Part 5 of heated rivalry fics

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-18 Updated: 2026-05-04 Words: 97,549 Chapters: 11/?

your presence has gone through me (like needle through a thread)

Summary

"We're setting you up with a billet situation," Fletcher continued. "It's pretty common for first-year players, especially international guys. Gives you a chance to settle in, learn the city, have someone looking out for you."

"Okay," Ilya said slowly, not entirely sure what a billet was, but not wanting to admit his ignorance.

 He could guess from the context – he’d heard of rookies being assigned to live with older single players, veterans who could show them the ropes. Maybe that was what Fletcher meant. Connors maybe, he was probably a handful of years older than Ilya. Or perhaps Becker. Ilya just hoped it was someone who–

"You'll be staying with Nikolai Petrov and his family."

The words hit Ilya like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

"Petrov?" he managed, his voice coming out strangled.
__________________________________________________________________

The Bears decide that Ilya should be set up with a billet for his first season. The idea of spending a year living with a man that Ilya is sure hates him is completely terrifying. And yet, it ends up being the best thing to ever happen to him.

Chapter 1: chapter one

For a few minutes at the draft, it was the best moment of Ilya’s life. Standing up on the stage, holding a Bears’ jersey, knowing he’d been picked number one out of everyone, over Hollander, it was like nothing he’d ever felt. 

But then he’d seen his father’s face – the same cold, disapproving expression as always. Not even a hint of a smile, or a smidge of pride, or a tinge of happiness. Nothing. Ilya had just been declared the most promising rookie in the entire MLH, and his father couldn’t have cared less. 

Even when the GM of the Bears, Todd Fletcher, approached them, Ilya’s father still couldn’t find it in himself to even pretend to be proud of him. a man who had once been a remarkable player for the Admirals, but 

“We're not passing on a kid this strong with those hands,” Fletcher explained, seeming more proud of Ilya than his own father was, and how fucked up was that? “Not in Boston, Mr. Rozanov. He's a very natural number one pick.” 

Fletcher stood a bit shorter than Ilya, with a lean build that still implied he’d kept at least a bit of muscle from his days of playing hockey. He was American, from somewhere out west, Ilya vaguely recalled, but had spent his whole career with the Admirals. With greying hair, dark blue eyes, and a smile with perfect teeth, it was hard to imagine he’d once been a hockey player. 

“Congratulations again, Ilya,” the man said warmly, and before Ilya could even begin to try and thank him, or come up with some other sort of polite response, his father stepped in. 

“He is strong, but he needs discipline,” his father told Fletcher firmly. “He can be, how you say, lazy.”

Ilya watched as the GM blinked in surprise, pausing for a moment as though expecting Ilya’s father to suddenly explain he was joking. When he didn’t, Fletcher awkwardly tried to move on, sending a pitying look in Ilya’s direction that instantly made him look away, avoiding the man’s gaze as his stomach twisted in shame. 

“I find that hard to believe, the way he plays!” Fletcher exclaimed with a forced laugh, as though that could somehow alleviate the tension in the air. 

“I promise to work very hard for you,” Ilya told him, clearing his throat. 

The last thing Ilya needed was the Bears doubting him before he even made it onto the ice. His status on the team, as a rookie, was tentative at best. One wrong move, one sliver of doubt, and he’d be gone. 

He met Fletcher’s eyes, sending a somewhat pleading look the man’s way, hoping he’d believe him. 

“I have no doubt you will, son,” Fletcher assured him, a kindness in his voice that would’ve been laughed at in Russia. 

Fletcher turned his head at the sound of someone calling his name, taking his attention off of Ilya and his father for a moment. 

His father, of course, took that as an opportunity to berate him. 

“You listen. Don't speak, you understand?” he ordered Ilya, a hint of rage simmering underneath his voice. 

After years of growing up under his father’s cruel care, Ilya knew what a warning sounded like from the man. Talking back now would only end poorly for him. Not in public, of course, but later, when they were alone, any sort of snarky remark would probably end up with a sharp slap across the face. 

“Da,” Ilya murmured obediently in response. 

Another man had made his way over to join them, clapping Fletcher on the back as he did so. He was tall, at least a few inches taller than Ilya, and broad too, with muscles visible even under his suit jacket. There was a solidity to him, one that implied he could deliver a punishing check strong enough to send any player down to the ice. His hair was a dark shade of brown, with just a hint of waviness to it. His eyes were a deeper brown, the color of freshly brewed coffee. They were the kind of eyes that saw everything and missed nothing. He had a short, neatly trimmed beard, and something about the man seemed oddly familiar to Ilya. 

“Was wondering where you disappeared to, Nik,” Fletcher commented as the man joined them, who simply tilted his head a bit at Fletcher’s comment, as though saying he’d answer the question another time. Fletcher turned back to Ilya’s father, who seemed to recognize the man. “Mr. Rozanov, have you met Nikolai Petrov? He’s our assistant GM.” 

Ilya recognized the name, of course. He’d grown up hearing his coaches go on and on about what an amazing player the great Nikolai Petrov had been. At 19, Petrov had scored the winning goal in the last game of the 1988 Olympics. Russia hadn’t seen a gold medal in ice hockey since then. Afterwards, he’d gone on to join the MLH, getting drafted first to Admirals, and then eventually being traded to the Bears. Which, in Ilya’s opinion, began the downfall of the Admirals, not that anyone ever bothered to ask. 

“It’s an honour, Mr. Petrov,” Ilya’s father greeted the man, giving his hand a firm shake, the closest thing Ilya had ever seen to admiration shining in his eyes. 

When he was younger, Ilya thought that if he could be the best at hockey, if he could be the next Nikolai Petrov, if he could bring home gold for Russia, then maybe, just maybe, his father would be proud of him. 

But Ilya was old enough now to know that no matter what he did, his father would never look at him with even a hint of the pride he was looking at Petrov with. 

There was a coldness in Petrov’s eyes as he shook Ilya’s father’s hand, and as his gaze drifted over to Ilya, a hint of fire in them. Anger, Ilya could tell. 

Ilya swallowed heavily, ducking his head a bit to avoid meeting Petrov’s eye. He bit back a sigh, resigning himself to what seemed to be an increasingly miserable future. His father had already convinced Fletcher he was lazy, and now Ilya had gone and pissed off Petrov too. Although he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done to deserve such wrath, if Ilya was being honest. 

Perhaps Petrov hadn’t wanted the Bears to draft him. That must be it, he thought. He had seen Ilya play, and just like his father, had thought he wasn’t good enough. That he was weak, lazy, a disappointment. Petrov had probably fought against drafting him and lost. And now, he was stuck with Ilya. The number one draft pick gone and wasted on nothing more than a disappointment. 

“Likewise, Mr. Rozanov,” Petrov replied, giving a tight, thin smile. His accent wasn’t nearly as thick as Ilya’s or his father’s – two decades living in the States would do that, Ilya supposed - but it was still easy enough to pick out if you knew what you were looking for. To most, it probably just sounded like a vague European accent, something they viewed as classy and sophisticated, rather than Ilya’s stilted, broken English. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya spotted Hollander standing with his parents on the floor below, talking to the Metros’ owner. Both the elder Hollanders looked proud, proud in a way Ilya’s father had never once been. No one had looked at Ilya that way since his mother died. 

“I was just telling Mr. Fletcher here that Ilya needs discipline,” his father explained, his words causing Ilya to hold back a wince. He didn’t dare look up at Petrov, not needing to see the man nodding along in agreement. “He is lazy, stubborn. How you say… insolent. But I’m sure you’ll help motivate him, da?” 

Ilya stiffened, holding his breath a bit. To some parents, softer Americans, motivation would be cheering their child on, or perhaps providing a reward for doing well. That was probably how the Hollanders parented. To Ilya’s father, motivation meant a sharp smack across the face or being forced to run bag skates until he puked. When he was younger, smaller, easier to control, it meant a few licks of his father’s belt, or bed without supper (and usually breakfast as well). Followed by bag skates. 

Ilya fucking hated bag skates. 

“We’ll just have to see how he does,” Petrov said tightly, as though holding back from wanting to spew out all sorts of insults of his own towards Ilya, or complain about the unfairness of getting stuck with him of all the rookies in the league. 

He had probably wanted Hollander. An uncomplicated, skilled rookie that would do whatever he was asked. The golden boy, the kid that shone bright as a brand new copper penny. Meanwhile, Ilya was dull iron, rusted at the edges.

The summer heat in Moscow was oppressive, thick and humid in a way that made Ilya's shirt cling to his back as he walked through the house. His father had left for work hours ago, which meant Ilya had the place to himself until evening. A rare reprieve.

He'd been back in Russia for three weeks now, training at the same rink he'd grown up skating at, running the same drills his father had forced him through since he was six years old. Every morning, he woke up at five. Every morning, he ran until his lungs burned. Every afternoon, he was on the ice. Every evening, his father critiqued everything he'd done wrong that day over a silent dinner.

Nothing had changed, except now Ilya had a future in Boston waiting for him. A future that was supposed to be better than this.

His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, the screen lighting up with an unfamiliar American number. Ilya stared at it for a moment before answering.

"Hello?"

"Ilya! It's Todd Fletcher."

The GM's voice was bright, cheerful in that distinctly American way that still felt foreign to Ilya. He straightened up automatically, as though Fletcher could see him through the phone.

"Mr. Fletcher, hello," Ilya said, forcing his English to sound less stilted. He'd been practicing, but it still felt clumsy in his mouth, especially when he was caught off guard.

"How's your summer going? Staying in shape, I hope?"

"Yes, sir. I train every day."

"Good, good. That's what I like to hear." There was a pause, the sound of papers shuffling. "Listen, I wanted to call you personally about your living arrangements for the season. We've got everything sorted out."

Ilya's stomach tightened. He'd been wondering about this - where he'd live, whether the team would put him up in some apartment with other rookies, or if he'd be on his own in a city where he barely spoke the language.

"We're setting you up with a billet situation," Fletcher continued. "It's pretty common for first-year players, especially international guys. Gives you a chance to settle in, learn the city, have someone looking out for you."

"Okay," Ilya said slowly, not entirely sure what a billet was, but not wanting to admit his ignorance.

 He could guess from the context – he’d heard of rookies being assigned to live with older single players, veterans who could show them the ropes. Maybe that was what Fletcher meant. Connors maybe, he was probably a handful of years older than Ilya. Or perhaps Becker. Ilya just hoped it was someone who–

"You'll be staying with Nikolai Petrov and his family."

The words hit Ilya like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

"Petrov?" he managed, his voice coming out strangled.

"Yep! We figured it made sense - you're both Russian, so you'll have that in common. Nik's got a great place in Beacon Hill, plenty of room. Big house, he's got a wife and three daughters, so it's a full household, but they're wonderful people."

Ilya's mind was reeling. Living with Petrov. Living with the man who had looked at him with such cold anger at the draft, who clearly thought Ilya was a waste of a first-round pick, who probably wanted nothing to do with him. And not just Petrov - his entire family. His wife. His three daughters.

The thought made Ilya's skin crawl with anxiety. He'd have to be on his best behavior constantly, always watching what he said, how he acted. One wrong move and Petrov would see exactly what Ilya's father saw: a lazy, insolent, pathetic disappointment. And then Petrov would tell Fletcher, and Fletcher would trade him, or send him down, or- or-

"Ilya? You still there?"

"Yes, sorry. I..." Ilya swallowed hard. "His family?"

"Yeah, his wife, Sophie, she’s great. And the girls are wonderful. Oldest is about… twelve now, I think? Then there's one who's maybe eight or so, and the youngest is probably four or five by now. They're good kids. Sophie’s an amazing cook, too. You'll be well-fed, that's for sure."

The mental image was almost worse. A real family. A mother who cooked. Daughters who were probably sweet and well-behaved, nothing like Ilya, who would look at him like he was some kind of intruder in their perfect home. And Petrov, watching him constantly, waiting for him to fuck up, to prove that everything Ilya's father had said at the draft was true.

Ilya's hands were shaking. He pressed the phone harder against his ear, trying to focus on Fletcher's words.

"And honestly," Fletcher went on, oblivious to Ilya's growing panic, "I think it'll be really good for you. Nik knows what it's like to come over from Russia as a young player. He can help you adjust, show you the ropes. Plus, living with a family... it's stable, you know? It'll keep you grounded. Keep you out of trouble."

Keep you out of trouble. Keep you disciplined. Keep you in line.

Ilya could already imagine it. Petrov's cold, watchful eyes following him around the house. His wife giving him tight, polite smiles while secretly resenting the burden of housing her husband's disappointing draft pick. The daughters whispering to each other in English he couldn't quite follow, laughing at his accent, at his mistakes.

And worst of all, Petrov would report back to Fletcher. Every misstep, every failure, every moment of laziness or insolence. There would be no escape, no privacy, no chance to prove himself on his own terms.

He'd be living under a microscope, just like he'd always lived under his father's scrutiny. Except this time, it would be worse, because Petrov was a legend. A hero. Someone who had actually accomplished what Ilya could only dream of. And Ilya would be there, a constant reminder of what a wasted draft pick looked like.

"When..." Ilya cleared his throat, hating how small his voice sounded. "When do I move in?"

"Training camp starts September first, so maybe the third week in August? Gives you a bit of time to adjust. Nik will pick you up from the airport - he insisted on it, actually. Wanted to make sure you didn't get lost." Fletcher laughed, like it was a joke. "I'll have my assistant send you all the details - flight info, his address, all that. Sophie’s already setting up your room, I think. She's excited to have you."

Excited. Sure. Excited to have some strange eighteen-year-old Russian kid invading her home, disrupting her family, taking up space in her house.

"Thank you," Ilya said automatically, robotically. He couldn’t manage anything beyond that. 

"We're really excited to have you, kid. This is going to be a great season. I know it."

Fletcher hung up, and Ilya stood there in the kitchen, phone still pressed to his ear, listening to the dial tone.

Living with Petrov. With Petrov's family. For the entire season. Maybe longer.

He thought about those cold eyes, that tight smile, the barely concealed anger. He thought about his father's words at the draft - lazy, stubborn, insolent - and how Petrov had probably taken them as gospel truth. Why wouldn't he? Everyone always believed Ilya's father.

And now Ilya would be living in Petrov's house. Sleeping under his roof. Eating meals with his family. Subject to his rules, his judgment, his constant supervision.

The apartment felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. Ilya's chest was tight, his breathing shallow. He set his phone down carefully on the counter, but his hands were still trembling.

This was supposed to be his escape. His chance to get away from his father, to prove himself, to become someone other than the disappointing son who could never do anything right.

Instead, they were sending him to live with a man who already hated him. A man who would be watching his every move, waiting for him to fail. A man who had a wife and children to protect from whatever terrible influence Ilya might bring into their home.

Ilya walked to his room and shut the door behind him. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and tried to breathe through the mounting panic.

What if Petrov was like his father? What if he believed in the same kind of motivation - the sharp slap across the face, the cutting insults, the constant reminders that Ilya would never be good enough?

What if he was worse?

At least with his father, Ilya knew the rules. He knew exactly how far he could push, what would set the man off, how to minimize the damage. With Petrov, he'd be walking on eggshells in a minefield he couldn't see.

And the family. God, the family. Ilya didn't know how to be around normal families. He didn't know how to make small talk at dinner tables or laugh at jokes he didn't understand or pretend to be comfortable when every muscle in his body was tensed for the inevitable blow.

He didn't know how to be around little girls who probably had a father who loved them, who looked at them with pride instead of contempt, who would do anything to protect them.

Including protecting them from Ilya.

The sound of the front door opening made Ilya's head snap up. His father was home early.

"Ilya!" his father's voice boomed from down the hall. "Where are you? We need to talk about your training. You're getting soft."

Ilya took a deep breath, wiped his palms on his jeans, and opened his door.

His father stood in the hallway, still in his work clothes, his face already set in that familiar expression of disappointment.

"Fletcher called," Ilya said, before his father could start in on him. "About where I'm staying in Boston."

His father's eyebrows rose slightly. "And?"

"I'll be living with Nikolai Petrov. And his family."

For a moment, something flickered across his father's face. Surprise, maybe. Or satisfaction.

"Good," his father declared finally. "Petrov will keep you in line. Make sure you don't embarrass yourself. Or me."

He turned and walked toward the kitchen, leaving Ilya standing in the hallway.

"Maybe he can teach you some discipline," his father called over his shoulder. "God knows I've tried."

Ilya closed his eyes.

One more month. One more month of this, and then he'd be in Boston.

Living with a man who hated him.

In a house full of strangers, with nowhere to hide.

4,000 miles from the only home he’d ever known. 

Logan International Airport was chaos.

Ilya stood frozen just past security, watching the swarm of people rushing past him in every direction. Announcements blared overhead in English he could barely parse through the noise. Signs pointed in a dozen different directions, none of which made any sense. His duffel bag dug into his shoulder, heavy with everything he owned that mattered.

He'd never felt more alone in his life.

The flight from Moscow had been long and miserable. Ilya had spent most of it staring out the window, his stomach twisted in knots, trying not to think about what waited for him on the other side. Trying not to think about Petrov's cold eyes. Trying not to imagine all the ways he could fuck this up before he even made it onto the ice.

He'd barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father's face, heard his father's voice. Petrov will keep you in line. Maybe he can teach you some discipline.

Ilya stood near the baggage claim, scanning the crowd for Nikolai Petrov. His flight had landed twenty minutes ago, and every second that passed made his stomach twist tighter with anxiety.

Maybe Petrov had forgotten. Maybe he'd decided Ilya wasn't worth the trouble and had told Fletcher to find someone else to deal with him. Maybe—

"Rozanov."

Ilya's head snapped up. Petrov stood a few feet away, dressed casually in jeans and a dark henley that somehow made him look even more imposing than he had in a suit. His arms were crossed, and his expression was unreadable.

"Ilya," Petrov greeted as he approached, his voice low and even. 

"Mr. Petrov," Ilya managed, hating how his voice shook slightly. "Thank you for- for picking me up."

"Just Nikolai is fine," Petrov interrupted, his accent softer than Ilya remembered but still distinctly present. He looked Ilya over, and Ilya fought the urge to shrink under that scrutiny. "How was your flight?"

"It was... good. Fine." Ilya cleared his throat. "Long."

"First time in Boston?"

"Yes, sir. I mean - yes."

Something tightened around Petrov's eyes, but he just nodded toward the baggage carousel. "You have more bags?"

"Just one."

They stood in silence as the carousel began to move, luggage tumbling out onto the belt. Ilya couldn't think of a single thing to say. His English felt even more broken than usual, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth. Every possible conversation starter seemed wrong, too casual or too formal or too stupid.

His suitcase appeared - a battered black thing that had belonged to his father once - and Ilya moved to grab it. Petrov was faster, reaching out and hauling it off the belt like it weighed nothing.

"I can-" Ilya started.

"I've got it," Petrov said, already turning toward the exit.

Ilya followed, struggling to keep up with Petrov's long strides, his duffel bag bouncing against his hip. The late August heat hit him the moment they stepped outside, humid and thick, not unlike Moscow but different somehow. American.

Petrov led him to a dark SUV in the parking garage, loading Ilya's suitcase into the back while Ilya hovered awkwardly nearby, unsure if he should help or if that would just make things worse.

"Get in," Petrov said, not unkindly, but not warm either.

Ilya climbed into the passenger seat, the leather cool against his back. The car was immaculate - no trash, no clutter, everything in its place. He set his duffel at his feet and buckled his seatbelt, his hands trembling slightly.

Petrov got in, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking spot without a word.

The silence stretched between them as they navigated out of the airport and onto the highway. Ilya stared out the window, watching Boston unfold around him. Tall buildings in the distance. Signs in English everywhere. Everything was foreign and overwhelming.

"Sophie is making dinner," Petrov said finally, breaking the silence. "She's been cooking all day. Wanted to make sure you felt welcome."

Ilya's stomach twisted. "That's... that's very kind. Thank her for me."

"You can thank her yourself when we get there."

Another silence. Ilya tried to think of something to say, something that wouldn't sound stupid or reveal just how terrified he was.

"The girls are excited to meet you," Petrov continued, his eyes on the road. "Kira - she's twelve - has been asking questions about you all week. Wants to know if you can teach her some Russian slang her mother won't approve of." There was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. "Nell and Nattie are younger - eight and five - so they're just excited to have someone new in the house."

The thought of Petrov's daughters made Ilya's anxiety spike even higher. Three little girls who had probably been told some eighteen-year-old Russian hockey player was coming to live with them. Three little girls who would see immediately that Ilya was nothing special, nothing worth the hype.

Ilya swallowed hard. They thought it was exciting now. Wait until they realized what a disappointment he was.

"I'll... I'll try not to be in the way," Ilya promised quietly.

Petrov glanced at him, something unreadable in his expression. "You're not in the way."

But Ilya knew better. He'd always been in the way. His whole life, he'd been an inconvenience, a burden, something to be tolerated at best. Why would this be any different?

"I'll try not to be any trouble," Ilya amended quickly, hoping the man would believe his promise. Of course, Ilya no doubt was the definition of trouble to the older man, but he wasn’t going to try and be that way. If anything, he’d try his hardest not to be. 

Petrov's hands tightened on the steering wheel, just slightly. "You'll be fine."

It didn't sound reassuring. It sounded like an order.

They drove in silence for another fifteen minutes before Petrov pulled off onto a tree-lined street in what had to be one of the nicer parts of Boston. The houses were brick and elegant, with small front gardens and black iron fences. Old money, Ilya thought.

Petrov pulled into the driveway of a three-story brownstone with dark green shutters and window boxes full of flowers. It was beautiful in a way that made Ilya's chest ache. This was a home. A real home, where a real family lived.

And he was about to invade it.

"Come on," Petrov instructed, already out of the car.

Ilya stared up at the house, his heart hammering in his chest. Somewhere inside, Petrov's wife was making dinner. Somewhere inside, three little girls were waiting to meet him. Somewhere inside was the room where Ilya would sleep, the space he'd occupy in this family's life for the next however many months.

He didn't belong here. He knew that already.

The front door opened, and a woman stepped out onto the stoop. She was tall and slender, with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and a warm smile on her face. She wore jeans and a simple white t-shirt, casual and effortlessly put-together in that way American women seemed to manage. Her eyes were a bright blue, friendly and open.

Sophie.

"You must be Ilya!" she called out, her voice friendly and welcoming in a way that made Ilya's chest ache. "Come on in! I hope you're hungry!"

Petrov was already getting out of the car, grabbing Ilya's suitcase from the back. Ilya forced himself to move, to open the door, to step out onto the driveway.

This was it. No going back now.

"Hi, Mrs. Petrov," Ilya greeted, his English feeling clumsy and inadequate. "Thank you for having me."

"Sophie, please," she corrected him with a smile that seemed genuine. Then, switching to Russian - accented but clear - she added, "Welcome to our home."

Ilya blinked in surprise. Her Russian wasn't perfect, but it was far better than he'd expected from an American.

"Spasibo," he replied, then switched back to English. "Your Russian is very good."

"I studied it in college," Sophie explained, stepping aside to let them in. "And twenty years with this one has certainly helped." She gestured at Petrov with obvious affection. "Though the girls speak it better than I do now. They put me to shame."

The inside of the house was just as beautiful as the outside. Hardwood floors, cream-colored walls lined with family photos, a staircase with a polished banister leading up to the second floor. Everything was clean and organized, but it didn't feel sterile—there were signs of life everywhere. A stack of books on the side table. A pair of small sneakers by the door. Drawings stuck to the refrigerator visible through the doorway to the kitchen.

"Girls!" Sophie called out. "Come say hello!"

There was a thunder of footsteps, and then three girls appeared at the top of the stairs.

The oldest came down first, tall for her age with long blonde hair like her mother’s, and bright blue eyes. She moved with a pre-teen's self-conscious awareness, trying to look casual but clearly curious.

"This is Kira," Sophie introduced her eldest daughter cheerily.

If Kira was at all concerned about a stranger living in her house, she didn’t seem it. She looked Ilya up and down, eyes narrowing for a moment before relaxing, seeming to judge him as acceptable. 

"Privet," Kira greeted him, giving him a little wave. "Mom says you're going to be living here."

"Da," Ilya managed, suddenly even more nervous than before. "Yes. I hope that's... I hope that's okay."

Kira shrugged, playing it cool. The middle girl came down next, with Petrov’s dark brown hair and eyes that matched her mother and sister’s. She looked at Ilya with open curiosity, no pretense of teenage indifference.

"I'm Nell," she announced with a confidence that only children so small could have. "Well, Eleanor." She conceded after a moment before crossing her arms, daring him to argue. “But don’t call me that.” 

Petrov rolled his eyes fondly at the little girl’s antics and Ilya couldn’t help but think that his father would’ve walloped him for ever speaking that way. But clearly, Petrov’s daughters had him wrapped around their little fingers. It was normal, Ilya was sure, for fathers to be easier on their daughters. Svetlana’s father had always doted on her. 

He tried to hide his surprise at the little girl’s name, so American compared to the other two children, but clearly it hadn’t escaped Sophie’s notice. 

"Nell’s named after my mother," she explained, a bit of pride in her voice. "Nikolai wanted Russian names for all of them, but I got to pick one." She smiled at Nell fondly. "We compromised."

Ilya shot a glance at Petrov, worried the man would’ve taken his surprise the wrong way, as though Ilya was judging him, but thankfully, he didn’t seem offended. 

"Can you say bad words in Russian?" Nell piped up, looking far too gleeful about it.

He already knew this one would be trouble. She reminded him of Sveta a little. 

"Nell!" Sophie laughed, a light airy noise that lit up the room. "What did we talk about?"

No one in his house growing up had ever laughed that way. Not even his mother. His father never allowed her to be so happy. 

"You said I couldn't ask him to teach me bad words. I just asked if he could say them."

Petrov shook his head, but Ilya caught the faint smile tugging at his mouth.

The youngest finally appeared, peeking around the banister before slowly making her way down the stairs. She was tiny, with dark curly hair and Petrov's whiskey brown eyes, and holding a stuffed rabbit with a death grip that had Ilya worried the poor thing would burst right at the seams.

"And that's Natalia," Sophie said gently, her voice achingly soft in a way that made Ilya miss his own mother. "But she prefers Nattie."

"Nata," Petrov corrected softly, to which Sophie shot him an exasperated look, the topic clearly an old argument between the two. 

The little girl's face lit up at her father's voice and she hurried down the stairs, stopping to allow Petrov to scoop her off the last few. He settled her on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world, and she immediately laid her head on his shoulder, seeming absolutely content.

The casual affection made Ilya's throat tight. He couldn't remember the last time his father had touched him with anything other than anger. Even when he was little, his father had certainly never held him like that. With so much love and care, like he was something precious, something fragile, something to be protected. 

"Papa, is he staying in the guest room?" Nattie asked quietly in Russian, her voice small but clear.

"Da, Nata," Petrov replied, brushing a stray curl out of the little girl’s face. "Be polite and say hello."

Nattie buried her face in Petrov's shoulder, clearly shy.

Ilya used to be that way, as a child. Always clinging to his mother, hiding behind her when strangers appeared, seeking sanctuary in her arms. His father had punished him more than once for it, telling him to look people in the eye and speak to them like a man. 

"She'll warm up," Sophie assured Ilya, seeming completely unbothered by the little girl’s silence. "Give her a few hours and she'll be chattering your ear off. Now come on, let me show you your room, and then we'll have dinner. You must be exhausted."

Ilya followed Sophie up the stairs with his bags, Petrov and the girls staying back and disappearing toward what Ilya assumed was the kitchen. 

The second floor had several bedrooms - Ilya caught glimpses of the girls' rooms as they passed, colorful and lived-in - and Sophie led him to a door at the end of the hall.

"This is you," she announced, opening it and stepping inside. 

The bedroom was inviting, filled with warm light from the setting sun and clearly decorated with intention. A queen-sized bed with a soft brown comforter filled the middle of the room. There was a desk by the window, along with a dresser, a closet, and a door to the adjoining bathroom. The walls were painted a light cream and there were framed prints of Boston landmarks - nothing too personal, but welcoming.

"The towels are in the closet in there, and I put some basics in the shower for you - shampoo, soap, that kind of thing. If you need anything else, just let me know." Sophie gestured around the room. "Make yourself at home. You can decorate however you want. Put up posters, whatever. This is your space."

Ilya set his duffel down on the bed, looking around. His space. He'd never had his own space before, not really. In Moscow, his room had been small and bare, nothing on the walls except peeling paint, no pictures on the wall or decor around the room, beyond his clothes and schoolbooks. Anything else would’ve left an opening for his father to find a reason to lecture him, to punish him. The less of a personality Ilya displayed, the safer he was. 

"Thank you," he said quietly, swallowing tightly. "This is... this is very nice."

"Dinner's in about twenty minutes," Sophie told him gently, smiling softly at him in a way that made Ilya immediately want to avert his eyes to escape the expression. "Just come down whenever you're ready. No rush."

And then she left, and Ilya was alone. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his legs suddenly weak. The room was quiet except for the muffled sounds of the family downstairs - Sophie saying something, the girls laughing, Petrov's low voice responding.

A family. A real family, with parents who smiled and kids who felt safe enough to be silly. A family that was letting him into their home, into their lives, for reasons Ilya still couldn't quite understand.

He should unpack. He should wash his face, change his shirt, make himself presentable for dinner. But for a moment, he just sat there, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

Twenty minutes. He had twenty minutes to pull himself together. Twenty minutes to figure out how to sit at a table with these people and pretend he knew how to be normal.

Twenty minutes to convince himself he wouldn't ruin this before it even began.

He stood up, unzipped his suitcase, and started unpacking. One thing at a time. That was all he could do.

One thing at a time.

Ilya woke up at five-thirty, like he had every morning for the past twelve years of his life. His body didn't know how to sleep past that, even though he'd barely slept at all the past few nights in this strange new bed, in this strange new house, in this strange new country.

The room was still dark, the early September sun not yet rising. For a moment, Ilya lay there, disoriented, before remembering where he was. Boston. The Petrov house. His new home, if you could call it that.

He should get up. Train. Run. Do something productive. His father would've already been yelling at him by now for wasting time in bed.

Ilya pushed back the covers - soft, expensive sheets that were nothing like the scratchy ones back in Moscow - and padded quietly to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth, and pulled on workout clothes. Maybe he could go for a run before anyone woke up. Figure out the neighborhood. Stay out of the way.

The house was silent as he crept downstairs, careful to avoid the creaky spots he'd already memorized on the steps. The first floor was dark except for a light coming from the kitchen.

Ilya froze at the bottom of the stairs.

Someone was already awake.

He approached the kitchen cautiously and found Petrov sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in his hands, reading something on his phone. He was dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly mussed from sleep, looking more human than Ilya had ever seen him.

Petrov looked up when Ilya appeared in the doorway.

"Morning," Petrov said, his voice rough with sleep but not unfriendly.

Ilya's first instinct was to apologize for disturbing him, even though Petrov didn't look disturbed. Just... awake. Alert. The way athletes were always alert, even at ungodly hours.

"You're up early."

"I- yes. Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb-"

"You didn't." Petrov gestured to the coffee maker on the counter, the motion casual and unhurried. "Help yourself if you want some. Mugs are in the cabinet above it."

Ilya hesitated, then moved to pour himself a cup, hyperaware of Petrov's presence behind him. His hands were steady as he filled the mug, added sugar—no milk, they never had milk in Moscow—and turned to lean against the counter. The coffee smelled strong and rich, better than anything his father ever made. Better than anything Ilya had ever made for himself in their cramped Moscow apartment.

They stood there in silence for a moment, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant chirp of birds outside. Ilya sipped his coffee, trying not to fidget, trying not to wonder if he should say something or if silence was better. With his father, silence was always safer.

"Can't sleep?" Petrov asked finally.

The question was casual, but Ilya wondered if it was a test. If Petrov was checking to see if he was lazy, if he was wasting time, if he was already failing at the most basic requirement of being a professional athlete.

"I'm not used to sleeping in," Ilya admitted, deciding honesty was probably the safer route. "My father... he liked me to train early."

Something flickered across Petrov's face, but it was gone before Ilya could read it. Was it disapproval? Agreement? Disgust that Ilya was already making excuses?

"You don't have to train so early here. Not unless you want to."

The words should have been a relief, but they only made Ilya more anxious. Was this another test? Was Petrov seeing if he was dedicated enough, disciplined enough, to train anyway even when he didn't have to?

"I don't mind."

"Hmm." Petrov took a sip of his coffee, and Ilya couldn't tell if that sound meant approval or skepticism. "We'll go to the rink later this morning. Nine o'clock. I'll introduce you to the team, show you around the facility. For now, relax. You just got here."

Relax. As if Ilya knew how to do that. As if his body understood anything other than constant vigilance, constant readiness for the next criticism, the next punishment, the next way he'd inevitably disappoint someone.

He sipped his coffee - it was strong and bitter, the way he liked it - and tried not to fidget under Petrov's occasional glances. The man wasn't staring at him, wasn't studying him the way his father would, but Ilya still felt exposed somehow. Like Petrov could see right through him to all the broken, inadequate parts Ilya tried so hard to hide.

"Sophie will be up soon," Petrov said after a while, his voice breaking through Ilya's spiraling thoughts. "She'll make breakfast. The girls have school today - first day back after summer break. It'll be chaos."

"I can stay out of the way," Ilya offered quickly, already planning his escape route. He could eat later, after everyone had left. Or maybe he'd just skip breakfast altogether.

Petrov's jaw tightened slightly, and Ilya's heart sank. He'd said the wrong thing already. Of course he had.

"You're not in the way."

Before Ilya could respond - though he had no idea what he would have said anyway - there was a creak from upstairs, followed by the sound of small feet padding across the floor. A moment later, Nattie appeared in the kitchen doorway, still in her pajamas, her curly hair a mess, clutching her stuffed rabbit.

She stopped when she saw Ilya, suddenly shy again. Her big brown eyes - so much like her father's - went wide, and she seemed to shrink back slightly.

"Dobroye utro, Nata," Petrov said softly, switching to Russian, his voice taking on a gentleness Ilya had never heard before. "Come here."

The little girl shuffled over to her father, and Petrov pulled her up onto his lap without hesitation, wrapping an arm around her waist. She immediately snuggled into his chest, still half-asleep, her small hand clutching his shirt.

The casual affection made Ilya's throat tight. He looked away, staring into his coffee, trying to ignore the way his chest ached at the sight. He'd never seen a father hold a child like that - so gentle, so natural, like it was the easiest thing in the world. His own father had never touched him except in anger or to correct his form on the ice. Even when Ilya was small, even when he'd been scared or hurt or just wanting comfort, his father had pushed him away. Told him to be strong. To be a man.

"Too early for you to be up," Petrov murmured to his daughter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, and Ilya's grip tightened on his coffee mug.

"Can't sleep," Nattie mumbled, her voice muffled against his shirt.

"Then you'll stay here with Papa and Ilya until Mama gets up, da?"

"Da."

Ilya stood there awkwardly, not sure what to do with himself. Should he leave? Give them privacy? But Petrov had said he wasn't in the way, and leaving now might be rude, might make it seem like Ilya didn't want to be around them. He took another sip of coffee just to have something to do, wishing he could disappear into the walls.

More footsteps upstairs, and then Sophie appeared, already dressed in jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled back. She seemed bright and cheerful, even at this early hour.

"Good morning," she greeted happily, smiling at Ilya in a way that made him want to look away from the warmth in her expression. "You're up early. Did you sleep okay?"

The lie came automatically, practiced and smooth from years of giving his father the answers he wanted to hear.

"Yes, thank you," Ilya said.

"Coffee's fresh," Petrov told his wife, who moved to pour herself a cup before coming over to drop a kiss on his temple, then ruffle Nattie's hair.

Ilya looked away again, the casual intimacy making him feel like an intruder. This was their morning routine, their family moment, and he was just some stranger who'd been inserted into their lives. He shouldn't be here, watching these private moments, witnessing this kind of love that felt almost foreign to him.

"I'll start breakfast," Sophie announced, setting her mug down and moving toward the refrigerator with purpose. "Ilya, do you like eggs? Pancakes? I can make whatever you want."

The question caught him off guard. Whatever he wanted? As if his preferences mattered? As if he was allowed to have preferences?

"Anything is fine. Thank you. I don't want to be trouble."

"You're not trouble," Sophie corrected firmly, echoing her husband's earlier words with the same conviction, as though they'd rehearsed it. As though they both genuinely believed it. 

The next half hour was chaos, just like Petrov had promised. Kira came downstairs, grumpy and complaining about having to go back to school, her blonde hair tangled from sleep. Nell appeared shortly after, full of energy despite the early hour, talking a mile a minute about her new teacher in a mix of English and Russian that made Ilya's head spin. Nattie stayed glued to Petrov's side until Sophie coaxed her into eating some cereal.

The kitchen was loud - not angry loud, but alive loud. People talking over each other, laughing, teasing. Sophie flipped pancakes while simultaneously helping Nell find her backpack. Petrov braided Nattie's hair with surprising skill while listening to Kira complain about her math teacher, his large hands gentle and practiced as he wove the strands together.

Ilya sat at the table, trying to take up as little space as possible, overwhelmed by all of it. By the noise, the movement, the constant stream of conversation. In Moscow, breakfast had been silent except for his father's critiques. Eat faster. Don't slouch. You're getting soft. This was nothing like that. This was warm and chaotic and full of life, and Ilya didn't know how to exist in it.

"Ilya, can you pass me the syrup?" Nell asked in Russian, grinning at him with a gap-toothed smile that reminded him painfully of his cousin back home.

He handed it to her, and she thanked him cheerfully before drowning her pancakes in it, pouring with the enthusiasm only an eight-year-old could muster.

"Not too much," Sophie warned, but she was smiling, not angry. Just... amused. Fond.

"Mama, can Ilya teach me Russian curse words?" Nell asked sweetly, her voice dripping with false innocence.

Oh God. Ilya's stomach dropped. He was absolutely not going to be the one to teach Petrov's daughter to swear.

"Nell!"

"What? Kira knows them. Papa taught her."

Petrov looked up from Nattie's braid, his expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

"I did not," Petrov protested, but he was fighting a smile, his mouth twitching at the corners.

"You said 'blyat' when you dropped the plate last week," Kira pointed out smugly from her seat across the table, clearly enjoying getting her father in trouble.

Sophie pointed her spatula at her husband with mock severity, though her eyes were dancing with laughter.

"See what you've done?"

"They were bound to learn eventually," Petrov said defensively, finishing Nattie's braid and securing it with a small elastic. "Better they learn from me than from teammates."

That was probably true, Ilya thought. Hockey players had mouths like sailors, and the Russians were often the worst of the bunch.

"Papa, what does—"

"Nyet," Petrov cut Nattie off before she could finish the question, his voice firm but not harsh. "Absolutely not."

The little girl giggled, clearly not actually upset, just testing boundaries in that way children did when they felt safe enough to push.

Ilya watched it all, his chest tight with something he couldn't name. This was what a family was supposed to look like. This easy affection, this casual joy, this safety. Parents who smiled and laughed with their children instead of at them. Children who felt comfortable enough to be silly, to test limits, to just... be kids.

He'd never had this. It had never even been a possibility for him. 

Sophie set a plate of pancakes in front of him, and Ilya murmured his thanks, cutting into them carefully. They were perfect - fluffy and golden, with butter melting on top. Yet another piece to the picture-perfect puzzle the Petrovs made. 

"These are very good," Ilya said quietly, the compliment feeling inadequate but necessary. "Thank you."

"I'm glad you like them," Sophie said warmly, her smile genuine and bright. "There's plenty more if you want seconds."

Ilya nodded, focusing on his plate, trying not to think about how his father would've criticized him for complimenting the food, for being too grateful, for showing any kind of softness. Gratitude was weakness in his father's eyes. Appreciation was a vulnerability to be exploited.

Kira was telling some story about her friend's summer vacation, gesturing wildly with her fork as she talked about a beach trip and a jellyfish and something about her friend's brother being an idiot. 

Ilya was so distracted, so far away in his own thoughts, that he didn't notice his arm moving until it was too late. His elbow hit his water glass, knocking it over. Water spread across the table, soaking the placemat, dripping onto the floor.

"Dermo," Ilya muttered, then winced at cursing in front of the children. "Sorry - I'll get it."

He was already reaching for the paper towels, moving quickly but not frantically. It was just water, nothing that could stain or ruin something. Still, his hands moved with practiced efficiency, the muscle memory of cleaning up mistakes before they could become reasons for punishment.

"I'm sorry," he said, panic tinging his voice without his permission. "I wasn't paying attention."

"It's okay," Sophie said, already there with more paper towels, helping him mop it up. "Happens all the time with this crew."

Her voice was light, unconcerned, but when Ilya glanced up, he caught the look that passed between Sophie and Petrov. Something unspoken, something worried. Petrov's eyes were on Ilya, studying him with an intensity that made Ilya's stomach twist.

He'd revealed something. He wasn't sure what, but something about the way he'd moved, the automatic apology, the ingrained response to a simple accident - it had told them something he didn't want them to know.

"There," Sophie said brightly, tossing the wet paper towels in the trash. "All done. See? No harm."

Ilya nodded, settling back into his seat, but the moment had shifted something. The easy warmth of breakfast felt strained now, at least to him. Petrov's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before he turned back to Nattie, asking her something about school in a soft voice that Ilya couldn't quite hear.

The rest of breakfast passed in a blur. Ilya finished his pancakes because not finishing would be rude, but he could barely taste them. His throat was too tight, his mind too busy replaying that look between Sophie and Petrov. The girls eventually left the table to finish getting ready for school, their voices fading as they thundered up the stairs, and Sophie started packing lunches with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.

Petrov looked at Ilya, and Ilya forced himself to meet his eyes even though everything in him wanted to look away. "Go get changed. Wear something comfortable. We'll leave at eight-thirty."

Ilya nodded and escaped upstairs, grateful for the reprieve, grateful to be away from the concerned looks and the too-gentle voices and the knowledge that he'd already started revealing cracks in the facade he'd worked so hard to build.

In his room, he sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

It was just a glass of water. Just a simple accident. But somehow, it felt like more than that. Like he'd shown them something he shouldn't have, peeled back a layer he was supposed to keep hidden.

He stood up and went to his suitcase, pulling out workout clothes for the rink. He needed to focus. Needed to get on the ice and show them what he could do. That was what mattered. Not breakfast, not spilled water, not the concerned looks.

Just hockey. That was all he had to be good at.

Chapter 2: chapter two

Chapter Notes

The drive to the rink was quiet.

Petrov didn't ask about breakfast, didn't mention the spilled water, didn't say much of anything except to point out a few landmarks as they drove. A park where the girls liked to play. A coffee shop that made good espresso. The grocery store where Sophie did most of the shopping. Normal things, mundane things, things that had nothing to do with whatever Petrov might be thinking about Ilya's reaction earlier.

The practice facility was only about fifteen minutes from the house, located in a newer part of the city with other sports complexes nearby. The building was massive - far bigger and nicer than anything Ilya had trained in back in Russia. Glass and steel and modern architecture, with the Bears' logo emblazoned on the front in bold letters.

"This is where the team practices," Petrov explained as they pulled into the parking lot, which was already half-full of expensive cars. "Games are at the Garden - I'll take you there later this week. But this is where you'll spend most of your time."

Ilya nodded, following Petrov inside, his stomach a tight knot of nerves. This was it. This was where he'd have to prove himself, where he'd have to show everyone that his father was wrong, that he wasn't lazy or undisciplined or any of the other things his father had said.

The lobby was sleek and professional, with photos of past teams lining the walls, championship banners hanging from the ceiling. A receptionist greeted Petrov by name, barely glancing at Ilya as they passed.

They went through a set of double doors into a hallway that smelled like ice and sweat and rubber - familiar, comforting smells that made something in Ilya's chest unclench slightly. This, at least, he understood. Hockey he could do. Hockey made sense in a way nothing else in his life did.

"Training room, equipment room, coaches' offices," Petrov pointed out as they walked, his voice taking on a more professional tone now that they were at the facility. "Your locker will be with the other rookies. Fletcher wants you on the ice by ten, so we're early. Most of the guys should be here by now though."

They turned a corner and entered the locker room.

It was huge, with rows of wooden stalls, each one bearing a nameplate. Ilya spotted his own name—ROZANOV—in the back corner, next to a few other nameplates he didn't recognize. Probably the other rookies, other players who were just as desperate to prove themselves, just as terrified of failing.

There were already a handful of players in the room, in various stages of getting dressed. The conversation died when Petrov walked in, everyone turning to look. Their eyes slid from Petrov to Ilya, curious and assessing, and Ilya fought the urge to shrink under their scrutiny.

"Morning, Nik," one of them called out, a tall blond guy who looked to be in his late twenties. American, based on his accent and the easy confidence in his voice.

"Morning, boys," Petrov replied, his voice carrying the weight of authority even though he wasn't in his playing gear. His hand landed on Ilya's shoulder, steering him forward slightly, and Ilya tried not to tense at the touch. "This is Ilya Rozanov, our first round pick. He'll be living with me and Sophie this season, so be nice to him or answer to my wife."

A few chuckles rippled through the room, the tension breaking slightly. So they all knew Sophie, then. Knew she was someone to be taken seriously, someone whose opinion mattered.

"Rozanov, this is—" Petrov gestured around the room, rattling off names that Ilya tried desperately to remember even as they slipped through his mind like water. Connors, the blond American. Becker, a grizzled veteran with a scar across his eyebrow and the kind of build that suggested he'd been in more than his fair share of fights. Murphy, or Murph as everyone seemed to call him, their captain, probably pushing thirty with dark brown hair and an easy smile. A few others whose names immediately slipped from Ilya's mind, lost in the anxiety of trying to make a good first impression.

"Welcome to the Bears," Murph said, extending a hand across the room. Ilya shook it, trying to project more confidence than he felt, trying to make his grip firm without being aggressive. "Heard a lot about you. Saw some of your tape from Russia. You're fast as hell."

The compliment should have made him feel better, but it only increased the pressure. They had expectations now. They thought he was good. What if he wasn't? What if the tape had been misleading, what if he couldn't perform under pressure, what if—

"Thank you," Ilya managed, his voice steadier than he felt.

"Don't let Petrov scare you," Connors added with a grin, shooting a look at Petrov that suggested a comfortable familiarity. "He's not as mean as he looks."

"I'm exactly as mean as I look," Petrov said dryly, but there was no heat in it, just the easy banter of men who'd known each other for years. "Get dressed, kid.”

He left, and suddenly Ilya was alone with his new teammates.

For a moment, no one spoke. They were all watching him, sizing him up, and Ilya fought the urge to shrink under their scrutiny. This was normal, he told himself. New players always got looked over, assessed, judged. It didn't mean they hated him. It didn't mean they thought he didn't belong. It was just... hockey.

"So you're staying with Petrov, huh?" Becker said finally, his voice gravelly and deep. "How's that going?"

It was a simple question, casual even, but Ilya could feel the weight behind it. They wanted to know if he was going to be a problem, if he was going to bring drama to the team, if living with the assistant GM was going to make things weird.

"It's... good," Ilya said carefully, choosing his words with precision. "His family is very kind."

"Sophie's a saint," Connors agreed, and the genuine warmth in his voice made something in Ilya's chest loosen slightly. "And those girls are adorable. Kira gave me shit last time I was over there about my slapshot. Twelve years old and already a better analyst than half our coaching staff."

A few guys laughed, and Ilya felt some of the tension in the room dissipate. They liked the Petrovs. They respected them. That was good. That meant Ilya living there wouldn't be seen as some kind of special treatment or favoritism.

"Your English is pretty good," Murph observed, leaning back against his stall. "Better than some of the other Russian guys we've had."

Ilya's English was terrible, heavily accented and full of grammatical errors, but he appreciated the lie. Appreciated the attempt to make him feel more comfortable, more welcome.

"I've been studying," Ilya said. It wasn't entirely true - his English was still clumsy and inadequate - but he'd been trying. Watching American movies with subtitles, reading English books even when they gave him headaches, practicing phrases in the mirror until they didn't sound quite so foreign.

"Well, welcome to Boston," Becker told him, his voice genuinely friendly. "It's a good city. Good team. You'll fit in fine."

Ilya nodded, moving to his stall to start unpacking his gear, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact, to have something to do with his hands. The other players went back to their conversations, the initial curiosity about him fading as they focused on getting ready for practice. Someone was talking about a restaurant they'd tried over the summer. Someone else was complaining about traffic on the way in. Normal conversations. Normal people living normal lives.

The door opened again, and a massive figure ducked through it. The guy was huge - taller than Ilya, maybe even taller than Petrov. Broader too, with shoulders that seemed to take up half the doorway and arms thick with muscle. He had dark hair, a square jaw, and the kind of presence that made everyone in the room unconsciously straighten up a bit.

"Benny!" Connors called out, grinning. "Thought you weren't coming in until later."

"Changed my mind," the big man said, his voice a deep rumble. His eyes landed on Ilya, and he made his way over, moving with surprising grace for someone his size. "You must be Rozanov. Matt Bennett. Everyone calls me Benny."

He extended a hand, and Ilya shook it, trying not to wince at the strength of his grip. This was a man who could crush someone on the ice without breaking a sweat.

"Ilya," he managed, swallowing tightly.

"Heard you're a center," Benny commented, dropping his bag next to a stall a few down from Ilya's. "Fast skater. That'll be good - we could use more speed on the line."

"I'll do my best," Ilya promised, the words coming out more formal than he intended.

Benny studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, seemingly satisfied with whatever he saw.

"Good. Looking forward to seeing what you can do out there." He turned to start unpacking his gear, effectively ending the conversation.

Ilya went back to lacing up his skates, his hands working automatically while his mind raced. These were his teammates now. These men he'd be spending the next however many months with, training with, playing with, relying on. They seemed nice enough, welcoming even. But Ilya knew better than to trust first impressions. Knew better than to let his guard down.

He finished with his skates and grabbed his stick, the familiar weight of it in his hands grounding him slightly. This part he knew. This part he could do. He just had to get on the ice and play. Show them what he could do. Prove that he belonged here.

"Alright, rookies!" Becker called out from across the room. "Get your asses moving! Ice time starts in ten!"

Ilya stood up, following the other players toward the rink, his heart hammering in his chest.

This was it. His first practice as a member of the Boston Bears.

He just had to not fuck it up.

The rink was cold in the way only hockey rinks could be - a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the ice itself. Ilya stepped onto it, his skates cutting familiar lines into the fresh surface, and felt something in his chest settle.

This, he knew. This made sense.

The ice didn't care where you came from or what language you spoke or whether your father thought you were a disappointment. The ice only cared if you were fast, if you were strong, if you could handle the puck and make the plays that mattered.

"Alright, listen up!"

Head Coach Tim O'Reilly stood at center ice, flanked by two assistant coaches. He was in his mid-fifties, with graying hair and the weathered face of someone who'd spent decades in the game. His voice carried across the rink with practiced authority.

"We're going to start with some basic drills, get everyone warmed up, see what we're working with. Rookies, I expect you to keep up." 

Ilya's stomach tightened. Keep up. Don't fall behind. Don't be the weak link.

He spotted Petrov standing off to the side, talking quietly with Murray. Petrov's eyes swept across the ice, landing on Ilya for just a moment before moving on. Ilya's heart rate kicked up another notch.

Don't fuck this up. Don't fuck this up. Don't—

"Let's go! Line up for skating drills!"

The next hour was a blur of motion. Sprints from blue line to blue line. Crossovers around the circles. Backwards skating, forwards skating, edge work that had Ilya's thighs burning within minutes. He pushed himself hard, maybe too hard, acutely aware of every coach's eyes on him. Acutely aware of Petrov standing there, watching.

He wasn't the fastest on the team - Connors had him beat there - but he was fast. Faster than most. His edges were clean, his transitions smooth. Years of his father's brutal training had at least given him that.

"Good hustle, Rozanov!" Coach Stevens called out as Ilya finished a sprint, and Ilya felt a tiny flutter of something that might have been pride before he squashed it down.

One compliment didn't mean anything. He had to stay focused. Had to keep proving himself.

They moved on to puck handling drills. Weaving through cones, quick passes, one-timers. This was where Ilya shined - his hands were quick, his stick handling precise. He'd spent countless hours as a kid working on this, his father standing over him with a stopwatch, demanding faster, cleaner, better.

"Rozanov, center!" Coach O'Reilly shouted. "Let's see what you've got!"

Ilya took his position, and they ran a breakout drill. Becker fed him the puck, and Ilya took off, the ice blurring beneath his skates. He saw Murphy breaking down the left wing, Connors on the right. The defensemen were closing in, but Ilya had space, just enough space—

He passed to Murphy, who took the shot. Wide. It clanged off the post.

"Again!" O'Reilly called out.

They ran it again. And again. Each time, Ilya felt himself falling into the rhythm of it, his body remembering what his mind tried to overthink. By the fourth repetition, Murphy buried it top shelf, and a few of the guys tapped their sticks against the ice in approval.

Ilya allowed himself a breath. Okay. Okay, he could do this.

They moved into scrimmage, splitting into two teams. Ilya found himself on a line with Benny and a winger named Fraser. Benny was even more intimidating on the ice than off - a force of nature who could clear the crease with a single shoulder check.

"Stay in position, move the puck, don't be a hero," Benny told him as they lined up for the face-off. It wasn't said meanly, just matter-of-fact.

Ilya nodded, his heart pounding.

The puck dropped, and everything else fell away.

This was where Ilya lived. Not in uncomfortable breakfast conversations or awkward introductions. Here, on the ice, with a stick in his hands and a puck to chase.

He was good. He knew he was good. His skating was smooth, his passing crisp. He found open ice, created opportunities, made the plays his linemates needed. When Benny crashed the net, Ilya was there with the puck. When Fraser got tangled up with a defenseman, Ilya was already moving into position for the dump-and-chase.

Ten minutes into the scrimmage, Ilya saw his opening. Murphy had the puck in the neutral zone, and Ilya broke toward the offensive blue line, his legs pumping. The pass came hard and fast, and Ilya brought it down, cutting toward the net. The goalie was cheating to his right, the defenseman was a step behind—

Ilya's stick moved almost on instinct. He deked left, the goalie bit, and Ilya slid the puck five-hole.

Goal.

A few of the guys whistled, and Connors skated by to tap Ilya's shin pads with his stick.

"Nice one, rook!"

Ilya felt that dangerous flutter of pride again and shoved it down. One goal in a scrimmage didn't mean anything. It didn't prove anything. He had to keep going, keep playing, keep—

The next shift, Ilya got the puck in the corner. He saw Benny in front of the net, saw the passing lane, went to make the play—

His stick caught an edge weird, and the pass went wide. Not terribly wide, but wide enough that Benny had to stretch for it, and the defenseman jumped on the opportunity, stealing it away and breaking out the other direction.

Ilya's heart stopped.

Shit. Fuck. No, no, no—

He braced himself, his shoulders instinctively hunching, his jaw clenching. His father would've lost his mind over a mistake like that. A stupid, careless error born from not paying enough attention, from getting cocky after one good play. He could already hear the screaming, feel the sharp crack of a hand across the back of his head.

But the whistle blew for something else - offside on the other team - and Coach O'Reilly just called out, "Shake it off, Rozanov! Next one!"

That was it. Shake it off. Next one.

No screaming. No punishment. No bag skates until he puked.

Ilya blinked, his heart still racing, adrenaline flooding his system for a threat that hadn't materialized. He looked toward the bench, toward where Petrov was standing with Coach Murray, but Petrov was just talking, not even looking at him.

Had he... had Petrov not seen the mistake? Or had he seen it and decided it wasn't worth commenting on? Did that mean it was fine, or did it mean Petrov was saving his criticism for later, for when they were alone?

"Rozanov! You ready?" Becker asked from the face-off circle, a bit impatient.

Ilya shook himself and skated over, trying to refocus. Next shift. Do better. Don't fuck up again.

The rest of practice passed in a haze of controlled chaos. Ilya played hard, maybe too hard, throwing his body into every drill with a desperation that probably looked like enthusiasm but felt more like survival. He made good plays and a few more small mistakes, each one sending a jolt of anxiety through him even when the coaches just moved on like it was nothing.

By the time O'Reilly blew the final whistle, Ilya was exhausted. Not just physically - though his legs were burning and his lungs felt raw - but mentally. Emotionally. The constant vigilance, the hyperawareness of every coach's position, every word, every look from Petrov. It was draining in a way that had nothing to do with hockey.

"Good first practice, everyone!" O'Reilly called out as they gathered at center ice. "Veterans, you know the drill. Rookies, welcome to the team. We've got a long season ahead of us. Get some rest, hydrate, and I'll see you all tomorrow at nine."

The players started skating off, and Ilya followed, his legs heavy. He'd survived. He'd made it through his first practice without completely humiliating himself. That was something. Maybe.

In the locker room, the atmosphere was loose and easy. Guys were laughing, chirping each other about plays they'd made or missed. Someone was complaining about the conditioning drills. Someone else was already making plans to grab food after they showered.

Ilya sat down heavily in his stall, his hands shaking slightly as he started unlacing his skates. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him hollowed out and uncertain.

"Hey, nice playing out there," Murphy said, dropping onto the bench next to him. "That goal was clean."

"Thank you," Ilya managed.

"Don't worry about that bad pass in the second half," Murphy continued, like it was nothing. Like mistakes were just... normal. "Happens to everyone. You'll get used to Benny's positioning."

Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice.

Murphy clapped him on the shoulder and moved on, leaving Ilya alone with his thoughts.

Had he done well enough? The coaches hadn't yelled at him, but that didn't mean they were satisfied. Petrov hadn't said anything, but that didn't mean he hadn't noticed every error, every moment of hesitation, every sign that Ilya wasn't quite good enough.

The locker room gradually cleared out as guys finished changing and headed to the showers or out to their cars. Ilya moved slowly, deliberately, not wanting to be the first one done but also not wanting to linger too long. Finding that invisible line of acceptable behavior was exhausting.

By the time he made it out to the parking lot, most of the team was gone. Petrov's SUV was still there, and Ilya found the man leaning against the driver's side door, scrolling through his phone.

"Ready?" Petrov asked, looking up.

"Yes," Ilya said quietly, climbing into the passenger seat.

They pulled out of the parking lot in silence. Ilya stared out the window, watching Boston slide by, trying to quiet his racing thoughts. Had Petrov been satisfied with the practice? Was he disappointed? Angry? It was impossible to tell from his expression, which was neutral bordering on unreadable.

"You played well today," Petrov said finally, breaking the silence.

Ilya's head snapped toward him. "Thank you."

"You've got good hands. Fast feet. You see the ice well."

The compliments should have felt good, but Ilya found himself waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the "but." For the critique that would follow, the list of everything he'd done wrong.

It didn't come.

Petrov just kept driving, one hand on the wheel, his expression thoughtful.

"That pass you missed in the second scrimmage," Petrov said after a moment, and there it was. Ilya's stomach dropped. "Don't worry about it. Happens to everyone. Benny's a big guy - takes some time to learn his patterns."

Ilya nodded, his throat tight. Was that it? Was Petrov going to elaborate on all the ways Ilya had fucked up, or was he just going to let it sit there, unspoken but understood?

The car slowed as they approached a red light, and in the sudden stillness, Petrov turned to look at him fully.

"I remember what the coaches were like in Russia," Petrov said quietly. "When I was coming up. The yelling, the... discipline."

Ilya went very still.

"That's not how things work here," Petrov continued, and even though the light hadn't changed yet, he didn't look away. "The coaches here, they'll push you, they'll challenge you, but they won't-" He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "They won't hit you. They won't use their hands on you. That's not acceptable here. Not in this organization."

Ilya's mouth went dry. Did Petrov know? Had his father told him? Or was it just obvious- the way Ilya had flinched earlier, the way he'd braced for impact after a simple mistake?

The light was still red. Cars waited behind them, but Petrov seemed in no hurry to break eye contact. His gaze was steady, unflinching, searching Ilya's face for something - understanding, maybe, or acknowledgment. The intensity of it was almost unbearable. Ilya wanted to look away, to escape the weight of those dark eyes that saw too much, but something kept him frozen in place. There was no anger in Petrov's expression, no judgment. Just a fierce, protective determination that Ilya didn't know what to do with.

"If anyone ever does put their hands on you," Petrov said, his voice taking on a harder edge, each word deliberate and weighted, "you tell me. Immediately. You understand?"

The eye contact felt like a physical thing, like Petrov was reaching across the console and gripping Ilya by the shoulders, demanding he listen, demanding he believe. Ilya's heart hammered in his chest. He couldn't remember the last time an adult had looked at him like this - like he mattered, like his safety mattered, like the idea of someone hurting him was personally offensive to them.

"Yes," Ilya whispered, unable to come up with anything else to say.

"I mean it, Ilya." Petrov's eyes didn't waver, didn't blink. The brown of them was almost black in the dim light of the car, serious and unwavering. "That's not how we do things here. You make a mistake, the coaches will correct you, but they won't punish you. Not like—" Petrov's jaw tightened. "Not like some coaches do in Russia."

The light turned green. A car behind them honked, impatient, and the spell broke. Petrov turned back to the road, accelerating smoothly, but Ilya could still feel the ghost of that gaze, still feel the promise in it.

Ilya didn't know what to say. His chest felt tight, his eyes stinging in a way that was absolutely unacceptable. He was eighteen years old, not a child. He didn't cry. Not over this.

"Okay," he managed, his voice barely audible.

They drove the rest of the way home in silence, but it felt different now. Less oppressive. Like something had shifted, just slightly.

When they pulled into the driveway, Petrov turned off the engine but didn't move to get out right away.

"You did good today," he repeated, and this time Ilya let himself believe it. Just a little. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be tough too, but you'll handle it."

"Thank you," Ilya murmured. For the practice feedback. For the reassurance. For the promise that no one here would hurt him.

For all of it.

They got out of the car and headed inside, where Ilya could already hear the girls' voices from the kitchen, smell something cooking that made his stomach growl. Normal family sounds. Safe sounds.

Maybe, just maybe, he could learn to believe that this place was different.

That he was allowed to make mistakes without bleeding for them.

Maybe.

Three weeks into living with the Petrovs, Ilya was starting to learn the rhythms of the house. Morning coffee with Nikolai before the girls woke up. The chaos of breakfast. Sophie's reminders about dinner at six-thirty sharp. The sound of Nell's laughter echoing down the hallway, Kira's eye rolls when her sisters did something she deemed childish, Nattie's quiet presence that was slowly, slowly becoming less shy around him.

He was learning. Adapting. Trying not to fuck it up.

Practice had run late - O'Reilly had kept them for an extra hour working on power play formations - and by the time Ilya trudged through the front door, it was nearly seven-thirty. His legs ached, his shoulders were tight, and all he wanted was to collapse into bed.

The house was quiet, or quieter than usual. No sounds of the girls running around upstairs. The lights in the kitchen were off. Ilya slipped off his shoes by the door, moving as quietly as possible so as not to disturb anyone.

As he passed the living room, he caught a glimpse of the TV - some action movie playing with the volume low - and Nikolai and Sophie on the couch. Sophie was lying down with her head in Nikolai's lap, her legs curled up, a blanket draped over her. Nikolai's hand was absently playing with her hair, his eyes on the screen but his expression relaxed in a way Ilya rarely saw.

It was so casual, so intimate, that Ilya immediately looked away, heat creeping up his neck. This was their time, their space. He was intruding just by being here.

He headed for the stairs, moving as quietly as possible. Dinner had been at six-thirty, like always. He'd missed it. That was fine. He wasn't that hungry anyway, and he didn't want to bother Sophie by asking her to make him something now. He'd just go to bed, maybe grab something in the morning before practice.

"Ilya?"

He froze, one foot on the bottom step. Sophie had sat up on the couch, turning to look at him over the back of it. Her hair was mussed from lying down, and she looked comfortable and warm in her sweatpants and oversized sweater.

"I'm sorry," Ilya said automatically, his English stumbling slightly in his exhaustion. "I didn't mean to disturb. I was just going upstairs."

His heart was beating faster than it should have been. He'd broken the routine, missed dinner, disrupted their evening. Surely that warranted some kind of reprimand.

"You're not disturbing us," Sophie chided, her voice gentle as always.

She stood up, and Nikolai paused the movie, looking over at Ilya with an expression that was unreadable in the dim light of the TV.

"Practice was late?"

"Yes," Ilya responded, grateful for the switch in languages. English was hard enough, and after a long day of practice, it was nearly impossible. "Coach O'Reilly wanted to work on some things."

The explanation sounded thin even to his own ears. Like an excuse. Like he was trying to justify his absence instead of just accepting whatever consequences were coming.

"You must be exhausted." She moved toward the kitchen, and Ilya's stomach twisted. "I left you a plate in the fridge. Just heat it up in the microwave for two minutes."

Ilya blinked. "You... you did?"

The question came out more surprised than he'd intended. In Moscow, if he'd missed dinner, that was it. His father didn't save plates. Food was served at a specific time, and if you weren't there, you went hungry. It was supposed to teach discipline, responsibility, time management.

"Of course I did," Sophie replied, like it was obvious. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her tone was so matter-of-fact, so free of resentment or irritation, that Ilya found himself momentarily speechless.

"You still need eat, even if practice is late."

Something tight in Ilya's chest loosened slightly. "Thank you. You didn't have to-"

"Ilya." Sophie's voice was kind but firm, and she waited until he met her eyes before continuing. "Everyone in my house gets dinner, even if they’re late. Okay?"

Ilya wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information, but he knew the safest course of action was always to agree.  

"Okay," he said quietly. "Thank you."

Sophie watched him for another moment, blue eyes filled with something resembling concern, and Ilya found himself fidgeting under the woman’s gaze. Eventually though, she returned to the couch and Ilya let out a small exhale. 

He went to the kitchen and found the plate in the fridge - chicken, rice, and roasted vegetables, covered in plastic wrap. His stomach growled at the sight of it. He heated it up like Sophie had instructed and ate standing at the counter, too tired to bother sitting down properly.

The food was good. Really good. Sophie was an excellent cook, something Ilya was still getting used to after years of his father's utilitarian approach to meals. Food was fuel, nothing more. But Sophie cooked like she cared, like she wanted the people eating her food to enjoy it.

He finished eating and was rinsing his plate when Nikolai appeared in the kitchen.

"Good practice?" he asked, leaning against the counter.

His posture was relaxed, casual, but Ilya still felt himself tense slightly. This felt like it could be the prelude to something - a lecture about being late, about disrupting the household schedule, about not respecting Sophie's time and effort.

"Yes. Tired, but good."

"O'Reilly pushing you hard?"

"Everyone," Ilya explained quickly, wanting to make it clear he wasn't complaining, wasn't asking for special treatment or sympathy. "Not just me."

Nikolai nodded, seeming satisfied with that answer. "Get some rest. You've got practice again tomorrow at nine."

That was it. No lecture. No criticism. Just a reminder about tomorrow's schedule and an instruction to rest.

"I will. Thank you.”

Ilya headed upstairs to his room, his body heavy with exhaustion but his mind a little lighter. They'd saved him dinner. Sophie had made sure he had food, even though he'd missed the family meal. Even though he'd disrupted the routine, broken the schedule, failed to be where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there.

And no one had been angry.

Maybe he was starting to understand what it meant to be part of a family.

Two days later, Ilya found himself in the kitchen after dinner, washing dishes while Sophie bustled around getting Nattie ready for her hockey practice. The little girl had a youth league team she played on, and apparently tonight was practice night.

"Ilya, you don't have to do those," Sophie called from the hallway, where she was helping Nattie into her jacket.

Her voice carried that same gentle exasperation it always did when she found him cleaning up. Ilya had learned that Americans seemed to have different rules about household chores, about what was expected and what was going too far.

"Just leave them in the sink."

Ilya ignored her, continuing to scrub the pot she'd used to make pasta. He didn't mind doing dishes. It gave him something to do with his hands, a way to contribute that didn't require conversation or navigating complex social dynamics. Plus, his father had always made him clean up after dinner. It felt wrong not to, like he was being lazy, taking advantage of Sophie's kindness without giving anything back.

"Mama, where's my stick?" Nattie's voice drifted in from the hall, sounding frustrated.

"In the garage, sweetheart. Where you left it."

Ilya rinsed the pot and set it in the drying rack, then moved on to the plates. Behind him, he heard small footsteps approaching, lighter and more hesitant than Nell's confident stomping or Kira's teenage shuffle.

"Ilya?"

He turned to find Nattie standing in the kitchen doorway, already dressed in her practice gear. She looked tiny in all the padding, her dark curls pulled back in a ponytail that Sophie had clearly just done. She was clutching her stick in one hand, her helmet in the other.

"Yes?" Ilya said in Russian, setting down the dish he'd been washing.

He dried his hands on a towel, giving her his full attention. Nattie rarely spoke to him directly, usually content to observe from a distance or hide behind Sophie when she was feeling particularly shy.

Nattie bit her lip, suddenly shy again. But then she seemed to gather her courage, her brown eyes - so much like her father's - meeting his.

"Do you... do you want to come watch my practice?" she asked in Russian.

The question caught Ilya completely off guard. In the three weeks he'd been living here, Nattie had been the most reserved of the three girls. She was polite, answering questions when asked, but she mostly observed from a distance. This was the first time she'd actively sought him out, the first time she'd asked him for something.

"I..." Ilya looked at Sophie, who had appeared behind Nattie, a soft smile on her face that made something in his chest tighten. "If it's okay?"

He didn't want to assume, didn't want to intrude on what was probably family time, mother-daughter time. And what if he went and Nattie got nervous with him there? What if his presence made her play worse and Sophie blamed him for it?

"Of course it's okay," Sophie assured, her voice warm and encouraging, a soft smile on her face.

The ease with which she said it, like there was no question that he'd be welcome, made Ilya's throat tight.

"We love to have you. Nik usually comes when he can, but he's got meeting with Fletcher tonight."

Ilya looked back at Nattie, who was watching him with hopeful eyes, still biting her lip in that way that made her look even younger than five.

Something warm unfurled in his chest. "I would like that. Very much."

Nattie's face lit up with a smile that made her look even younger than five, all joy and no self-consciousness.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Yay!" She bounced on her toes, her equipment rattling with the movement, then ran off toward the garage, presumably to grab the rest of her gear.

Sophie laughed softly, the sound bright and affectionate. "That's the most excited I've seen her about practice in weeks. She's been asking about you, you know. Asking Nik if you're good at hockey, if you could teach her things."

Ilya's throat tightened. The idea that this little girl had been asking about him, thinking about him, wanting to learn from him - it was almost too much.

"I could. If she wants. If is okay."

"I think she'd love that." Sophie grabbed her keys from the counter, the metal jingling. "Come on, let's go. Practice starts in twenty minutes."

The rink where Nattie practiced was smaller than the Bears' facility, older and more worn but still well-maintained. It had that same smell - ice and rubber and sweat - that made Ilya feel grounded. There were a handful of other parents in the stands, scattered around, some on their phones, others chatting with each other.

Sophie led them to seats about halfway up, close enough to see but not so close they'd be hovering. Nattie skated onto the ice with her team - a group of tiny kids in mismatched gear, some of whom could barely stay upright on their skates.

"It’s her first year playing," Sophie explained as they settled into their seats, switching between English and Russian.

The metal bench was cold even through Ilya's jeans, and he could feel the chill of the ice radiating up from below. It was familiar, comforting in its own way.

"But she loves it. Nik taught her to skate when she was three, and she's been begging to play ever since."

Ilya watched as Nattie lined up with the other kids for a skating drill. She was small, even compared to her teammates, but she moved with a confidence that suggested she'd inherited at least some of her father's athleticism.

"She is good," Ilya observed, tracking her movements across the ice. "Her edges are strong. For her age."

"Nik works with her sometimes," Sophie said, and there was pride in her voice, but also something else. Something careful. "When he has time. He’s trying not to be one of those parents, you know? The ones who push too hard. But Nattie loves it, so it's easier."

Ilya knew exactly what kind of parent Sophie meant. His father had been that parent—the kind who pushed until you broke, who saw potential as an obligation rather than a gift, who measured love in goals scored and mistakes avoided. Every practice had been a test. Every game had been a judgment. And Ilya had failed them all, over and over, no matter how hard he tried. His father had pushed him past exhaustion, past pain, past the point where hockey was fun or even tolerable. It had become survival. A way to avoid his father's anger, even though avoiding it was impossible.

He wondered what it would have been like to have a father like Nikolai. One who taught because his daughter wanted to learn, not because he needed her to be great. One who worried about pushing too hard instead of never being satisfied no matter how hard you were pushed. One who looked at his child with love instead of perpetual disappointment.

They watched in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The coach had the kids doing basic drills—stopping, starting, simple puck control. Nattie was one of the better skaters, Ilya noted. She listened to the coach, followed instructions, didn't get distracted like some of the other kids who were more interested in talking to their friends or playing with the pucks instead of practicing with them.

"So," Sophie said, her tone carefully casual in that way adults had when they were about to ask something potentially difficult, "your parents. Are they planning to come out for any of your games this season?"

Ilya's stomach clenched. He should have expected this question eventually. It was a normal thing to ask - whether a player's family would be visiting, whether they'd get to meet them.

"My father might come," Ilya replied slowly, though he doubted it. “I don’t know.”

His father had better things to do than watch Ilya play hockey in America. Better things to do than spend money on a plane ticket to see his disappointing son inevitably fail to live up to the expectations everyone had placed on him.

"And your mother?"

The question was innocent, well-meaning. Sophie had no way of knowing that it would hit like a punch to the sternum.

Ilya was quiet for a moment, watching Nattie circle around a cone, her small form focused and determined. He could feel Sophie's eyes on him, could sense her waiting for an answer.

"She’s dead," he answered finally, his voice low enough that it almost got lost in the ambient noise of the rink. It never got easier saying those words. Every time, it was still like ripping a bandaid off. The loss of his mother was like a gaping wound in his chest, one that would never fully close no matter how many years went by. 

Sophie's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes going wide with shock and immediate regret. "Oh, Ilya. I'm so sorry. I didn't—I shouldn't have assumed—"

The apology came fast, tumbling over itself, and Ilya could hear the genuine distress in her voice. Sophie was kind, too kind, perhaps, to be dealing with him. Too kind that she hadn’t been able to say no when her husband asked if he could bring a stray home from work, and now she was stuck dealing with Ilya. 

"Is okay," Ilya said, even though it wasn't, even though talking about his mother always made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with hockey.

Six years hadn't made it easier. Six years hadn't dulled the edge of that loss or filled the void she'd left behind.

"You didn't know."

“What happened?" Sophie asked gently, her voice soft and careful. "If you don't mind me asking."

Ilya swallowed hard, his eyes still fixed on the ice where Nattie was now attempting a drill that involved skating backwards.

"Suicide," he answered simply, swallowing tightly. “When I was twelve. I found her.”

The word felt brutal in his mouth, too harsh, too clinical. It didn't capture what it had been like to come home from practice that day and find his father's face pale and stricken. It didn't explain the way the world had tilted sideways, how everything that came after had felt muted and distant, like he was watching his own life through thick glass.

His voice was flat, emotionless, because that was the only way to get through it. If he let any feeling in, any of the grief and confusion and rage that lived in his chest, he'd fall apart completely.

Sophie's intake of breath was sharp, pained. "Ilya, I'm so sorry.”

Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice. The weight of it hadn't lessened in six years. He'd just gotten better at carrying it, at pretending it wasn't there.

"She was kind. Patient," Ilya continued, his voice barely audible. "She loved to cook, like you. She would make-" He paused, staying in Russian where the word felt more real. "Pelmeni. You know pelmeni? Was my favorite."

"Yes," Sophie said softly. "Dumplings."

His voice cracked slightly on the last word, and he had to stop, had to breathe through the tightness in his chest. He could almost smell the dough, feel his mother's gentle hands guiding his as he learned to pinch the edges just right. Those afternoons in the kitchen had been the safest he'd ever felt, before he understood that safety was an illusion, that the people you loved could disappear without warning.

"She sounds wonderful," Sophie said, and there was genuine warmth in her voice, genuine sympathy that made Ilya's chest tighten even further. "And I'm so sorry that you lost her.”

Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice. The offer of understanding, of absolution he'd never allowed himself to accept, was almost too much to bear. His father had never spoken of his mother with anything but bitterness and shame. To hear Sophie speak of her with such compassion, to acknowledge her pain rather than condemn her weakness - it cracked something open inside him that he'd thought was sealed shut forever.

They sat in silence for a moment, watching Nattie and her team. Ilya's throat was tight, his eyes stinging slightly. He'd cried at his mother's funeral - sobbed, actually, until his father had grabbed his arm hard enough to bruise and hissed at him to stop embarrassing them both. He hadn't cried since. Hadn't let himself. Crying was weak. Crying meant you weren't strong enough to handle what life threw at you.

"You know," Sophie said quietly, her voice cutting through the noise of the rink and the chaos of Ilya's thoughts. "If you ever want to talk about her, or about anything really, I'm here. Nik is too. We both are."

Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice. The offer felt genuine, not obligatory. Not like something she was saying because she thought she should, but because she actually meant it. Because she actually cared.

On the ice, Nattie scored on a small scrimmage goal, and she turned to look up at the stands, her face breaking into a huge grin when she spotted Ilya and Sophie. She waved enthusiastically, nearly losing her balance in the process, her stick flailing as she tried to keep herself upright.

Ilya waved back, and something in his chest loosened just slightly. A tiny crack in the armor he'd built around himself, just wide enough to let in a sliver of light.

Maybe it was okay to let people in. Just a little bit.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much this time.

On the ice, Nattie was laughing at something another kid had said, her small face bright with joy. She looked safe. Happy. Loved in a way that was unconditional and uncomplicated.

Ilya tried to remember if he'd ever felt that way at her age. Before his mother died, maybe. Before hockey became the only thing that mattered, the only way to earn even a scrap of his father's attention. Before he'd learned that love was conditional, that it could be withdrawn or destroyed, that nothing was permanent except disappointment.

He watched Nattie skate, watched the easy way she moved, the confidence that came from knowing people would catch her if she fell. From knowing that making a mistake wouldn't result in punishment, that losing wouldn't result in disappointment so heavy it felt like a physical weight.

And he wondered what it would have been like to grow up in a house like this one. What it would have been like to have a mother who lived, who stayed, who didn't leave him alone with a father who saw him as nothing but a series of failures. What it would have been like to be five years old and certain, absolutely certain, that the people who loved you would still be there tomorrow.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for the support on the first chapter, it means a lot to me! Also, since there's going to be a fair amount of Russian in this fic and google translate gets confusing/is more work for both the writer and the reader, Russian will always be italicized. Next chapter we'll have our first Shane appearance!!!

Chapter 3: chapter three

Chapter Notes

TD Garden was massive.

Ilya had seen it on TV, of course, had watched countless games broadcast from this arena. But standing in the tunnel, hearing the roar of eighteen thousand people above him, feeling the bass of the goal horn reverberating through his chest - nothing could have prepared him for this.

"You good, Roz?" Benny asked, clapping a hand on his shoulder pad.

The weight of it was grounding, solid and real.

"Yes. Good."

"First MLH game," Benny said, his voice carrying that mix of encouragement and warning that veterans always seemed to have. "Don't overthink it. Just play your game."

Ilya nodded, gripping his stick tighter. His first game. His first real game in the MLH, not a preseason scrimmage, not a practice. This counted. This mattered.

O'Reilly had told him yesterday that he'd be playing tonight, slotting in on the first line with Benny and Murph. "Show us what you've got, kid," the coach had said, and Ilya had spent the entire night barely sleeping, running plays in his head, visualizing every possible scenario.

Don't fuck this up. Don't fuck this up. Don't—

"Bears! Let's go!" someone shouted, and then they were moving, skating out onto the ice.

The noise hit him like a physical force. The crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that made his ears ring. The ice was pristine, freshly zambonied, the lines crisp and clear. Ilya took his warm-up lap with the team, trying to settle his nerves, trying to find that place where everything else fell away and there was only hockey.

He spotted the Petrovs almost immediately. They were impossible to miss - Sophie and all three girls, sitting just a few rows back from the glass. Kira was holding up a sign that said "GO ILYA!" in big block letters that looked like Nell had helped make, complete with glitter that was probably getting everywhere. Nattie was wearing a tiny Bears jersey with Ilya's number on it, and even Kira, too-cool-for-everything Kira, was wearing Bears colors.

They'd come. They'd actually come to watch him play.

Something tight and warm lodged itself in Ilya's throat. He lifted his stick slightly in acknowledgment, and Nell waved frantically, nearly hitting Sophie in the face in her enthusiasm.

The last time anyone had come to watch him play, had cheered for him in the stands, had been his mother. She'd sat in the cold metal bleachers of the Moscow rink, bundled in her warmest coat, and clapped for him even when his father stood stone-faced and silent. After she died, the stands had been empty except for his father's cold, critical presence. No one cheered. No one celebrated. There was only judgment.

Ilya blinked hard and skated back to the bench for the anthem.

Focus. He needed to focus.

The game started fast. The Guardians were aggressive, physical, unafraid to throw hits. Ilya's first shift was a blur of movement, his legs churning, his stick active. He didn't touch the puck, just tried to keep up, tried not to be a liability.

His second shift was better. Ilya won the face-off and sent the puck back to the defense. Murph found open ice, called for it, received the pass, sending it back to Ilya a few moments later. Ilya carried it into the neutral zone, saw Benny breaking down the wing and threaded a pass through traffic.

Benny shot. The goalie saved it, but the rebound came right back to Benny, who buried it.

Goal. Bears up 1-0.

And Ilya had the assist.

The bench erupted, guys tapping him on the helmet as he came off for the line change. "Nice pass, rook!" someone shouted, and Ilya felt that dangerous flutter of pride, quickly suppressed.

One assist. It was just one assist. He couldn't get cocky. Had to stay focused.

The game went back and forth, physical and fast. The Guardian tied it up in the second period, then the Bears scored again. Then the Guardians scored. 2-2 going into the third period.

Ilya's line was on the ice midway through the third when it happened. Becker sent a hard pass up the boards. Ilya caught it, cut toward the middle, saw Benny driving to the net. The defenseman committed to Benny, leaving a small gap.

Ilya didn't think. He just shot.

The puck flew past the goalie's glove, hit the back of the net.

Goal.

His first MLH goal.

The crowd exploded. His teammates mobbed him, Benny nearly lifting him off his skates with the force of his hug. "Hell yeah, Rozy!" Connors was shouting, and Ilya couldn't stop smiling, couldn't contain the pure, unfiltered joy that flooded through him.

He looked toward the stands, toward where the Petrovs were sitting. Sophie was on her feet, cheering. Nell was jumping up and down. Even Kira was clapping, a genuine smile on her face. And Nattie - tiny Nattie - was holding up her sign with both hands, beaming at him like he'd just won the Cup.

They were cheering for him. Actually cheering, not just politely clapping. Celebrating his success like it mattered to them.

Ilya's eyes stung behind his cage. He raised his stick to them, just for a second, before skating back to the bench.

The Bears held on to win 4-3. Ilya finished with a goal and two assists - three points in his first game. In the locker room afterward, O'Reilly called him out specifically during the post-game talk.

"Hell of a debut, Rozanov. That's exactly what we drafted you for."

The praise should have felt good. It did feel good. But there was still that voice in the back of Ilya's head - his father's voice - reminding him that one good game didn't mean anything. That he'd probably fuck it up next time. That he couldn't get comfortable or confident or soft.

But then Ilya remembered the Petrovs in the stands, and the voice got a little quieter.

After he'd showered and changed, Ilya made his way out to the family area where players could meet with their guests. Most guys had wives or girlfriends or parents waiting. Ilya half-expected the Petrovs to have already left - it was late, well past Nattie’s bed time, and the girls had school tomorrow. Surely they wouldn't want to wait around.

But they were there.

All of them, waiting by the door. Nattie saw him first and came running, still wearing his jersey.

"Ilya! You scored! You scored!" she shouted in Russian, and before Ilya could react, she'd wrapped her small arms around his waist.

He froze for a second, not sure what to do, then carefully placed a hand on her back. Physical affection still felt foreign, uncomfortable, but Nattie didn't seem to notice his awkwardness.

"Did you see? Did you see me cheering?" she asked, looking up at him with those big brown eyes.

"I saw," Ilya said softly. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course we came," Sophie said, pulling him into a hug that was brief but warm. "You were amazing out there, Ilya. That goal was beautiful."

"Really good passing," Kira added, and coming from her, it felt like high praise.

Nell was bouncing on her toes. "Can I have your stick? Do players give away their sticks? I want a stick!"

"Nell, let him breathe," Sophie laughed, but there was no real reprimand in it.

Nikolai hung back slightly, letting his family have their moment. Ilya caught his eye, tensing slightly, waiting for a lecture of everything he’d done wrong during the game, of every little mistake he’d made. 

But when Ilya finally made his way over to him, Nikolai didn’t do any of that. 

"Good game," Nikolai told him simply, in that steady manner the man always seemed to have. "You played well. Made good decisions."

"Thank you." Ilya's voice was rough, tight with emotion he couldn't quite name.

Ilya had learned early in his hockey career that the locker room was a battlefield.

Not in the obvious way - not with fists and fights, though those happened too. But in the way guys sized each other up, looked for weaknesses, found the soft spots and pressed until something gave.

In Russia, if you showed vulnerability, you became a target. If you let them see you hurt, they'd hit you there again and again until you either hardened or broke. The chirping, the jokes, the constant needling—it wasn't friendly banter. It was warfare. Social Darwinism in hockey equipment.

So Ilya had learned to strike first.

Be the one doing the chirping, not the one getting chirped. Make them laugh at someone else so they weren't laughing at you. Find the weak spots before they found yours.

It had kept him safe in Moscow. Had earned him a reputation as cocky, mouthy, someone who could give as good as he got. The coaches had hated it—his father especially—but his teammates had respected it. Or at least, they'd left him alone.

So when Ilya had arrived in Boston, when he'd walked into the Bears' locker room for the first time and seen all these men - bigger, older, more established - he'd done what he knew how to do.

He'd gone on the offensive.

It had started small. Little jokes about Murphy's receding hairline. Comments about Becker's age. Chirping Connors about a missed shot in practice. Normal hockey banter, or so Ilya thought.

The guys had laughed. Had chirped back. It had felt... safe. Like he was doing it right.

So he'd kept going.

And maybe he'd gotten a little too comfortable. Maybe he'd started to forget that this wasn't Russia, that these guys weren't like the teammates he'd had before. Maybe he'd stopped paying attention to the line between friendly banter and actually being an asshole.

Or maybe he'd just been so focused on not being a target that he hadn't noticed he was making other people into targets instead.

Practice had started normally enough. Drills, skating, the usual routine. Ilya was feeling good—he'd scored on the goalie twice already, his passes were crisp, his legs felt strong.

They were running a breakout drill when Fitzy's phone buzzed on the bench. Ilya saw him glance at it during the water break, saw something flicker across his face—something hurt and angry that he quickly masked before shoving the phone back in his bag.

"Your ex still texting you?" Becker had asked, apparently having seen Fitzy's expression.

"Drop it," Fitzy had muttered, his jaw tight.

And Ilya, because he was an idiot who didn't know when to keep his mouth shut, had skated past and called out: "At least she texts. Better than radio silence, da? Though I guess she's too busy with Morrison to remember you exist."

A few guys had snickered. Ilya had grinned, pleased with himself, already moving on to the next drill.

He'd meant it as a joke. The same kind of chirping he'd been doing for weeks. Sharp, maybe a little mean, but that was the point. Keep them on their toes. Make sure they knew he could give as good as he got.

He hadn't seen Fitzy's face go white. Hadn't seen the way his hands had clenched around his stick. Hadn't noticed the way Murph had glanced between them with concern.

Fitzy had just skated away without a word, and Ilya had thought that was the end of it.

He should have known better.

Practice continued, brutal and exhausting. O'Reilly was in a mood about their last loss and ran them into the ground with conditioning drills. By the time they filed back into the locker room, everyone was tired and sore and irritable.

But Ilya was still riding high on adrenaline, still feeling good about his performance. He'd played well today. Better than well. Even O'Reilly had looked impressed.

He was at his stall, unlacing his skates, when Benny dropped down next to him with a groan.

"My legs are dead," Benny said, stretching out his massive frame. "I'm getting too old for this shit."

Ilya grinned. "You're not old. You're just slow."

"Fuck you, I'm not slow—"

"Is okay, Benny. Some people are built for speed, some for... other things." Ilya made a show of looking at Benny's size. "Like blocking doorways."

A few guys chuckled. Benny flipped him off but was smiling.

Ilya was about to make another joke when a voice cut through the locker room.

"Don't you ever fucking shut up?"

The entire room went quiet.

Ilya looked over. Fitzy was standing by his stall, still in his gear, his face flushed red. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

Ilya's heart kicked up a notch. He recognized that tone. That was the tone that came right before someone threw a punch. That was the voice his father used right before—

No. Focus.

"What?" Ilya tried to keep his voice light, casual. Tried to make it a joke. He forced a grin onto his face even though his palms had started to sweat. "I was just—"

"Just running your fucking mouth like you always do," Fitzy snapped. He took a step forward, and Ilya's muscles tensed automatically. Fight or flight. His body already knew which one it expected. "Do you ever stop? Do you ever just shut the fuck up for five seconds?"

Ilya stood up. He had to. Sitting while someone was standing over you was dangerous. That was how you got hurt. You had to make yourself bigger, had to not show weakness, had to—

"Is just jokes," Ilya said, but his voice came out wrong—too defensive, his accent thicker with stress. "Benny doesn't mind. Right, Benny?"

Benny shifted uncomfortably but didn't answer.

Ilya's stomach dropped. Benny wasn't backing him up. Nobody was saying anything. The whole locker room was just watching.

"This isn't about Benny," Fitzy said, taking another step closer. Ilya fought the urge to step back. "This is about you. You've been doing this shit since you got here. Making jokes, chirping everyone, never knowing when to stop."

"Is what we do," Ilya said, spreading his hands. His heart was pounding now. He glanced around the room—Murph had stood up, arms crossed. Becker was watching with a frown. Connors looked uncomfortable. "We all chirp each other. Is locker room."

"There's a difference between chirping and being an asshole," Fitzy shot back. His voice was rising now, his face getting redder. "And you've been crossing that line for weeks."

"You can't take a joke?" Ilya's voice came out sharper than he intended. Defensive. "Is not my fault you're too sensitive—"

"Sensitive?" Fitzy's laugh was harsh, humorless. "You made a joke about my ex-girlfriend during practice. The ex who left me for another fucking player. You think that's funny?"

Ilya's chest tightened. He had known about Fitzy's ex—the whole team knew. She'd left him for someone on the Metros, and it had been messy, public. But that's what made it good material. That's what made it an effective chirp.

That's what you did. You found what hurt and you poked at it so they knew you could hurt them if you wanted to. So they didn't try to hurt you first.

"Was just a joke," Ilya said, but even he could hear how weak it sounded. "I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean what?" Fitzy demanded, getting in Ilya's face now. They were almost chest to chest. Ilya could smell the sweat on him, could see the anger in his eyes. "You didn't mean to be an asshole? Because that's what you are, Rozanov. You're a fucking asshole who doesn't know when to shut his mouth."

Ilya's hands curled into fists. His breathing was getting faster. Fitzy was too close, was in his space, and everyone was watching and nobody was stepping in and this was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid—

"Maybe you should learn to take a joke," Ilya said, his voice tight. "Not my fault you're—"

"You think you're so fucking clever," Fitzy cut him off. "Always got something to say. Always chirping. You know what? You're not funny. You're just a dick."

"Better than being a—"

Ilya didn't get to finish. Fitzy's fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

For a second, Ilya's vision went white. Pain exploded across his face. His ears rang.

Then instinct took over.

He swung back, his fist catching Fitzy in the ribs. They crashed together, grappling, both trying to get the upper hand. Ilya got his arm around Fitzy's neck, trying to drag him down, but Fitzy was bigger, stronger. He shoved Ilya backward into the lockers.

Metal clanged. Someone shouted. Ilya's back hit the edge of a bench and pain shot up his spine but he was already pushing back, trying to get Fitzy off him—

Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, yanking him backward.

"Enough!" Murphy's voice was right in his ear. "Both of you, knock it off!"

Ilya struggled against Murph's grip for a second before his brain caught up. Murph was captain. Was authority. You didn't fight authority. That only made things worse.

Murphy had been watching the situation deteriorate all practice.

He'd seen Fitzy check his phone during the water break, seen the flash of pain across his face before he'd shoved it away. Murphy knew that look—knew Fitzy's ex was still texting him, still twisting the knife. The breakup had been brutal, public, humiliating. She'd left him for Morrison, a forward on the Metros, and the hockey world being what it was, everyone knew about it. Every time they played Montreal, Murphy could see Fitzy tense up.

The wound was still raw. Still bleeding.

So when Rozanov had skated past and made that comment—At least she texts. Better than radio silence, da? Though I guess she's too busy with Morrison to remember you exist—Murphy had winced.

Too far. That was way too far.

He'd watched Fitzy's face go white, watched his hands clench around his stick hard enough that Murphy heard the carbon fiber creak. But Fitzy had just skated away, and Murphy had thought—hoped—that would be the end of it.

Should have known better.

Murphy had been playing professional hockey for fifteen years. He knew how locker rooms worked, knew the rhythm of chirping and banter, knew where the lines were. And Rozanov had been dancing on those lines since training camp, sometimes crossing them, sometimes staying just barely on the right side.

The kid reminded Murphy of a dog he'd had as a teenager. A rescue from the pound, some kind of shepherd mix that had been abused by its previous owner. The dog had been terrified of everything—every sudden movement, every raised voice. But it had also been aggressive, snapping and biting at anyone who tried to get close.

His mom had said the dog didn't know the difference between kindness and cruelty. Had only ever experienced cruelty, so it assumed every hand reaching for it was going to hurt it.

So it bit first. Before it could get hurt.

Rozy had that same energy. That same defensive aggression. That same inability to distinguish between friendly chirping and actual attacks.

So he attacked first. Made sure everyone knew he could bite.

Murphy got it. Understood it, even. But understanding didn't mean he could let it continue.

He was one second too late to intervene when Fitzy's fist connected with Rozy's jaw.

The crack echoed through the locker room. Murphy heard a few guys suck in breath. Ilya's head snapped to the side, and for a second Murphy thought the kid might just take it, might back down.

But no. Of course not.

Rozanov swung back immediately, his fist catching Fitzy in the ribs. Decent hit too—Fitzy grunted, and Murphy heard the impact even from a few feet away.

Then they were grappling, both trying to get the upper hand. Ilya got his arm around Fitzy's neck—actually decent technique, the kid had clearly been in fights before—but Fitzy was bigger, stronger, had at least thirty pounds on Ilya. He shoved Ilya backward into the lockers with a crash of metal.

Murphy grabbed the back of Ilya's jersey and yanked him backward hard.

It was like scruffing a puppy. Just grabbed the jersey at the neck and pulled, and Ilya came away from Fitzy whether he wanted to or not.

The kid struggled for a second, still trying to go after Fitzy, still putting on the aggressive show. His arms were flailing, trying to break Murphy's grip, and he was making these angry sounds in the back of his throat that might have been intimidating if Murphy hadn't spent over half his career playing with Nikolai Petrov.

Now there was a scary Russian. Cold, calculated violence. When Petrov looked at you, stared you down, you knew - really knew - that he could and would hurt you if you pushed him too far.

Murphy had also played against Vetrov for a couple years before the guy had gone back to Russia. Another legitimately frightening human being. Murphy had seen Vetrov end a guy's career with a single check, then skate away like nothing had happened.

Those guys were scary.

This kid? This kid was all bark. All performance. Fighting like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else that he was tough, that he was dangerous, that he couldn't be hurt.

But Murphy could feel him shaking. Could feel how tense every muscle was, wound tight like a spring. This wasn't calculated violence. This was panic.

This was a scared kid lashing out.

"Enough!" Murphy barked, keeping his grip firm on Ilya's jersey.

The kid went limp immediately.

Not gradually. Not slowly winding down. Just immediately stopped fighting, stopped struggling, went completely still like someone had flipped a switch and turned him off.

That was interesting. And deeply concerning.

Murphy had seen that before, in guys who'd been coached too hard, punished too much. That instant obedience to authority, that immediate shutdown when someone with power gave an order.

Ilya wasn't fighting anymore because he'd decided it wasn't worth it. He'd stopped because some part of his brain had been trained to stop immediately when authority intervened.

Murphy filed that observation away for later.

Across from them, Becker had Fitzy in a similar hold, arms wrapped around him from behind. But Fitzy was still straining forward, still trying to get at Ilya, face purple with rage.

"Let me go!" Fitzy snarled. "I'm going to-"

"You're not doing shit," Becker said firmly, his voice calm but brooking no argument.

"Both of you, knock it off!" Murphy said, projecting his captain voice across the locker room.

He could feel Ilya trembling under his hand. The kid's breathing was too fast, too shallow. His head was bowed, not meeting anyone's eyes.

All the cockiness, all the attitude, all the fight - gone. Just like that.

Now he just looked small. Young. Scared.

"Fitz," Murphy said, keeping his voice hard. Captains didn't coddle. Captains dealt with shit. "Take a walk. Cool off. Now."

Fitzy looked like he wanted to argue. His jaw was working, his hands still clenched into fists. Murphy could see him weighing it—was it worth defying the captain over this?

Finally, he wrenched himself out of Becker's grip, grabbed his bag, and stormed toward the door.

He paused at the threshold, looking back at Ilya. Murphy felt the kid tense under his hand.

"You're a fucking asshole, Rozanov," Fitzy said, his voice cold. "And I'm done with your shit."

The door slammed behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening. Murphy became acutely aware of every eye in the locker room on them. On him and Ilya.

Murphy still had his hand on Ilya's shoulder. The kid was frozen, barely breathing, and Murphy could feel him trembling.

Not from anger. From fear.

Murphy scanned the room. Some guys looked uncomfortable. Some looked angry. A few looked sympathetic. But nobody – nobody – looked like they were on Rozanov’s side right now.

The kid had isolated himself completely. Had pushed and pushed until he'd pushed everyone away.

And now he was standing here, shaking, surrounded by teammates who were all looking at him like he was the problem.

Which, to be fair, he was. But Murphy also recognized that this kid didn't know how to be anything else.

"Outside," Murphy said quietly, keeping his voice level. Calm. "Now."

He felt Ilya flinch at the words. Actually flinch, a full-body jerk like Murphy had threatened to hit him.

The kid's face went pale. His breathing picked up even more.

Murphy gentled his voice slightly, tried to make it less of an order and more of a request. "Rozanov. Let's go talk. Just you and me."

Ilya nodded jerkily, his movements stiff and mechanical.

They headed toward the back exit. Ilya kept his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched, moving like he was walking to his execution. His head was down, not looking at anyone, and Murphy saw him trying to make himself smaller.

Every eye in the locker room followed them. Nobody said anything. The judgment was loud in the silence.

Rodriguez looked like he wanted to say something but Becker shook his head at him. This wasn't the time.

They went out into the loading area where the Zamboni was parked. The cold October air hit them immediately, sharp and biting. Murphy's breath fogged in front of him.

Ilya shivered immediately, arms wrapping tighter around himself.

Murphy walked a few feet away, giving the kid some space, then turned to face him.

Ilya stood there with his arms wrapped around himself, eyes fixed on the ground. His shoulders were hunched up around his ears, his whole body tense and closed off. Defensive posture. Waiting for the blow.

All the cockiness, all the attitude, all the mouthy confidence that had been on display in the locker room - completely gone. Vanished like it had never existed.

This was the real kid, Murphy realized. This scared, trembling eighteen-year-old who didn't know how to ask for help and didn't know when to stop fighting.

The other stuff - the chirping, the cockiness, the aggressive bravado - that was all armor. All a performance. All an attempt to keep people at arm's length so they couldn't hurt him.

But it wasn't working. It was just isolating him further.

Murphy thought again of that dog. How it would bare its teeth and growl at anyone who tried to get close. How it would snap and bite at the first hand that reached for it, because it didn't know the difference between a hand that was going to pet it and a hand that was going to hit it.

It had taken months to rehabilitate that dog. Months of patient, consistent gentleness before it finally understood that not all touches hurt.

This kid needed the same thing. Someone patient enough to reach for him even when he snapped. Someone consistent enough that he'd eventually learn to trust.

Murphy could do that. Would do that.

But first, they needed to address what had just happened.

"Look at me," Murphy said, keeping his voice calm.

Ilya's head snapped up immediately. Too fast. Too automatic. Like a trained response.

Yeah. This kid had definitely been conditioned to respond to authority. And not in a healthy way.

Murphy made a mental note to talk to Nikolai about this. About Ilya's background, about what he'd been through, about why he reacted like this.

"You want to tell me what the hell that was about?" Murphy asked.

Ilya's jaw clenched. "He hit me first."

Defensive. Deflecting. Not taking responsibility.

"Yeah, because you've been pushing him for weeks," Murphy reminded the kid, keeping his voice even. Not angry, just matter-of-fact. "That comment about his ex during practice? That was out of line."

"Was just a joke," Ilya muttered, but Murphy could see his hands shaking even though they were pressed against his sides. "Everyone makes jokes."

The kid was scared. Really scared. Murphy could see it in every line of his body, could hear it in the way his voice had gone tight and small.

"Not like that," Murphy corrected firmly but not harshly. "There's a difference between chirping and being cruel, kid. And you crossed that line."

Ilya didn't answer. Just stood there shaking - from cold or fear or both - staring at the ground.

Murphy studied him for a moment. The kid's jaw was already starting to swell where Fitzy had hit him. There'd be a bruise there by tomorrow, visible evidence of his fuckup.

But more than the physical damage, Murphy was concerned about the way Ilya was holding himself. Like he expected to be hit again. Like he was bracing for more violence.

Like this was familiar territory for him.

"You've been like this since you got here," Murphy continued, keeping his voice level. Not accusing, just observing. "Always chirping, always pushing. Making jokes at everyone's expense. Why?"

Ilya's jaw worked. His hands were shaking worse now, trembling visibly even though he had them pressed flat against his sides.

Murphy waited. He'd learned over the years that sometimes you just had to wait people out. Give them space to answer, don't fill the silence for them.

"Is just how I am," Ilya said finally, his voice flat and defensive.

"Bullshit." Murphy crossed his arms, not aggressively but just steadying himself against the cold. "Nobody's 'just' an asshole for no reason. What's going on with you?"

"Nothing," Ilya replied quickly. Too quickly. His eyes darted up to Murphy's face, then away again. "Nothing is going on. I just- I make jokes. Like everyone else."

He looked so young standing there. Eighteen years old, thousands of miles from home, trying to make it in a foreign country with a foreign language and foreign customs he didn't understand.

And instead of asking for help, instead of admitting he was struggling, he'd defaulted to aggression. To pushing people away before they could reject him.

"Not like everyone else," Murphy said. "Everyone else knows when to stop. Everyone else reads the room. Everyone else understands that there are lines you don't cross."

"I don't-" Ilya's voice cracked. He swallowed hard, and Murphy saw him fighting to keep his composure. "I don't understand your lines."

And there it was. The truth.

The kid wasn't trying to be an asshole. He genuinely didn't understand. Didn't know the difference between friendly chirping and actual cruelty. Didn't know where the boundaries were because wherever he'd come from, there hadn't been any boundaries. Or the boundaries had been different. Or there'd been no such thing as friendly banter, only attacks.

Murphy's expression softened slightly. This he could work with. This was just ignorance, not malice. The kid needed to be taught, not punished.

"Then ask," Murphy told him, his voice gentler now. "If you're not sure if something's okay to say, ask. Or just don't say it."

"But then-" Ilya stopped himself, his teeth chattering slightly from the cold.

"Then what?" Murphy prompted.

Ilya just shook his head, arms wrapped tighter around himself. He looked like he was trying to make himself disappear. Like if he could just fold in on himself enough, he wouldn't be visible anymore.

Murphy thought about that dog again. How it would cower in corners, making itself small, trying to be invisible so it wouldn't get hit.

This kid was doing the same thing right now.

"Look," Murphy said, softening his voice even more. "I don't know what it was like for you before. Where you played before, how guys treated each other. But here, we're a team. That means we have each other's backs. We don't- we don't hurt each other on purpose."

Ilya looked like he wanted to say something to that. Murphy saw the disbelief flash across his face, saw the way the kid's mouth tightened like he was biting back an argument.

The kid didn't believe him. Didn't believe that a locker room could be anything other than a war zone.

And that told Murphy everything he needed to know about where Ilya had come from.

"What Fitzy said in there," Murphy continued, watching Ilya carefully. "About you being an asshole. He's not wrong."

He saw the kid flinch. Saw the way Ilya's hands curled into fists in his pockets, saw the way his breathing hitched.

Hit a nerve there. The kid thought he'd confirmed that Murphy was against him too, that everyone had turned on him.

"But I also don't think you're trying to be an asshole," Murphy added quickly. "I think you're just – I don't know. Scared, maybe. Trying to protect yourself."

"I'm not scared," Ilya argued automatically, but his voice came out thin and unconvincing.

Murphy just looked at him. The kid was shaking, pale, arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to hold himself together. His jaw was swelling, his eyes were wide and uncertain, and he looked about twelve years old.

Yeah. Not scared at all.

Murphy didn't call him on it. Just said, "Okay."

The kid deflated slightly at not being challenged. Like he'd expected Murphy to push, to force him to admit it, and was surprised when Murphy just let it go.

"Either way," Murphy continued, "it needs to stop. You can't keep treating your teammates like targets. You're going to have to learn to trust us."

"I don't know how," Ilya admitted quietly, and there was something raw in his voice. Something honest.

Well. At least the kid was being truthful about that.

Murphy thought about the best way to explain this. The kid needed practical advice, not platitudes.

"Then learn," Murphy said. "Same way you learned everything else about hockey. Practice. Fuck up. Try again."

Ilya nodded, but he looked utterly lost. Like Murphy had just asked him to figure out quantum physics or build a rocket ship.

The kid had no framework for this. No understanding of what trust even looked like in a team environment.

Murphy was going to have to show him. They all were.

"And you need to apologize to Fitzy," Murphy added. "A real apology. Not 'sorry if I offended you' bullshit. An actual apology."

Ilya's face went paler, if that was possible. Murphy saw panic flash through his eyes.

Apologizing meant admitting weakness. Meant exposing vulnerability. And this kid had been taught that vulnerability got you hurt.

But he needed to learn. Needed to understand that apologies weren't weapons that could be used against you—they were bridges that could be built between people.

"Fine," Ilya muttered quietly, and Murphy could hear how much the word cost him.

"Good." Murphy pushed off from the wall he'd been leaning against. "Come on. Let's get you back inside. You're shivering."

And he was. Ilya was shaking hard now, his whole body trembling with cold and adrenaline crash and fear.

They headed back inside. The locker room was quieter now - most of the guys had showered and left, not wanting to be around for the aftermath. But Fitzy was back, sitting in his stall, staring at his phone with a thunderous expression.

Smart of him to come back. Showed maturity that he was willing to hear the apology instead of just storming off.

Fitzy looked up when they walked in, and Murphy saw his expression harden.

"Give us a minute?" Murphy said to the few remaining guys—just Rodriguez, Michaels, and Holloway. They nodded and headed for the showers, giving them privacy.

Well, almost privacy. Benny was still there, sitting at his stall, watching quietly. Murphy caught his eye and nodded slightly. Benny would be good backup to have for this.

Murphy felt Ilya tense beside him. The kid was staring at Fitzy like he was a bomb that might go off.

"Go ahead," Murphy encouraged gently, giving Ilya a small nudge forward.

The kid took a breath, squared his shoulders. Trying to look confident again, trying to put on the armor. But Murphy could see right through it now. Could see the scared kid underneath.

"I'm sorry," Ilya said, looking at Fitzy. His accent was thicker than usual, words carefully pronounced like he'd rehearsed them. "What I said about your ex - it was out of line. Was cruel. I shouldn't have said it."

It was a good apology. Direct, specific, took responsibility. Murphy was impressed - the kid had actually listened.

Fitzy studied him for a long moment, jaw tight. Murphy could see him weighing it, deciding whether to accept or push back.

"Why did you?" Fitzy asked finally.

Ilya's throat worked. His hands flexed at his sides. "I don't- I don't know. I was just- I make jokes. I don't always think about—"

He trailed off, clearly struggling to explain himself without exposing too much. Without admitting that he'd been trying to hurt Fitzy before Fitzy could hurt him.

Murphy wanted to step in, to help, but this was Ilya's apology to make. The kid needed to figure this out himself.

"That's the problem," Fitzy said, and Murphy heard the hurt underneath the anger. "You don't think. You just run your mouth and hurt people and then act surprised when they get pissed. Sorry doesn't really cut it."

Murphy saw Ilya's face fall. Saw the kid's chest tighten, his breathing pick up slightly. Saw him start to spiral - Fitzy didn't accept the apology, which meant Fitzy still hated him, which meant the whole team probably hated him, which meant-

"Fitz—" Murphy started, trying to intervene before this went completely off the rails.

"No," Fitzy cut him off, standing up. "He doesn't get to just say sorry and have everything be fine. He's been doing this shit for weeks, Murph. Making everyone miserable. And now he says sorry and we're supposed to what? Forgive and forget?"

"I'm not saying that," Murphy said carefully. He understood where Fitzy was coming from. The kid had earned this. "I'm just saying-"

"I don't care what you're saying." Fitzy grabbed his bag, shouldered it. His movements were sharp, angry. "I need time. And he—" He looked at Ilya, and Murphy saw something complex in his expression. Anger, yes, but also hurt. Pain. "He needs to actually change. Not just say sorry, but actually stop being a dick."

He walked out without another word.

Ilya stood there looking like he'd been punched again. His hands were shaking, his jaw swelling, and Murphy could practically see the kid's anxiety spiraling out of control.

This was the thing about rescue animals, Murphy thought. You could be as patient and gentle as possible, but sometimes they'd still flinch away from your hand. Sometimes they'd still bite. And you couldn't take it personally - couldn't let it discourage you from trying again.

You just had to keep showing up. Keep reaching out. Keep proving that you were safe.

Eventually, they learned.

"Don't worry about Fitz," Benny said, walking over. His voice was kind, understanding. "He'll come around. He just needs time to cool off."

Ilya nodded, but he didn't look like he believed it. He looked like he thought he'd permanently destroyed any chance of being accepted here. He swallowed tightly, wiping any last traces of fear or vulnerability off his face, his frame tensing up a bit. It was concerning, how good the kid was at hiding it. 

Benny squeezed his shoulder once more—another gentle, reassuring touch—then headed out, leaving Murphy alone with Ilya.

The kid sank down onto the bench, suddenly looking exhausted. All the adrenaline had drained out of him, leaving him deflated. His jaw ached, Murphy could tell. His hands were still shaking. And he looked like he might fall apart if someone so much as looked at him wrong.

Murphy sat down next to him, keeping a comfortable distance. Not crowding him.

The guilt was written all over Ilya's face. And that - that was actually a good sign. The kid felt bad about hurting someone. That meant he wasn't a sociopath, wasn't incapable of empathy. He just didn't know how to express it properly.

They could work with that.

"Go home," Murphy told him gently. "Get some rest. We'll see you at practice tomorrow."

Ilya stood on shaking legs and headed to his stall. Murphy watched him change in silence, mechanical movements, clearly on autopilot. The kid was shutting down, retreating into himself.

The kid's jaw was really swelling now. Bruise was going to be spectacular by tomorrow—dark purple, maybe some yellow around the edges. Nikolai was definitely going to notice. Was going to ask questions.

Murphy made a mental note to text Nikolai later, give him a heads up. The last thing this kid needed was to have to explain this whole mess to his guardian without any warning.

After Ilya left - shoulders hunched, moving like every step hurt - Murphy sat there for a few more minutes, thinking.

The kid was a mess. Clearly carrying a lot of baggage, clearly didn't know how to function in a healthy locker room environment. Didn't know the difference between friendly banter and warfare. Didn't understand that not everyone was out to hurt him.

But he'd been honest about not understanding, about not knowing how to trust. That was something Murphy could work with.

The kid was going to be okay. It would take time—take a lot of work, a lot of patience, a lot of learning. But Murphy had seen worse. Had seen guys who were genuinely mean, genuinely cruel, who took pleasure in hurting others.

Ilya wasn't cruel. He was just broken. And scared. And trying to protect himself in the only way he knew how.

The kid just needed someone patient enough to keep reaching out, even when he snapped. Someone consistent enough that he'd eventually learn the lesson.

Murphy could be that person. The team could be that for him.

They'd teach him what a real team looked like. What a real family looked like.

They'd show him that not all locker rooms were battlefields. That not all teammates were enemies. That sometimes - sometimes - people genuinely had your back.

It would take time. There would be more fuckups, more moments where Ilya defaulted to old patterns, more times when he'd lash out before he could be hurt.

But they'd get there.

They'd keep showing up. Keep reaching out. Keep proving they were safe.

Whatever it took.

For as long as it took.

Because that's what captains did.

They protected their guys.

Eventually, the lesson would stick.

Eventually, the scared puppy would learn that not all hands hurt.

Eventually, he'd stop biting.

Eventually, he'd understand that he was safe here.

Ilya came through the front door quietly, hoping maybe everyone would be asleep or busy. It was late enough - past eight, after the team dinner he'd gone to with Becker and Connors and a few others.

His jaw was throbbing. He could feel it swelling, the bruise blooming across his skin, dark and obvious. There was no hiding it.

He'd barely made it three steps into the house when Nikolai appeared from the living room.

"Hey," Nikolai greeted. "How was-"

He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes zeroing in on Ilya's face.

"What happened?" Nikolai's voice was sharp, concerned, and he was already moving closer.

"Is nothing," Ilya assured automatically, taking a step back. "Is fine."

"That's not nothing," Nikolai argued, and his hand came up to cup Ilya's jaw, gentle but firm, tilting his head to get a better look at the bruise. "Who did this?"

Ilya tried not to flinch at the touch, tried to hold still even though every instinct told him to pull away. Nikolai's fingers were careful, assessing, the touch of someone who'd seen plenty of hockey injuries and knew how to evaluate them.

"This wasn't from the game," Nikolai said after a moment, his eyes meeting Ilya's. It wasn't a question.

"No," Ilya admitted quietly.

"Then where?"

Ilya's throat felt tight. He didn't want to explain this, didn't want to admit what had happened, how badly he'd fucked up. But Nikolai was looking at him with those eyes that saw too much, and Ilya couldn't quite bring himself to lie.

"Was- was fight," Ilya explained weakly. "With teammate. But is fine. Is handled."

Nikolai's jaw tightened. "A fight with a teammate? Which teammate?"

"Is handled," Ilya repeated, and there was something desperate in his voice now. He wasn’t about to snitch. Everyone already hated him enough. "Please. I fucked up, I apologized, we fixed it. Is done."

Nikolai studied him for a long moment, his hand still cupping Ilya's jaw. Ilya could see him processing, could see the concern and anger and protective fury warring in his expression.

Finally, slowly, Nikolai released him.

"You sure it's handled?" he asked.

"Yes," Ilya said. "I promise."

Nikolai looked like he wanted to push, wanted to demand details, wanted to know exactly what had happened and who had put their hands on Ilya. But after another moment, he just nodded.

"Alright," he agreed, sighing. "But if it's not handled—if there's a problem—you tell me. Understood?"

"Understood," Ilya repeated quietly.

"Go put ice on that," Nikolai told him, gesturing to the kitchen. "And come talk to me if you need to."

Ilya nodded and escaped to the kitchen, grateful that Nikolai had let it drop. He found an ice pack in the freezer, wrapped it in a dish towel, and pressed it against his jaw.

The cold helped, but the shame was harder to numb.

Over the next two weeks, Ilya tried.

He tried to be less defensive, less on edge. Tried to remember what Murphy had said about chirping - keep it to hockey, leave the personal stuff alone, know the line.

But mostly, he just stopped chirping altogether.

It was safer that way. If he didn't say anything, he couldn't cross the line. Couldn't hurt anyone. Couldn't fuck up again.

So he went quiet.

He still hung out with the guys - went to team dinners, showed up when they invited him places, sat with them in the locker room. But he didn't chirp back when they chirped him. Didn't engage in the banter, didn't throw out the quick comebacks that used to come so naturally.

When Becker made a joke about his skating, Ilya just nodded and stayed quiet.

When Rodriguez teased him about his accent, Ilya forced a small smile and said nothing.

When Connors chirped him about a missed pass, Ilya just took it, kept his head down, didn't respond.

He kept quiet. Kept his head down. Kept taking the chirps without giving any back, because it was safer that way. Because he couldn't cross the line if he never got close to it.

Murphy had been watching Rozanov carefully over the past two weeks.

The kid had changed after the fight with Fitzy. Had apologized, had clearly taken Murphy's words to heart about learning where the line was, about not pushing so hard.

But Murphy was starting to think maybe the kid had taken it a little too much to heart.

Because now Ilya wasn't pushing at all. Wasn't chirping back when guys chirped him. Wasn't engaging in the banter that had - despite crossing lines sometimes - been part of what made him fit into the team's dynamic.

The kid had gone quiet. Really quiet.

Murphy first noticed it about three days after the fight. They'd been in the locker room after practice, and Becker had made some joke about Ilya's skating—something about him looking like Bambi on ice during a particular drill. Normal chirping, the kind that everyone did to everyone.

Old Rozanov would have fired back immediately. Would have said something about Becker being old and slow, or about his receding hairline, or some creative insult that didn't quite translate from Russian but was funny anyway.

But this Rozanov had just nodded. Had given a small, tight smile and said nothing.

Murphy had frowned but hadn't said anything. Maybe the kid was just having an off day.

But then it kept happening.

Rodriguez teased him about his accent—called him "Russki" in that fond, joking way he did. Ilya just smiled and stayed quiet.

Connors chirped him about a missed pass during a drill. Ilya took it, kept his head down, didn't respond.

Day after day, the same thing. Ilya showing up, doing his work, being present with the team. But silent. Taking every chirp without giving any back, like he was afraid to open his mouth.

The puppy was still scared, Murphy had realized. Was still operating from a place of fear. But instead of biting first, now he was just - shutting down entirely. Making himself small and quiet and harmless so no one would have a reason to hurt him.

It was progress in a way. The kid wasn't alienating everyone anymore, wasn't pushing people away with aggression. But it also wasn't healthy. Wasn't sustainable.

Murphy had played hockey for over fifteen years. Had been captain for five of those. He knew what a healthy locker room looked like, what good team chemistry felt like.

And this - this overcorrection - wasn't it.

A locker room worked when everyone could be themselves. When guys could chirp and joke and give each other shit, all while knowing the underlying foundation was respect and care. When you could say "fuck you" with a grin and everyone knew it meant "I've got your back."

But Ilya didn't know how to do that yet. Didn't know how to find the balance between too much and not enough.

So he'd swung hard in the other direction. Gone from constantly attacking to not engaging at all.

Murphy understood it. Understood that the kid was terrified of fucking up again, of crossing another line he couldn't see. Understood that silence felt safer than speech when you didn't trust yourself to know the difference.

But understanding didn't mean Murphy could let it continue.

By the end of the second week, Murphy decided to address it.

He waited until after practice, when most of the guys had cleared out. Caught Ilya as the kid was heading for the door, bag slung over one shoulder, moving with that same hunched, trying-to-be-invisible posture.

"Rozanov. Hold up a sec."

Ilya stopped immediately, turned to face him. And there it was again - that flash of fear in his eyes before he masked it. That automatic assumption that being called over by the captain meant he'd done something wrong.

"You okay?" Murphy asked, keeping his voice gentle.

"Yes," Ilya said, but his shoulders were tense. "Why?"

"You've been- quiet," Murphy pointed out. "Really quiet. The guys are starting to worry."

He saw confusion flicker across Ilya's face, like the kid couldn't understand why anyone would worry about him being quiet. Like he thought silence was what everyone wanted from him.

"I am just- I am trying to be better," Ilya said carefully, as though he was trying to figure out what response Murph wanted from him. "Like you said. Not push. Not cross line."

Murphy's chest tightened. The kid had taken his words and interpreted them as "shut up completely." Had heard "learn where the line is" and decided the safest place was miles away from any line at all.

"I didn't mean stop talking entirely," Murphy explained gently. "I meant learn where the line is. There's a difference."

But Ilya just shrugged, his shoulders hunching further. "Is safer this way. If I don't say anything, I can't fuck up."

There it was. The core of it. The kid was operating entirely from fear—not from aggression anymore, but still from fear. Fear of making mistakes. Fear of crossing invisible boundaries. Fear of being rejected again.

Murphy wanted to find whoever had taught this kid that making mistakes meant you deserved to be hurt, and have a very long conversation with them. Possibly involving fists.

"Rozy," Murphy said, and he made sure his voice was firm but kind. "Being part of a team means engaging. Means chirping back when guys chirp you. Means being present, not just physically but—" He gestured vaguely. "Verbally. You're allowed to talk shit. That's part of hockey."

The kid shrugged, avoiding Murph’s gaze, clearly not wanting to have this discussion. Murph sighed before waving the kid off, giving him silent permission to go. 

He watched Ilya leave and thought about how far the kid had come in just two weeks.

From aggressive and defensive to quiet and withdrawn. Neither extreme was healthy, but at least this one wasn't actively hurting people.

They'd find the middle ground. Murphy would make sure of it.

They were up 2-1 in the second period when it happened.

Ilya had the puck along the boards, eyes scanning for an open pass. He saw Rodriguez breaking toward the net, started to move the puck-

And then something hit him. Hard.

From behind, high, the kind of check that was borderline dirty even by hockey standards. Ilya felt the impact between his shoulder blades, felt his head snap forward from the force, felt all the air driven from his lungs in one violent expulsion.

The world tilted. He was falling, had no control over it, and then he hit the ice hard.

Everything went white.

Not black - white. Like someone had turned the brightness up on the world until it hurt to exist.

He couldn't breathe. His lungs were empty, completely empty, and they wouldn't work. He tried to gasp but nothing happened. Just - nothing. His chest was locked up, frozen.

Panic flooded through him. He couldn't breathe. Why couldn't he breathe?

There was shouting. Somewhere. Far away. The vibration of skates on ice, moving fast. But it all seemed distant, muffled, like he was underwater.

Then hands on him. Gentle but urgent.

"Rozy. Hey. You with me?"

Murphy's voice, cutting through the fog. Ilya knew that voice. Trusted that voice.

He tried to respond but his lungs still weren't working. He gasped once, twice, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and finally - finally - air rushed back in.

He coughed, hard, his chest aching like someone had punched him. Which, essentially, someone had.

"Easy," Murphy told him, and Ilya felt him helping him sit up. Strong hands on his shoulders, steadying him. "Take your time. You got the wind knocked out of you."

Ilya's vision was still swimming, everything blurry and doubled. He blinked hard, trying to clear it. Trying to focus.

Slowly, the world came back into focus. He could see Murphy kneeling beside him, concern clear on his face. Could see the ref skating over, whistle in hand. Could see-

Could see Fitzpatrick, across the ice, throwing punches at the Flyers player who'd hit him.

Ilya blinked, confused. His brain was still foggy, still trying to catch up. Fitzy was fighting? For him? 

Why the fuck was Fitzy fighting for him?

"Can you stand?" Murphy asked, his hand still on Ilya's shoulder.

"Yeah," Ilya managed, his voice hoarse. His throat hurt. Everything hurt. "Yeah, I think so."

Murphy helped him to his feet, one hand gripping his elbow to steady him. Ilya swayed slightly, the ice tilting beneath him, but he stayed upright. 

The crowd was roaring. The refs were breaking up the fight, pulling Fitzpatrick and the Flyers player apart. Fitzy's jersey was half-off, his face flushed red, blood on his knuckles.

He'd fought for Ilya. Had dropped his gloves and gone after the guy who'd hit him, without hesitation.

Ilya's chest felt tight, and not just from the hit. Something was happening there, something warm and complicated that he didn't have words for.

"You good to skate?" Murphy asked, his voice gentle but firm.

Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice. Together they made it to the bench, Murphy supporting most of his weight even though Ilya tried not to lean on him too much. Tried to walk on his own, to prove he was okay.

But his legs were shaky, his balance off. Murphy seemed to sense it, kept his grip firm on Ilya's elbow, guiding him.

As soon as Ilya sat down on the bench, someone was there - Nikolai, which was strange because Nikolai usually watched games from the press box, not down here.

"You good?" Nikolai asked quietly, his hand landing on Ilya's shoulder. Warm. Solid. Real.

"Fine," Ilya said automatically, even though his head was still pounding and his chest ached where he'd hit the ice. Even though his vision was still slightly blurry around the edges. "Just got wind knocked out."

Nikolai studied him for a moment, clearly not believing him but also not pushing. Not here, not in front of the team. "You sit for a shift. Catch your breath."

Ilya wanted to argue. Wanted to say he was fine, that he could play, that he didn't need to be benched. But Nikolai's expression left no room for debate. There was concern there, yes, but also authority. The kind Ilya had been trained his whole life to obey.

So he sat, watching the game continue around him, trying to get his breathing back to normal.

His chest hurt with every breath. Not sharp, not like broken ribs, but deep and aching. Bruised for sure. Maybe worse.

But worse than the physical pain was the confusion. Fitzpatrick had fought for him. Had gotten a five-minute major, all because someone had hit Ilya.

Ilya didn't understand. 

A few minutes later, Fitzpatrick returned from the penalty box. He swung his legs over the boards and dropped onto the bench next to Ilya, his breathing still heavy from the fight. His knuckles were swelling, blood smeared across them.

He'd been hurt. Because of Ilya.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Ilya didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to thank someone for something like this.

"You didn't have to do that," Ilya said finally, his voice quiet.

Fitzpatrick looked at him like he was an idiot. Like what he'd said made no sense. "Do what?"

"Fight. For me. You didn't have to—"

Fitzpatrick nudged Ilya's shoulder with his own, not hard, almost affectionate. Like an older brother might. "Of course I did. When someone goes after the rookie, you can't just sit around and do nothing."

"But—" Ilya started, but Fitzpatrick cut him off.

"That's what teammates do, Rozy," Fitzpatrick told him, and there was no anger in his voice, just matter-of-fact certainty. Like this was obvious, like Ilya should have known this already. "Someone takes a cheap shot at one of ours, we stand up for them. Doesn't matter if it's you or Murph or anyone else. That's how it works."

Ilya stared at him, something complicated happening in his chest. Something warm and tight and almost painful. "You hate me. I was asshole to you."

"You apologized," Fitzpatrick replied with a shrug, like it was that simple. "And you've been trying to be better. I see that. We all see that. So yeah, even though you were an asshole." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "Besides, that hit was dirty as hell. Ref should've called it."

"You did not have to fight him," Ilya argued again, because he still couldn't quite believe it. Couldn't wrap his mind around someone getting hurt to protect him.

"Yeah, I did," Fitzpatrick said firmly. "You're one of us now. You're my—" He stopped, seemed to consider his words, then continued with a slight grin. "You're like my annoying little brother. And we protect our own. Get used to it."

Little brother.

The words hit Ilya like a second check, but this time it didn't hurt. This time it felt - good. Warm. Right.

But Fitzpatrick was saying - was saying Ilya was his little brother. Was family.

"Thanks," Ilya muttered quietly, staring at the floor beneath the bench. 

"Don't mention it," Fitzpatrick said. Then his expression shifted, became more serious. "But hey, Roz?"

"Yeah?"

"You can chirp me, you know," Fitzpatrick offered, and there was something earnest in his voice now. "Like- it's okay. I kind of miss you being a little shit, honestly. It's weird having you so quiet all the time."

Ilya blinked, surprised. "But- you said I crossed line. That I pushed too far."

"You did," Fitzpatrick agreed without hesitation. "That one time. With the personal stuff about my ex. But that doesn't mean you can't chirp at all. Chirp about my play, my speed, my age, whatever. That's fair game. I can take it. We all can." He nudged Ilya's shoulder again, that same affectionate gesture. "Little brothers are supposed to be brats. It's in the job description."

Something in Ilya's chest loosened. Something that had been wound tight for two weeks, making it hard to breathe, hard to be himself.

"I can chirp you?" Ilya asked, like he needed explicit permission. Like he needed someone to tell him it was okay, that he wouldn't be punished for it.

"Yeah," Fitzpatrick promised, grinning now. "Please do. It's boring when you're quiet. Who am I supposed to argue with about whose backcheck is better?"

Ilya felt a smile tugging at his own lips. The first real smile in two weeks. "Your backcheck is terrible."

"There he is," Fitzpatrick said, his grin widening. 

"Your skating is also slow," Ilya added, testing. Seeing if this was really okay, if Fitzpatrick really meant it.

"My skating is not slow, you little shit," Fitzpatrick said, but he was laughing. Actually laughing, not angry at all. "I'm just conserving energy."

"Is called being old," Ilya said, and he felt warmth spreading through his chest. Felt like himself again.

"I'm twenty-six, not eighty."

"Is same thing," Ilya quipped, the words coming easier now. Natural. Like he'd remembered how to do this, how to engage in this back-and-forth that was actually fun instead of defensive.

"Yeah, yeah," Fitzpatrick muttered, still laughing. He started to stand up to take his next shift, adjusting his gloves, but he paused. Looked back at Ilya with something serious in his expression. "And Rozy? For the record, if I hadn’t gone after Jenkins, someone else would’ve. You’re our rookie. Which means we’re gonna give you shit, but we’re also gonna have your back. That's how it works."

He skated off before Ilya could respond, leaving Ilya sitting on the bench with something warm and unfamiliar blooming in his chest.

People who had his back.

People who fought for him even when he fucked up, even when he crossed lines, because they'd decided he was worth it anyway.

Ilya had never had that before. Had never had someone fight for him like that. His father certainly never had. His teammates in Russia - they'd been more likely to join in if someone went after him than to defend him.

But here, Fitzy had dropped his gloves without hesitation. Had thrown punches, had gotten himself ejected from the game, all to stand up for Ilya.

Because that's what family did.

Nikolai appeared again, crouching down in front of Ilya so they were at eye level.

"How's your head?" he asked quietly.

"Fine," Ilya replied, and this time it was mostly true. The pounding had dulled to a steady ache. "Little dizzy still, but is getting better."

"You tell me if it gets worse," Nikolai said, and there was steel in his voice. Not anger, just - firmness. The kind that meant this wasn't negotiable. "And you're sitting out the rest of this period. I don't care what O'Reilly says."

"But-" Ilya started to protest. He was fine. He could play.

"No arguments," Nikolai said firmly. "You got the wind knocked out of you and you're still dizzy. You sit. That's final."

Ilya wanted to protest, wanted to argue that he was fine, that he could play. He'd played through worse. Had played through actual injuries, through pain that made this look like nothing.

But the look on Nikolai's face - concern mixed with determination - made him stop. Made him realize that this wasn't about whether Ilya could play. This was about whether he should.

This was about someone caring enough to make him sit down when he was hurt.

"Okay," Ilya agreed instead, and he saw relief flash across Nikolai's face. "I sit."

Nikolai's expression softened slightly. "Good. I'll let O'Reilly know."

He stood and moved down the bench to talk to the head coach, and Ilya watched him go, something warm settling in his chest.

Fitzpatrick had fought for him. Called him his little brother. Told him it was okay to chirp again, as long as he stayed on the right side of the line.

Murphy had skated over immediately to check on him, had helped him off the ice with gentle, careful hands.

Nikolai had come down from the press box to make sure he was okay, was now arguing with O'Reilly about keeping Ilya benched.

These people - his teammates, his- his family, maybe - they cared about him. Actually cared, not because they had to, not because it was their job, but because he was one of them.

And he was allowed to be himself. Not the too-aggressive version from before, but not the silent version either. Somewhere in the middle. Somewhere that felt- right.

Ilya sat on the bench for the rest of the period, watching the game continue, his head still aching but his chest feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

Maybe Murphy had been right. Maybe he could trust these people.

Maybe he already did.

Chapter End Notes

Hope you all enjoyed our lovely captain murph's pov. Also, I fear i was too wordy so Shane won't be here till next chapter. Sorry y'all

Ilya: I'm a big, scary russian, rawr

Murph: *holds up his new puppy*

Chapter 4: chapter four

Chapter Notes

“Might need your eyes checked, old man. That pass was mile wide.” 

Ilya grinned as Murphy flipped him off from across the ice, the veteran's face flushed from the drill they'd just run. Practice was in full swing, and Ilya had finally realized that the rest of the guys liked it when he gave them shit, prompting him to chirp them constantly. 

In Russia, talking back had earned him his father's hand across his face. But here, the locker room banter was encouraged, expected even. And Ilya had years of sarcastic remarks stored up with nowhere to go.

"At least I can make a pass," Murph shot back. "Unlike some people who just skate in circles looking pretty."

"I don't look pretty," Ilya protested, skating past him. "I look beautiful. Is different."

Benny snorted from the face-off circle. "Kid's got a point."

"Thank you, Benny. Finally, someone with taste."

"I said you had a point, not that you were right," Benny clarified, but he was grinning.

They lined up for another drill - a two-on-one that O'Reilly loved to run until they were all dead on their feet. Ilya paired up with Benny, and they went through it three times before O'Reilly called them over.

"Rozanov, you're cheating on the entry," O'Reilly told him, and Ilya felt that familiar tension spike in his shoulders.

But O'Reilly's tone wasn't angry, just observational. Coaching, not criticizing.

"You're cutting in too early. Makes it easy for the defender to read. Give it another half second before you commit. Got it?"

"Yes, Coach."

They ran it again, and this time Ilya waited, just a heartbeat longer. The play opened up beautifully, and he slipped the puck past the goalie five-hole.

"Better!" O'Reilly called out.

Ilya skated back to the line, where Connors was waiting.

"Show off," Connors muttered, but he was smiling.

"Is not my fault you are slow."

"I'm not slow, you're just—"

"Fast and beautiful, yes, we know," Ilya finished. "You can say it. I won't judge."

Connors shoved him, and Ilya shoved back, both of them laughing.

This was new. This easiness, this comfort. In Moscow, practice had been silent except for his father's voice and the coaches' commands. Here, guys chirped each other constantly, laughed at mistakes, celebrated good plays. It was loud and chaotic and nothing like what Ilya was used to.

He loved it.

"Alright, bring it in!" O'Reilly called, and they gathered at center ice. "Good practice today. Rozy, nice adjustment on that entry. Benny, work on your positioning in front of the net - you're drifting too far left. Everyone else, keep doing what you're doing. Game tomorrow night, so get some rest. See you for morning skate."

In the locker room afterward, the atmosphere was loose and easy. Someone had connected their phone to a speaker and was playing music that Ilya was slowly learning to recognize as "classic rock." Benny was arguing with Becker about something, their voices good-natured and loud.

"Hey, kid," Murphy called out from across the room. "You coming to Hannigan's with us after the game tomorrow?"

Hannigan's was the bar where the team sometimes went after wins. Ilya had never been, but he'd heard the guys talk about it.

“Petrov will kill us if we get his underage kid drunk,” Benny reminded the captain. 

Ilya ignored the warmth that stirred up in his chest at hearing himself referred to as Petrov’s kid, instead focusing on the conversation in front of him. 

"Oh shit, right," Murphy commented, looking genuinely apologetic. "Sorry, man. Forgot you're still a baby."

"I'm not a baby."

"You're literally a child," Connors chimed in. “Our little cub.”

A couple of guys chimed in in agreement, and Ilya let out a long sigh, having a feeling that the new nickname wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. 

"I am eighteen. In Russia, this is adult."

"Well, we’ll get you a kiddie drink, cubby," Fitzy teased, grinning. “A soda. Or hey, maybe they have a nice glass of milk to help you grow big and strong.”

"You know what? I take back every nice thing I say about you people," Ilya announced to the room. "You are all terrible."

"Aw, he said nice things about us," Murph cooed. "That's sweet."

"I'm going to murder all of you," Ilya muttered, which just made everyone laugh harder.

"Tell you what," Connors said. "After the game tomorrow, we'll hit up that diner instead. The one on Comm Ave. Their milkshakes won't get you drunk, but they're pretty good."

"You don't have to-"

"We want to," Connors interrupted. "Besides, someone's gotta make sure you're eating something other than Sophie's cooking. You're getting spoiled."

Ilya felt that warmth in his chest again, the one that appeared more and more frequently these days. "Okay. Yes. I will come."

"Look at that, the baby's socializing," Benny teased, and Ilya threw his own wadded-up tape ball at him.

Ilya finished changing and headed out, still smiling. The October evening was cool and crisp, the sun already setting. The drive back to the Petrov house was familiar now, the route automatic.

He was home by six-fifteen, just in time for dinner.

"Thought I might find you out here."

Ilya paused in taking another drag of his cigarette, looking over to find Hollander standing a few feet away, looking awkward as always.

"So you were looking for me?" Ilya smirked, exhaling smoke into the cold Boston air.

Sophie and Nikolai hated that he smoked, Ilya could tell. Not that he'd ever dared to do it in their home, but he knew Sophie could smell it on his clothes when he got back to the house, and knew Nikolai had seen him a few times outside the rink. Still, neither of them had really tried to stop him, so he figured it wasn't too big of a deal. He hoped they wouldn't say anything. If they did, well, Ilya would have to stop. Breaking the rules, risking Nikolai's anger, well… it wasn't worth a cigarette.

"You're billeting with Petrov, right?" Hollander asked him, fidgeting as he moved closer, leaning against the rough concrete wall behind them.

"Da," Ilya confirmed, taking another drag.

He had to admit, Hollander had more confidence than Ilya had first thought if he was willing to come talk to him after the Metros had just beat the Bears. Most players would be in a bad mood after that, would probably try taking a swing at the opposing team if they had the chance.

"How's that?"

Ilya shrugged, not knowing what to say.

Terrifying? Almost as bad as living with his father? Sure, no one had hit him, yet. And he got fed three meals a day. No one had forced him to do bag skates, or belted him, or forced him under a cold shower for an hour as punishment. No one belittled him or lectured him.

But all of that could happen, at any moment. All of the gentleness he'd been given, the care Sophie and Nikolai had offered in a way Ilya had never before experienced, it could all be gone in an instant.

And that was more terrifying than living with his father ever had been. With his father, Ilya knew the rules, the expectations. Here, Ilya was wandering around blindly, hoping every move he made wasn't the one that would shatter this soft, kind world he'd found himself in.

Even when his mother was alive, he hadn't been so well cared for. She'd loved him, of course, but even at four, in his first memories of her, he could tell she'd been sick. She used to lie in bed once his father left for work, and Alexei at school, and he'd crawl in bed with her while she stared at nothing for hours, keeping her company. Most days, he'd fend for himself, finding a snack and ways to keep busy until his mother dragged herself out of bed to make dinner before his father got home.

On the good days, everything had been wonderful. His mama would take him skating, or to the park, or to the library. She'd make wonderful meals, read stories to him, cuddle Ilya close.

But as he got older, the good days grew fewer and farther in between the bad ones.

He knew his mother had been sick. That the depression had taken her away long before she ever died. Yet, he couldn't help but wonder what it would've been like to grow up with a mother that had been truly present. Like Sophie. One who made sure he never went hungry, one who played with him, who protected him, who lived for him.

The care she extended to her own children was something beyond Ilya's comprehension. The care she extended to him was even more confusing. After all, he wasn't a child. And yet, Sophie was constantly making sure he'd eaten, checking to see if he needed anything, asking if he wanted help when he was studying his English, offering to pick him up more shaving cream at the store when she'd noticed he wasn't as clean shaven as usual, fixing his tie before he left for games, adjusting a stray curl in his hair before he went out.

It was all so… gentle. Something completely foreign to him.

And Nikolai, well, he was different from Ilya's father. More patient, more understanding. He didn't snap at every little thing Ilya did wrong. Didn't slap him at the slightest mistake. But it had only been a few months. Nikolai hadn't had much time yet to see how much of a disappointment Ilya could be when given the chance. His father had learned that early, and soon, Nikolai would too.

Even patient people had a breaking point. And with Nikolai – who was a mountain of a man, who had such a fierceness in his brown eyes, such a sharp presence to him – well, Ilya really didn't want to find that point.

"It's fine," Ilya said finally, because what else could he say? That he was waiting for the other shoe to drop? That he woke up every morning expecting this to be the day they'd had enough of him? "They are... kind. Sophie cooks well. The girls are-" He gestured vaguely with his cigarette. "Loud. But okay."

"Must be weird," Hollander said. "Living with the assistant GM."

"Could be worse," Ilya said, and it was true, even if it was also terrifying. At least here, when the nightmares woke him at 3 AM, there were sounds of life around him. Breathing. Movement. Proof that he wasn't as alone as he'd been in Moscow.

"I'm on my own," Hollander offered, seeming to sense his discomfort. "Although my parents are always stopping by. And the WAGs keep trying to fatten me up."

Ilya huffed out something that might have been a laugh. "Sophie is same. Always asking if I want more food."

"At least Petrov gets it, right? The hockey stuff?"

"Da. He understands." That was the problem, actually. Nikolai understood hockey too well. He saw everything - every mistake, every hesitation, every moment Ilya wasn't good enough. It was only a matter of time before he got tired of it.

Hollander shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. They hadn’t seen each other since July, since they hooked up after the CCM shoot. They’d simply gone their separate ways, trusting the other to keep their secret.

They stood in silence for a moment, and Ilya took another drag of his cigarette, watching the smoke curl up into the dark October sky. The air was getting colder - winter was coming. His first winter in America. His first winter without his father's roof over his head.

"I should go," Ilya declared finally, dropping the cigarette and grinding it under his shoe. "Petrov will be looking for me soon."

"Yeah, I should get back to the team," Hollander replied, seeming grateful for the reprieve as he pushed off from the wall. 

Ilya headed toward the back door of the rink that he’d come outside from, turning back once he reached the door.

“See you next time, Hollander,” he called to the other boy, who simply nodded his head in that painfully awkward way of his before disappearing into the night. 

Ilya slipped back into the halls underneath the rink, checking his phone as he walked. One text from Sophie: Leftovers in the fridge. Chicken parm. Heat for 2 min.

Something in his chest loosened slightly. Even now, even after a loss, she was making sure he'd eat when he got home.

He pocketed his phone and headed inside, steeling himself for whatever conversation would come. For Nikolai's assessment of the game, the mistakes Ilya had made, the ways he'd failed to live up to expectations.

But when he found Nikolai in the hallway outside the locker room, the older man just looked him over once and said, "Ready to go home?"

Home. Not "back to the house" or "to my place."

Home.

"Da," Ilya replied, nodding once. "I'm ready."

As they walked to the car together, Nikolai cleared his throat. 

“You played well tonight,” he told Ilya, as though he was simply stating a fact.

Ilya ignored the warmth that swelled up in his chest at the man’s praise, instead dropping his head to stare at the pavement beneath them, kicking a clump of snow as they walked. 

“We lost,” Ilya reminded the man, though he doubted Nikolai had missed that. 

Ilya’s father wouldn’t care if Ilya had played well or not. All he would’ve cared about was the fact that Ilya’s team lost. That he hadn’t been good enough to carry them to victory. That his son was a loser, not a winner. 

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t play well,” Nikolai answered, in that firm, unwavering way of his. 

The words settled strangely in Ilya's chest. His father had never said anything like that - that you could play well and still lose, that individual performance mattered even in defeat. With his father, losing meant you hadn't tried hard enough, hadn't wanted it enough, hadn't been good enough.

Ilya swallowed tightly, not sure what to say in response. Just before they reached the car, Nikolai reached out, briefly squeezing Ilya’s shoulder in what might have been comfort. 

And Ilya thought that maybe - just maybe - this terrifying, gentle, confusing thing he'd found himself in might actually last.

At least for tonight.

The kitchen smelled like roasted chicken and herbs, and Ilya's stomach growled as he walked in. The girls were already at the table - Kira on her phone until Sophie gave her a look and she put it away, Nell chattering about something that had happened at recess, and Nata coloring in a book while she waited.

"Ilya!" Nata spotted him first and waved enthusiastically.

"Privet, Nata," Ilya greeted, ruffling her hair as he passed.

"How was practice?" Sophie asked, pulling the chicken out of the oven.

"Good. Murph almost cried when I chirped him about his age."

"You're going to get yourself in trouble one of these days," Nikolai commented, but his tone held no heat, and the smirk on his face told Ilya he was teasing. 

"Worth it."

They settled around the table, the familiar chaos of a Petrov family dinner unfolding around Ilya. Nell was still talking about recess, something about a boy named Tyler who'd pushed her friend. Kira was explaining her upcoming history project with the kind of intense detail that suggested she was very stressed about it. Nata was focused on cutting her chicken into tiny pieces, her tongue sticking out in concentration.

Ilya was reaching for the salad when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out and his stomach dropped.

His father was calling. 

For a moment, Ilya just stared at the screen. His father. Calling him. For the first time since Ilya had left Russia two and a half months ago.

"You okay?" Nikolai asked, and Ilya realized everyone had gone quiet, even little Nata was looking at him with concern.

"It’s my father," Ilya explained, his voice coming out flat.

Sophie and Nikolai exchanged a look.

"I should-" Ilya stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I take it in living room. Sorry."

He walked quickly to the living room, just off the kitchen, close enough that he could still see the family at the table, close enough that they could probably hear some of what he was saying. But far enough that he wasn't sitting right there, that he had some illusion of space.

He answered, switching to Russian. "Hello?"

"Ilya." His father's voice was exactly as he remembered - cold, clipped, impatient. "Finally. I've been trying to call."

Ilya checked his call log. This was the first call. His father was lying, or exaggerating, or just starting the conversation with criticism because that was what he did.

"Sorry, sir. I was at practice."

"Always at practice," his father said, and somehow he made it sound like an accusation. "How is hockey?"

Ilya's back was to the kitchen, but he could feel their eyes on him. Could sense the conversation at the dinner table had stopped.

"Good. I’ve had ten goals, twenty-four assists so far this season."

It was a good stat line for a rookie. Better than good, actually. But Ilya knew better than to sound proud of it.

"Hmm. And Petrov? He is keeping you disciplined?"

Ilya's hand tightened on the phone. He glanced back toward the kitchen, toward where Nikolai was watching him with concern.

"Yes. He is... he is good. Very helpful."

"You're not being lazy?"

Ilya's shoulders hunched slightly, an automatic response to his father's tone even though the man was thousands of miles away.

"No, Father."

"Not embarrassing yourself? Not embarrassing me?"

From the kitchen, Ilya could hear Nata's small voice asking Sophie what was wrong. Sophie's gentle response telling her that it was okay, to eat her dinner.

"No, of course not. I am working hard. The coaches, they are happy with me."

"Good. Don't get comfortable. A few good games means nothing. You understand? Nothing."

Ilya closed his eyes. "I understand."

"And you're living with Petrov still?"

"Yes."

"Don't be a burden. Don't make me look bad."

Ilya's jaw clenched. He could feel the weight of the Petrovs' attention on his back, could imagine what they were thinking as they listened to his half of this conversation.

"I won't. I promise."

There was a pause, and for a moment Ilya thought his father might say something else. Might ask how he was doing, if he was eating well, if he was adjusting to America. Might show even the smallest hint of caring about anything other than hockey and reputation.

"Good. Keep working. I'll call again when I have time."

The line went dead.

Ilya stood there for a moment, phone still pressed to his ear, before slowly lowering it.

He turned back toward the kitchen. Everyone was watching him - Sophie with barely concealed anger, Nikolai with that hard expression he got when he was trying to control his temper, the girls with varying degrees of confusion and concern.

Ilya walked back to the table and sat down, his movements careful and controlled.

"That was your father?" Sophie asked gently, though it was obvious she already knew.

"Yes," Ilya replied, letting out a tight exhale. "He wanted to see how I’ve been…settling in."

“That’s not exactly what it sounded like,” Sophie retorted, scoffing a little, an anger in her voice Ilya wasn’t used to. 

He tensed instinctively, beating himself up for ruining everything. They’d been having a nice, pleasant dinner, and now Ilya had gone and messed it up. Sophie was upset with him, although Ilya wasn’t quite sure why, but maybe he could smooth things over and get dinner back on track. 

But before Ilya could attempt to correct whatever error he’d made, Nikolai stepped in. 

“Sophie,” he grabbed his wife’s attention, his tone holding a hint of a warning, eyes glancing between Sophie and the rest of the table. 

It was a look Ilya had seen before, a silent message of not now, not in front of the kids. 

That look had never been extended to include him before. 

“He hasn’t had time to check in,” Ilya told them, shrugging slightly. 

He said it casually, like it was no big deal. Like it didn't matter that his father had waited three months to check on him, and even then had only called to make sure Ilya wasn't embarrassing him.

But Sophie's face crumpled slightly, and Nikolai's expression went hard.

"At all?" Nikolai asked, his voice carefully controlled. "In three months?"

Ilya shrugged, picking up his fork. "He is busy. He has work."

"Everyone has work," Sophie snapped, and the anger in her voice was back again, far more obvious than it’d been before. "That doesn't mean—"

She cut herself off, glancing at the girls. Kira was staring at her plate, clearly uncomfortable. Nell looked confused. Nata's eyes were still on Ilya, worried and sad in that way children got when they sensed adults were upset. Sophie took a deep breath, clearly attempting to steady herself. 

"It’s okay," Ilya assured her, forcing something like a smile. "He’s… he’s always been like this. I’m used to it."

"That doesn't make it okay," Sophie corrected quietly, still looking at him with such sadness in her eyes.

Ilya didn't know what to say to that, so he just went back to eating. After a moment, conversation slowly resumed - Sophie asking Nell about her friend, Nikolai asking Kira about her project. But the atmosphere had shifted, the easy warmth from before replaced with something heavier.

Three weeks later, Ilya woke up in his own bed for the first time in five days.

The team had just gotten back from their first road trip – four games in six nights across the Midwest. They'd won three, lost one in overtime, and Ilya was exhausted in a way that went bone-deep. O'Reilly had given them the day off to recover, and Ilya had planned to sleep until noon.

But his body woke him at seven anyway, his internal clock still set to their practice schedule.

He lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to the familiar sounds of the Petrov household waking up. Footsteps in the hallway. The shower running. Sophie's voice calling out something about breakfast.

Except... Sophie's voice sounded wrong. Rough. Strained.

Ilya got up and pulled on sweatpants and a t-shirt, padding downstairs. The scene in the kitchen was chaos - Nell couldn't find her homework, Kira was complaining about something, and Nattie was sitting at the table in her pajamas, looking confused about why everyone was yelling.

Sophie was at the stove, making scrambled eggs, but she was moving slowly, one hand braced against the counter like she needed the support.

"Good morning," Ilya said in Russian from the doorway.

Sophie turned, and Ilya could see immediately that she was sick. Her face was pale, her eyes glassy, and even from across the room he could hear the congestion in her breathing.

"Ilya," she greeted, trying to smile. "You're up early. I thought you'd sleep in."

"Where is Nikolai?" Ilya asked, looking around, knowing by now that the man would never leave his wife to handle three children alone in such a state.

"He's in Columbus," Sophie explained, switching to Russian. "Scouting trip. He left yesterday morning, won't be back until tonight."

A scouting trip. That made sense - assistant GMs traveled to watch prospects, to evaluate players in other organizations. But it also meant Sophie was alone, sick, trying to manage three kids and get them ready for school.

"You’re sick," Ilya commented, stating the obvious.

"Just a cold," Sophie argued, waving a hand dismissively even as she swayed slightly. "I'm fine. I just need to get the girls ready for school and-"

"No," Ilya said firmly. "Sit down."

"Ilya, I can't-"

"Sit." He moved forward and gently took the spatula from her hand. "I will finish the eggs. I will get the girls to school. You need to rest."

"I don't want to be trouble-"

“Please. Let me help," Ilya pleaded, imploring the woman to listen. 

He thought about all the times his mother had been forced to make breakfast, to clean the house, to get kids out the door to school, all while she was exhausted. How his father had simply ignored her depression, her suffering, and left her to do it all alone. Ilya hadn’t been able to help then, not really. He’d been too young. But he certainly wasn’t about to sit back and do nothing when he could easily help Sophie, especially after all she’d done for him. 

Sophie looked at him for a long moment, then deflated. "Okay. Okay, maybe I do need to lie down. Just for a little while."

"Not a little while. All day," Ilya corrected firmly, shooing her away from the stove. If there was one thing Ilya was, it was stubborn. Sophie wasn’t winning this battle, not by a long shot. "Go upstairs. Sleep."

Sophie nodded and headed slowly toward the stairs, pausing to give instructions. "The girls need to leave at 8:15. It's only a few blocks to school, Kira knows the way. Nattie needs help with her shoes sometimes, and Nell always forgets-"

"I will handle it," Ilya promised. "Go."

Once Sophie had disappeared upstairs, Ilya turned to survey the kitchen. Three girls in various states of readiness, eggs that were starting to burn, and a general sense of chaos.

Sophie had taken such good care of him since the day he arrived, having had no obligation to do so. It was far past time Ilya paid her back. He could do this. He'd taken care of himself since he was twelve. Three kids couldn't be that much harder.

"Okay," he began, taking a deep breath as he stirred the eggs.  "Nattie, go get dressed. Nell, where is your homework?"

"I don't know!" Nell whined, pouting in distress.

Ilya bit back a sigh, having witnessed this situation more than once. Sophie was always saying the girl would lose her head if it wasn’t attached. 

"When did you last see it?"

"Yesterday? Maybe?"

Kira rolled her eyes. "It's probably in your backpack, dummy."

"Don't call your sister dummy," Ilya said automatically, the same thing he'd heard Sophie say a dozen times. “Help her find it, please.”

He finished the eggs, made toast, and somehow got all three girls fed. Nell found her homework, Nattie got dressed, and Kira had her shit together because she was nothing if not her father’s daughter.

At 8:15, Ilya herded all three of them out the door. The October morning was crisp and cool, leaves crunching under their feet as they walked the few blocks to school. It really was close - just down the street, turn left at the corner, and a few blocks down there was the brick building with its playground and American flag out front.

Other parents and kids were streaming toward the entrance. Ilya felt conspicuously out of place, this tall Russian teenager walking three kids to school, but no one seemed to pay much attention.

"Have a good day," Ilya told them as they reached the front gate.

"Bye, Ilya!" Nell called, already running to meet her friends.

Kira just nodded and headed inside, too cool to say goodbye in front of her peers.

Nattie lingered, looking up at Ilya with those big brown eyes. "Will you pick us up too?"

"Yes. I will be here at three."

She smiled, a bright, uncomplicated expression of happiness, and ran inside after her sisters.

Ilya walked back to the house, let himself in, and immediately went upstairs to check on Sophie. The door to her and Nikolai’s room was cracked open, and he carefully peeked his head inside, finding Sophie asleep in bed. He felt odd, looking into the room, as though he was somehow invading the Petrovs’ privacy. He’d never seen the master bedroom. It was large and airy, having far more light than his own room due to being located at the corner of the house. There were black and white photos hanging on the wall, a few of the girls and one of Nikolai with the Cup after the Bears had last won it. Ilya slowly closed the door fully, leaving Sophie to sleep undisturbed. 

The house was quiet. Strange, how empty it felt without the girls' noise.

Ilya spent the morning cleaning - doing the breakfast dishes, wiping down the counters, picking up the toys and books scattered around the living room. He made tea for Sophie around eleven, the same way his mother used to make it. Black tea with honey and lemon.

Sophie was awake when he brought it up, propped against the pillows and looking miserable.

"Ilya," she said gently, her voice hoarse. "You don't have to do all this."

"It’s tea," Ilya replied simply. "Not very complicated.”

Sophie smiled softly at him, an expression on her face similar to the one he’d seen her look at the girls with many times. He glanced away, setting the tea down on the nightstand, the affection too much for him to bear at the moment. 

"Thank you,” Sophie murmured, patting the bed for him to sit for a moment. He did, never one to disobey the woman, perching carefully on the edge of the mattress. “Did the girls get to school okay?"

"Yes. All good. They are fine," Ilya promised her earnestly. 

He left out the fact that getting them out the door had been a nearly impossible task. The last thing he wanted to do was make Sophie feel guilty that her children were as chaotic as they were. It wasn’t Sophie’s fault, of course. She was about as perfect as a person could be. Obviously, the inferior portion of the girls’ genetics had come from Nikolai. 

Sophie smiled at him, clearly seeing through the lie, before lifting a hand to cup his cheek. Her hand was soft, a warm weight on Ilya’s skin, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him so gently.

"You're a good kid, you know that?" she told him, her blue eyes looking into his own as if she could force him to believe such information. 

A lump formed in Ilya’s throat and he valiantly ignored it as he shrugged his shoulders casually. 

“I should let you rest,” he said, forcing a tight smile onto his face as he quickly fled the bedroom, ignoring Sophie calling after him. 

At 2:45, Ilya walked back to the school. The October afternoon was sunny and pleasant, the kind of weather that made Ilya think of Moscow autumns, though Boston's trees were far more vibrant than anything he remembered from home.

He waited by the front entrance with the other parents. This time, a few of them gave him curious looks, but no one said anything.

The bell rang, and kids started streaming out. Nell appeared first, running straight to him.

"Ilya! You came!"

"Of course I came. I said I would come."

Kira emerged next, looking vaguely embarrassed to be picked up like a child but not actually upset about it. And finally Nattie, walking slowly, her small backpack almost as big as she was.

Without thinking about it, Ilya bent down and scooped her up, settling her on his hip the way he'd seen Nikolai do dozens of times. She was so light, barely anything at all, and she immediately wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Tired?" Ilya asked gently, to which the little girl gave a small nod.

"A little," Nattie admitted, resting her head against his shoulder.

They walked home like that, Ilya carrying Nattie while Nell chattered about her day and Kira walked slightly ahead, maintaining her teenager distance.

"You know," Nattie told him quietly as they approached the house, "you can call me Nata. If you want."

Ilya's steps faltered slightly. "Nata?"

As far as Ilya could tell, only Nikolai used the Russian nickname for the little girl, Sophie and Nattie’s sisters preferring to use the more American diminutive. The one time he’d seen someone outside the family dare to use the nickname – it had been Murph, he was fairly certain – Nattie had sharply corrected him. 

Something warm bloomed in Ilya's chest, something he couldn't quite name. The fact that she was giving him permission, inviting him into that small, intimate circle - it felt significant. Important.

"Okay," he agreed softly. "Nata."

She smiled against his shoulder, and Ilya carried her the rest of the way home.

The afternoon passed in a surprisingly comfortable routine. Ilya made snacks - apple slices with peanut butter, the way Sophie always did. He supervised homework at the kitchen table, helping Nell sound out words she didn't know and listening to Kira complain about her English teacher. Nata sat next to him, coloring quietly, occasionally showing him her pictures.

Around five-thirty, Ilya started dinner. His cooking wasn’t up to Sophie’s level, but he could manage pasta. He made it with jarred marinara sauce and a salad, nothing fancy but edible. The girls ate without complaint, and Ilya felt a small surge of pride.

After dinner, Kira retreated to her room with a book while the younger girls stayed downstairs, pleading with Ilya to watch a movie. He eventually conceded, putting on some Disney movie. Nata climbed into his lap at some point, happily curling up against him, and her warm weight against Ilya’s chest settled him a bit.  

He wasn't sure when she fell asleep. One moment she was humming along to the songs, and the next she was dead weight against him, her breathing slow and even.

Ilya didn't move. He couldn't, not without waking her. So he just sat there, this tiny child asleep and trusting in his lap, and tried to remember if anyone had ever trusted him like this before.

Eventually, he sent Nell upstairs to get ready for bed, and turned the movie off, putting the coverage of the Metros v Admirals game on instead, keeping it muted so as not to wake Nata. 

Around eight-thirty, Ilya heard a key in the front door. Nikolai was home.

"I’m home," Nikolai called out softly as he entered, clearly aware that it was late and kids might be sleeping. "Soph?"

Nikolai appeared in the doorway, still in his jacket, and stopped short when he saw the scene - Ilya on the couch with Nata asleep in his lap.

"Hey," Nikolai greeted again, softer this time. "Where's Sophie?"

"Upstairs. She’s sick. Has been sleeping most of the day."

Something flickered across Nikolai's face - concern for his wife, but also understanding. "And you've been taking care of everything?"

Ilya shrugged casually. It wasn’t a big deal. Even an idiot could keep three kids alive for less than a day. 

"It wasn’t hard."

Nikolai reached down and carefully lifted Nata from Ilya's lap. She stirred slightly but didn't wake, just curled into her father's chest the way she always did. "I'm going to put her to bed and check on Sophie. I'll be back down in a few minutes."

Ilya nodded and stood, his legs slightly stiff from sitting still for so long. He went to the kitchen and started cleaning up the dinner dishes, running the water warm and working methodically through the plates and silverware.

He was drying the last pot when Nikolai came back downstairs.

"Sophie's doing okay," Nikolai informed him, leaning against the counter. "Fever's down. She said you've been taking care of her all day. Making tea, checking on her."

"Is not a big deal," Ilya replied, focusing on the pot in his hands. "She is sick. She needed help."

"It is a big deal," Nikolai corrected firmly, and something in his tone made Ilya look up. "You stepped up today. That's not nothing."

Ilya shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. 

Nikolai moved closer, reaching a hand out to squeeze Ilya’s shoulder softly before resting it on the back of Ilya’s neck. He could feel the calluses on the man’s hand from years of handling a hockey stick, and something about the gentle but firm weight was oddly comforting. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the only sound the drip of water from the faucet.

"I'm proud of you, kid," Nikolai told him, the words landing like a physical blow. 

Ilya's hands stilled in the soapy water. I'm proud of you. Four words he'd never heard from his own father, not once in eighteen years. Four words he'd spent his entire life chasing, trying to earn, desperately hoping to hear just one time.

And here was Nikolai Petrov - not his father, not even related to him - saying them like they were simple, like they were obvious, like Ilya was someone worth being proud of.

"Thanks," Ilya managed to force out, his voice rough. He kept his eyes on the sink, on the pot in his hands, because if he looked at Nikolai right now he might actually fall apart.

"I mean it. What you did today means a lot to me,” Nikolai continued, squeezing his neck a little. “You’re a good kid.”

Ilya nodded, not trusting himself to speak. There that phrase was again. A good kid. No one had ever said those words in relation to Ilya, and now, two people had used it in one day. Clearly, Nikolai and Sophie had missed seeing what was so apparent to everyone else. That Ilya was just about the farthest thing from a good kid. 

Ilya set the pot in the drying rack with careful precision. His throat was too tight, his eyes stinging with tears he absolutely would not let fall.

His father had called him many things over the years - lazy, undisciplined, disappointing, weak. But never good. Never worthy of pride.

"I'm going to go sit with Sophie for a bit," Nikolai added, finally stepping back, his hand slipping off of Ilya’s back and leaving a coldness in its wake. "Get some sleep.”

He left, and Ilya stood alone in the kitchen, hands still in the cooling dishwater, trying to process what had just happened.

Nikolai was proud of him.

Not for scoring goals or playing perfect hockey or being the best.

For making pasta. For walking three kids to school. For taking care of a sick woman and making sure her daughters were safe.

For being decent. For being kind. For showing up when he was needed.

His father had never been proud of those things. His father had never valued anything except results, except winning, except being better than everyone else.

Ilya finished the dishes, dried his hands, and turned off the kitchen light. As he climbed the stairs to his room, he could hear Nikolai's voice drifting from the master bedroom - low and gentle, talking to Sophie. The sound of a husband caring for his wife. The sound of love that was steady and constant and real.

In his room, Ilya changed into sweatpants and climbed into bed. The sheets smelled clean, like the lavender detergent Sophie used. The room was warm and safe and quiet.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Ilya felt like maybe he belonged here.

Like maybe he was worth keeping around for reasons that had nothing to do with hockey.

Like maybe, just maybe, he was enough exactly as he was.

The thought was so foreign, so impossible, that Ilya almost didn't let himself believe it.

But lying there in the dark, with Nikolai's words still echoing in his head - I'm proud of you - Ilya let himself hold onto it, the way a small child would seek comfort from their favorite stuffed toy. Just for tonight. Just for a little while.

He fell asleep thinking about Nata's small hand fisted in his shirt, about Nell's chatter on the walk home from school, about Kira's quiet thank you when he'd helped her find her science textbook.

About Sophie's grateful smile when he'd brought her tea.

About Nikolai's hand on his shoulder, solid and real.

About family, and what it meant to be part of one.

The game was a disaster from start to finish.

The Bears lost 6-2 to the Admirals, and it wasn't just one person's fault - the whole team had played like shit. The defense couldn't clear the zone. The forwards couldn't connect passes. The goalie had let in two soft ones that he'd normally save in his sleep.

But Ilya had turned the puck over in the neutral zone in the third period, leading directly to the Admirals' fifth goal.

It was an afternoon game in early December, a Saturday matinee that meant the Garden was packed with families and kids. The kind of game that should have been fun, energetic. Instead, it had been a slow-motion car crash, and Ilya had contributed his fair share to the wreckage.

In the locker room afterward, O'Reilly was painfully blunt.

"That was unacceptable. All of you. I don't care if you're tired from the road trip, I don't care if you're not feeling it - you don't pack it in like that. Not in this organization." He looked around the room, making eye contact with everyone. "We have practice tomorrow. Come ready to work."

The team had dispersed quickly after that, everyone wanting to get out of the building and away from the stink of a bad loss. Ilya had sat in his stall, still in his gear, staring at the floor.

His turnover had led to a goal. A goal that had put them down 5-1, that had effectively ended any chance of a comeback.

His father would have lost his mind.

Ilya's stomach churned as he thought about going back to the Petrov house. Nikolai had been watching from home - he'd texted before the game to wish Ilya luck. He'd seen the turnover. He'd seen Ilya fuck up, cost the team, play like he was lazy and undisciplined and everything his father had warned everyone he was.

The locker room had emptied out. Ilya was alone.

He stood up, his legs heavy, and made his way back to the ice. The building was quiet now, just the hum of the lights and the distant sound of the cleaning crew starting their work. The ice was empty, scraped clean by the zamboni.

Ilya dropped a puck and started skating.

Bag skates. That's what his father would have made him do. Skate until his legs gave out, until he puked, until he'd paid for his mistake with physical suffering. Maybe if Ilya did it himself, maybe if he punished himself first, it would be easier when he got home. Maybe Nikolai would see that Ilya understood what he'd done wrong, that he was taking responsibility, that he wasn't making excuses.

He skated from goal line to goal line, pushing himself hard. His legs were already tired from the game, but he pushed through it. Faster. Harder. Again. Again. Again.

His lungs started to burn. His thighs screamed. He kept going.

Blue line to blue line. Goal line to goal line. Corner to corner.

The rink was so quiet he could hear every scrape of his blades, every gasping breath that tore from his lungs. Sweat soaked through his base layers despite the cold. His vision started to blur at the edges, but he pushed through it.

Not enough. Not yet. Hadn't paid enough.

He thought about his father standing at the side of the rink in Moscow, stopwatch in hand, face cold and impassive. "Again," his father would say, no matter how many times Ilya had already done it. "Faster. You're being lazy."

Ilya pushed harder, his legs burning like they were on fire.

He lost track of time. Lost track of how many times he'd crossed the ice. There was only the burning in his muscles, the rasp of his breath, the scrape of his skates on ice. The empty echo of the arena around him, vast and hollow.

His body started to betray him. His legs wobbled on the turns. His stride got sloppy, less controlled. But he couldn't stop. Stopping meant giving up. Stopping meant he was weak.

The turnover played on loop in his mind. The way he'd tried to thread the pass through traffic. The way the defender had read it, intercepted it, sent it back the other way. The goal horn blaring. The disappointed roar of the crowd.

Lazy. Undisciplined. Careless.

His stomach rolled, warning him, but he pushed through it. Not yet. He couldn't stop yet. Hadn't suffered enough yet. Hadn't paid enough for the mistake.

Goal line to goal line. His legs barely cooperated now. Goal line to goal line. His vision swam. Goal line to goal line. His stomach heaved.

He made it three more lengths before his body revolted.

Ilya barely made it to the bench before he threw up, his stomach heaving violently, bringing up the protein shake he'd had before the game and not much else. He braced himself against the boards, gasping, sweat and tears mixing on his face despite the cold of the rink.

His legs were shaking so badly he could barely stand. His whole body trembled with exhaustion, muscles screaming in protest.

Just a little more. Just a few more-

He pushed away from the boards, trying to get back out onto the ice. His legs buckled slightly, and he had to grab the boards again to keep from falling.

"What the fuck are you doing!?"

Ilya's head snapped up, his heart jumping into his throat.

Nikolai was standing at the tunnel entrance, still in his street clothes - jeans, a worn Bears hoodie, and a pair of boots. His face was a mixture of shock and something that looked like horror.

Ilya straightened up, trying to catch his breath, trying to look like he wasn't about to collapse. Trying to look like this was normal, acceptable, not completely insane.

"I- I was just-"

"How long have you been out here?" Nikolai's voice was sharp as he strode across the ice toward Ilya, his shoes somehow finding grip on the frozen surface. His voice was sharp as a whip, cutting through the cold air with a snap. 

"I don't... I don't know. Maybe an hour?"

"An hour?" Nikolai reached him, and up close Ilya could see the anger in his face. His stomach dropped. "You just played a full game and then skated for another hour? Are you trying to hurt yourself?"

"No, I just- I needed to-" Ilya's vision swam slightly. He reached for the boards to steady himself.

"Off the ice. Now." Nikolai's hand closed around Ilya's elbow, supporting him. "Come on."

Ilya let himself be guided off the ice and down the tunnel to the locker room. His legs felt like jelly, and he was vaguely aware that if Nikolai wasn't holding him up, he'd probably fall over. Each step was an effort, his body screaming at him to just stop, to just give up and collapse.

In the locker room, Nikolai steered him to a bench and pushed him to sit.

"Stay there," Nikolai ordered, and then he was kneeling in front of Ilya, unlacing his skates.

"I can-" Ilya started, but his hands were shaking too badly to be useful, and Nikolai batted them aside with ease.

"You can barely stand. Let me do it."

Ilya sat there, too exhausted to argue, as Nikolai removed his skates with quick, efficient movements. Then his shin guards, the velcro ripping loud in the quiet locker room. Then his shoulder pads, lifting them over Ilya's head like he was a child who couldn't dress himself.

Maybe that's what he was. A child. Weak and pathetic and unable to take care of himself.

"Why were you doing bag skates?" Nikolai asked, his voice calmer now but still tight with something Ilya couldn't identify.

Ilya swallowed hard. "I made a mistake. In the game. The turnover that led to the goal."

"So?"

"So I..." Ilya didn't know how to explain it. "I needed to... to pay for it."

Nikolai's hands stilled on Ilya's elbow pads. He looked up, meeting Ilya's eyes. "Pay for it?"

His brown eyes searched Ilya’s open, an expression in their depths that Ilya had never seen before from the older man. It was vulnerable, soft, something akin to… fear. 

"My father, he would've made me - after a bad game, he would make me skate. Until I-" Ilya's voice cracked. "I thought if I did it myself, it would be... easier."

Something terrible crossed Nikolai's face. "Easier when you got home?"

Ilya nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

"Jesus Christ," Nikolai muttered, going back to removing Ilya's gear. He got the elbow pads off, working in silence that felt heavy and oppressive.

When Ilya was down to just his base layers, soaked through with sweat, his whole frame trembling, Nikolai stood. "Shower. You're covered in sweat and you threw up. I'll wait."

"You don't have to-"

"Shower, Ilya. Now."

The command in Nikolai's voice left no room for argument. Ilya dragged himself to the showers, his legs barely cooperating. He stood under the hot water until he felt slightly more human, until his hands stopped shaking quite so badly. His legs were still trembling, his whole body exhausted.

When he came out, dressed in the clean clothes he kept in his locker, Nikolai was waiting with Ilya's bag already packed.

"Come on. Let's go home."

The walk to Nikolai's car was a blur. Ilya's legs barely kept him upright, and he was vaguely aware of Nikolai's hand on his back, steadying him when he stumbled.

In the car, Ilya leaned his head against the window, watching the city slide by. His whole body ached. His stomach was still unsettled. And underneath it all was the cold dread of what was coming.

He'd made Nikolai come to the rink to get him. Had worried him. Had shown how weak he was, how he couldn't even handle a bad game without falling apart.

Nikolai must be disappointed. He must be furious. 

The drive felt both too long and too short. When they pulled into the Petrovs’ driveway, Ilya's hands began shaking again.

"Can you walk?" Nikolai asked.

"Yes," Ilya lied.

He made it out of the car and up the front steps, but his legs were wobbling with every step. Inside, the house was warm and smelled like dinner - something with garlic and herbs that would have made Ilya's mouth water if his stomach wasn't still churning. Sophie appeared from the kitchen, took one look at Ilya, and her face filled with concern.

"What happened?" she asked, worry obvious in her voice.

"He's okay," Nikolai answered tightly, already moving them toward the stairs, likely wanting to get away before the girls saw them. "Just exhausted. I'm going to take him upstairs."

A not-so-small part of Ilya wanted to resist. Wanted to yank himself away from the man, wanted to refuse to go upstairs where his punishment awaited him. But the girls and Sophie didn’t deserve that. They didn’t deserve to see the anger in Nikolai that Ilya had forced out. They didn’t deserve to have their view of the man they all loved so much tarnished because Ilya had given him no other choice. 

And Ilya was just so, so tired. He didn’t have the strength to pull away even if he wanted to. Nikolai was taller, broader, stronger, and Ilya was one moment away from collapsing. 

Ilya was vaguely aware of Nikolai's arm around his waist, supporting most of his weight as they climbed the stairs. His bedroom door opened, and then he was being guided to his bed.

"Sit," Nikolai instructed gently, pushing him softly onto the mattress.

Ilya sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his whole body sagging with exhaustion. Every muscle in his body was screaming. His eyes felt heavy, his head fuzzy and disconnected from his body.

Nikolai crouched in front of him, starting to unlace Ilya's shoes. Ilya watched him, too tired to process what was happening, too tired to argue. His body felt heavy, like it was made of wet sand, every movement delayed and dulled by exhaustion.

Nikolai got his shoes off, then reached up toward Ilya's face- 

Ilya flinched violently.

It was automatic, instinctive - the response of someone who'd learned that when you fucked up, when you disappointed someone, pain followed. His whole body tensed, jerking back, his shoulders hunching protectively even as exhaustion made the movement clumsy and slow.

Nikolai's hand froze in mid-air.

The silence stretched out, heavy and terrible.

Nikolai's eyes were fixed on Ilya's face, dark and unreadable. Slowly, carefully, he lowered his hand.

"Ilya," he began quietly, voice steady as always. "What do you think is going to happen?"

Ilya’s throat tightened. He couldn’t look at him, couldn’t meet those eyes that saw too much, that already seemed to know the answer.

“Tell me,” Nikolai demanded, refusing to back down. His voice was still calm, but there was an edge under it now - something sharp and protective, something that made Ilya’s chest ache. “What do you think I’m going to do to you?”

Ilya’s hands clenched in his lap, fingers digging into his palms. He forced the words out, each one scraping raw on the way up.

"You're going to hit me," he whispered, voice shaking with every word. "For playing badly. For the turnover. For making you come get me. For being weak and-" His voice broke. "My father would have already - he would have hit me in the car. Then, when we got home– with the b-belt. He'd make me stand there while he told me everything I did wrong, and then-"

He couldn’t finish. The rest lived too deep in his body, in muscle memory and fear, in his nightmares, in the flinches he couldn’t stop.

Nikolai went very still. The silence stretched out for a long moment, and Ilya could hear his own breathing, ragged and uneven.

Then Nikolai moved, slow and deliberate. His hand came up to cup Ilya's jaw, gentle but firm, tilting Ilya's face up until there was no escape, until Ilya was forced to meet his eyes.

Ilya's heart slammed against his ribs.

“Look at me,” Nikolai said softly, but Ilya knew what an order sounded like when he heard one. “Look at me, Ilya.”

Ilya obeyed, breath trembling.

Up close, Nikolai’s eyes were devastating. Dark and intense, yes - but softened now, edges worn smooth by something like grief and fury braided together. They burned, not with anger, but with certainty. With promise. With something unshakable.

He wanted to look away, desperately so. But he couldn’t disobey the man, not when he’d already let him down so horribly. 

“I will never do that to you,” Nikolai told him, each word measured, deliberate, carved into place. “Never. Do you understand me? I will never hit you. Not for a bad game. Not for a mistake. Not for anything.”

Ilya didn’t understand. He didn’t understand at all. 

Ilya’s eyes stung. His chest felt too tight, like it might cave in.

“But I—”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Nikolai continued, his thumb brushing across Ilya’s cheekbone. The touch was so gentle it made Ilya’s breath hitch, made something inside him shatter. “Everyone. That’s part of hockey. That’s part of being human. The whole team played badly today. It wasn’t just you.”

“But I cost us the game- ”

“And even if it had been just you,” Nikolai interrupted, his voice fierce now, controlled but blazing. “Even if you’d made ten mistakes instead of one - I still wouldn’t punish you. That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.”

His hand stayed on Ilya’s face, warm and solid and impossibly gentle. Not restraining. Not demanding. Just… there.

“You’re not a burden,” Nikolai said, in a tone that Ilya would never dare to argue with. “You’re a kid. You’re eighteen years old, and you’re trying so hard to be perfect that you literally skated yourself sick today. That’s not lazy. That’s not weak.” His voice softened, cracked just slightly. “That’s… that’s heartbreaking, kid.”

Something gave way.

Ilya’s vision blurred. He blinked hard, but the tears came anyway, hot and uncontrollable, spilling down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, feeling as though something inside of him was breaking, splintering away into a thousand tiny pieces. “I’m sorry-”

“Don’t apologize.” Nikolai’s other hand came up, framing Ilya’s face, holding him steady when everything inside him was collapsing. “You have nothing to apologize for. Do you hear me? Nothing.”

And then Nikolai pulled him forward.

Not roughly. Not suddenly.

He wrapped his arms around Ilya, one hand settling at the back of his head, fingers firm and protective in his hair, the other around his shoulders, anchoring him in place.

Ilya froze.

His whole body went rigid, every nerve screaming danger, every instinct demanding distance. He didn’t know how to do this. Didn’t know how to accept comfort instead of punishment, gentleness instead of pain. His muscles locked, breath trapped in his chest.

But Nikolai didn’t let go.

He didn’t tighten his grip, either. He just held on - steady, patient, unyielding in his presence. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.

He felt small in Nikolai’s arms. Shockingly so. Nikolai was broader, stronger, solid in a way that made Ilya feel sheltered instead of trapped. Like he could disappear there, be held up without having to hold himself together for once.

It was the first real hug he’d had in six years.

Not the awkward half-shoulder pats from teammates. Not the brief, careful touches that vanished as quickly as they came. A real hug. One that didn’t hurt. One that didn’t come with conditions.

And slowly, so slowly, Ilya gave in.

His forehead came to rest against Nikolai’s shoulder, his body sagging as exhaustion finally won. He let himself lean in. Let himself be held.

And then the tears came harder.

Great, shaking sobs tore out of him, raw and uncontrollable, ripping through his chest as everything he’d been holding in for so long finally spilled free. Fear. Loneliness. Shame. Grief. The constant, grinding effort of surviving.

Nikolai just held him.

He murmured soft reassurances in Russian - words Ilya barely registered, tone more important than meaning.

“It’s okay, you’re safe,” Nikolai promised him, uttering the words as though they were the easiest vow in the world to make. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

No one had ever said that and meant it.

Ilya cried until there was nothing left, until his body was empty and trembling and utterly spent, Nikolai’s arms around him being the only thing keeping him upright. The sobs faded to broken hiccups, then finally to silence.

Nikolai eased him back carefully, his hands still warm and steady on Ilya’s shoulders.

“Lie down,” he murmured softly, his voice achingly gentle. “You need to rest.”

Ilya obeyed without resistance, sinking back into the bed. The mattress dipped beneath him, the room narrowing to the dim glow of the lamp and the steady presence beside him. Nikolai pulled the blanket up, tucking it around Ilya’s shoulders with careful precision, as if he were afraid of breaking something fragile.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Nikolai told him, his voice coming from somewhere close. Unlike the way that phrase had always sounded with his father, Nikolai’s words didn’t sound like a threat. They sounded…comforting. Like a promise. “But right now, you need to rest.”

Ilya felt fingers brush through his hair - gentle, careful, nothing like his father’s rough handling. The touch lingered this time, slow and rhythmic, each pass tracing the curve of his scalp, untangling more than just the knots in his hair. It was soothing in a way he had never known. Every stroke seemed to push the panic out of his chest, smoothing the tight coil of fear and tension that had been wound in him for years.

His scalp tingled with warmth. The movement was deliberate, unhurried, patient, and it made him feel… safe. Like he was a small child in the arms of someone who would never let anything hurt him. Every stroke reminded him he didn’t have to protect himself. That he could let go. That he could be small. That he could be held.

“Sleep now, malchik,” Nikolai whispered gently, the same tone he lulled Nata off to sleep with.

The word rolled over him, soft and grounding. His mother’s voice echoed behind it in his memory - soft, warm, alive - calling him that as she tucked him in, kissed his forehead, told him she loved him. No one had said it since she died. 

Fresh tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, but he had no energy left to fight them. Each stroke of Nikolai’s hand over his scalp, the slow, even rhythm, made his muscles loosen, made his chest unclench. It was hypnotic. His head rested heavier against the pillow, his body melting into the mattress. The world narrowed to that hand, the warmth of it, the quiet certainty of its presence.

Nikolai stayed.

He continued to run his fingers through Ilya’s hair, untangling stray curls, smoothing them down, letting his touch linger just long enough for Ilya to feel rooted, safe, and unhurried. The steady movement anchored him more fully than he had realized he needed. With every gentle stroke, he felt the sharp edges of fear and exhaustion dull, like ice melting under warm water.

Finally, his body loosened completely. The tightness in his chest dissipated, replaced by a soft, sleepy weight. His breathing slowed, deepened, evening out.

And for the first time in his life, Ilya fell asleep after a bad game without fear of what morning would bring.

Chapter End Notes

thank you all so much for the amazing comments you left last chapter! I loved reading them all!

Chapter 5: chapter five

Chapter Notes

Nikolai had seen a lot of draft picks over the years. Seen cocky kids who thought they'd already made it. Seen nervous kids who could barely string two words together. Seen kids with their whole families there, cheering and crying and celebrating.

But he'd never seen anything quite like Ilya Rozanov.

The kid was good - no, better than good. Incredible, actually. Nikolai had watched hours of tape, and had flown to Moscow once to see him play in person. The speed, the hands, the hockey sense - it was all there. A natural number one pick, just like Fletcher had said.

But watching Ilya walk onto that stage, seeing the barely contained joy on his face as he held up the Bears jersey, Nikolai had felt something close to pride. This kid was going to be special.

And then he'd met the father.

Nikolai had been standing with Fletcher, watching Ilya pose for photos, when the Rozanovs approached. The father was tall, stern-faced, and when Fletcher introduced himself, the man's expression never changed. No pride. No joy. Nothing.

"We're not passing on a kid this strong with those hands," Fletcher had said enthusiastically. "Not in Boston, Mr. Rozanov. He's a very natural number one pick."

Nikolai had watched Ilya's face light up at the compliment, watched him look to his father for... what? Approval? Recognition? Any sign that his father was proud of him?

He got nothing.

"He is strong, but he needs discipline," Ilya's father corrected Fletcher, and Nikolai felt his jaw tighten. "He can be, how you say, lazy."

The word hung in the air like a slap. Nikolai watched Ilya's face crumple, watched him shrink into himself, watched eighteen years of conditioning kick in as the kid made himself smaller, quieter, less.

Fletcher had blinked in surprise, clearly waiting for the joke that never came.

Nikolai's hands had clenched into fists at his sides.

"I promise to work very hard for you," Ilya told Fletcher, the desperation in his voice making something in Nikolai's chest twist.

This should have been the best day of this kid's life. Instead, his own father was humiliating him in front of the fucking general manager.

"I find that hard to believe, the way he plays!" Fletcher had tried to laugh it off, but the damage was done.

And then it got worse once Nikolai made his presence known. 

"I was just telling Mr. Fletcher here that Ilya needs discipline," the elder Rozanov told Nikolai, as though expecting Nikolai would obviously agree with him. Like Fletcher was just some confused American who didn’t know the way of the world, but that Nikolai would understand. "He is lazy, stubborn. How you say... insolent. But I'm sure you'll help motivate him, da?"

Nikolai knew what "motivation" meant to men like Rozanov. He'd grown up in Russia. He'd seen it. Hell, he'd experienced a milder version of it himself.

The barely concealed violence in the man's voice. The way Ilya had gone completely still, barely breathing. The fear in his eyes.

“We’ll just have to see how he does,” Nikolai replied tightly, the diplomatic response far from what he actually wanted to say. Fletcher saw the look on his face, and after knowing Nikolai for over 10 years, could clearly tell he was about to lose it. He pulled him away before Nikolai could say something he'd regret. 

As they walked away, he'd looked back at Ilya, seen the kid staring at the floor, and thought: Someone needs to protect this kid.

He'd had no idea then just how much protecting Ilya would need.

“So Fletcher wants us to billet Rozanov?" Sophie asked, setting her wine glass down on the kitchen counter.

It was two weeks after the draft. Nikolai looked up from the scouting report he'd been reviewing. The girls were already in bed, and the house was quiet except for the soft hum of the dishwasher.

"I mean, asked? No. Heavily implied? Yes," Nikolai replied, shaking his head a little. Fletcher was annoyingly vague when he wanted to be. Typical American, he just couldn’t come out and say whatever he actually meant. 

"What do you think?" Sophie wondered, coming to sit next to him at the kitchen table. "We've never billeted before. And with the girls - is it fair to them to bring in a teenage boy? A stranger?"

Nikolai scribbled a note onto the report, squeezing the words into the empty space in the margin. “He’s an incredible player. Best I’ve seen out of Russia in a while.”

"I know who he is," Sophie reminded him, huffing a bit in annoyance before taking another sip of wine. "That doesn't answer my question."

Nikolai set the report aside, giving her his full attention. He was quiet for a moment, trying to put his feelings into words. He thought about the draft, about Ilya's father, about the fear in that kid's eyes.

"I met him at the draft," Nikolai told her, rolling the pen back and forth between his fingers, fidgeting with it a bit. "Him and his father."

"And?"

"The father is a piece of shit," Nikolai answered bluntly, unable to keep his opinion of Grigori Rozanov to himself any longer. "He stood there and told me - told Fletcher - that his own son is lazy and undisciplined. At the kid's draft. At what should have been the best day of his life."

Sophie's expression softened with understanding. "Oh, Nik."

"This kid needs help, Sophie. He needs-" Nikolai ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with his inability to articulate what he felt. "I can't explain it, but I just feel like it's something I have to do."

Sophie reached across the table and took his hand. "You want to do this."

It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Nikolai admitted, swallowing tightly. He wasn’t sure why, but there was just something about this kid. Something he couldn’t turn away. "I do. I know it's a lot to ask, and I know it's going to change things for us, for the girls-"

"The girls will be fine," Sophie interrupted gently. "They're adaptable.”

"You're sure?" Nikolai asked. "It's a lot to ask—"

"I'm sure," Sophie promised. "If you feel that strongly about it, then we'll make it work. And honestly? I trust your instincts about people. If you think this kid needs us, then he probably does."

"He does," Nikolai confirmed, thinking back to the draft. He'd seen it in his face. The way the kid looked at his father, waiting for something - anything - that never came.

Sophie was quiet for a long moment, studying his face. Then she squeezed his hand and smiled. "Okay. Let's do it."

Nikolai pulled her close and kissed her forehead. "Thank you."

Nikolai stood at the boards with O’Reilly, clipboard in hand, watching the rookies run through drills. Ilya was fast - faster than the tape had shown, actually - and his hands were even better in person.

But it was the way he played that caught Nikolai's attention.

There was a desperation to it. Every drill, every sprint, every puck touch - Ilya played like his life depended on it. Like one mistake would end everything.

"Kid's got hustle," O’Reilly commented.

Hustle. That was one word for it.

Nikolai watched Ilya miss a pass, watched the way his whole body tensed, watched him glance toward the coaches with something that looked like fear.

O'Reilly just called out, "Shake it off, Rozanov! Next one!"

And Ilya had looked... surprised. Relieved. Like he'd expected something else entirely.

Nikolai knew right then and there that he and Sophie had made the right choice. This kid needed stability. Needed to learn that mistakes weren't punishable offenses.

Needed someone to show him that hockey could be something other than survival.

Nikolai was already in bed, reading through scouting reports on his tablet, when Sophie came upstairs. She'd been putting the girls to bed, and from the look on her face, something had happened.

"What's wrong?" he asked, setting the tablet aside.

Sophie closed the door behind her and stood there for a moment, her arms wrapped around herself. When she looked at him, her eyes were red.

"Sophie?" Nikolai asked, concern sharpening his voice. He pulled back the covers. "Come here."

She climbed into bed next to him, and Nikolai wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She was trembling slightly.

"What happened?" he questioned softly.

"Ilya's mother," Sophie said, her voice muffled against his chest. "I asked him today if his parents were coming to any games."

Nikolai's chest tightened. He didn’t know much about Ilya’s mother, but based on the fact that the kid had never once mentioned her, Nikolai had come to his own conclusions. 

Sophie pulled back enough to look at him, tears streaming down her face. "She killed herself," she whispered. “And Ilya—" Her voice broke. "Nik, he found her."

The words hit him like a physical blow. "Jesus Christ," Nikolai breathed. 

"He was twelve," Sophie said, the words coming faster now, like she needed to get them all out. "Twelve years old, and he came home from practice and found his mother dead. He told me– God, Nik, he just said it so plainly. 'Suicide.' Like it was just a fact. Like he'd said it so many times in his head that it didn't even hurt anymore."

Nikolai felt sick. He thought about Kira, about his bright, sharp, sometimes difficult twelve-year-old daughter. He thought about her coming home from school to find Sophie—

He couldn't. He couldn't even let his mind go there. The very idea made his chest constrict, made it hard to breathe.

Sophie pressed her face against his chest again, and Nikolai could feel her tears soaking through his t-shirt. He held her tighter, one hand stroking her hair, trying to process what she'd told him.

A twelve-year-old boy. Finding his mother's body.

The kind of trauma that could break an adult, let alone a child.

"He's been carrying it for six years," Sophie said. "Six years, Nik. No support, just his father telling him it was weakness, telling him to be strong.”

Nikolai closed his eyes, grief and rage warring in his chest. He thought about the kind of pain Ilya's mother must have been in. The kind of darkness that made death seem like the only escape. He'd known people who'd struggled with depression, had lost a teammate to suicide back in his playing days.

It wasn't weakness. It was illness. It was pain so overwhelming that it drowned out everything else - love for your child, hope for the future, the ability to see any other way forward.

And Ilya's father had called it weakness.

Had made a grieving twelve-year-old boy feel ashamed of his mother's suffering.

They lay there in silence for a while, holding each other in the dark. Nikolai stared at the ceiling, his mind churning.

"I could never do that to Kira," he whispered finally, his voice rough. "Leave her like that. The thought of her finding me-" He couldn't finish the sentence. The very idea of his daughter experiencing what Ilya had experienced made him feel physically ill.

"I know," Sophie replied softly. "But we're not in that kind of pain. We can't– we can't judge her for it."

"I'm not judging her," Nikolai corrected. "I'm just– I can't imagine how much she must have been hurting. And that fucking bastard husband of hers probably made it worse. Probably never even noticed she was struggling."

Nikolai pulled Sophie closer, pressing his face into her hair. He thought about Ilya - about the way the kid flinched at sudden movements, the way he apologized for everything, the way he worked himself to exhaustion trying to be perfect.

He thought about a twelve-year-old finding his mother dead and then being told he couldn't grieve. Couldn't cry. Couldn't talk about it.

Six years of carrying that alone.

"He was just a baby," Sophie whispered, her voice breaking again. "He's still just a baby really and he's been through so much."

"I know," Nikolai repeated, holding her while she cried. "I know."

But lying there in the dark, holding his wife, Nikolai couldn't stop thinking about a twelve-year-old boy finding his mother's body. About that same boy, six years later, still so desperate for approval.

About how badly Nikolai wanted to fly to Moscow and make Ilya's father understand what he'd done. What he was still doing.

About how much he wanted to protect Ilya from ever feeling that kind of pain again.

But that was for later. For now, they just needed to show him he was safe. That he didn't have to carry everything alone anymore.

The thing about Ilya, Nikolai had realized over the weeks, was that he was full of contradictions.

On the ice, he was cocky. Chirping veterans twice his age, making ridiculous plays, grinning when he scored. He played with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, and his teammates loved him for it.

But at home, he was quiet. Careful. Always watching to see what was expected of him, always trying to anticipate what people needed.

He'd do the dishes without being asked. He'd help Nell with her homework. He'd let Nattie climb all over him while he watched TV, never complaining even when she accidentally elbowed him in the ribs.

Nikolai had watched him one evening, sitting on the floor with Nattie while she explained some elaborate game she'd invented involving her stuffed animals. Ilya had been patient, asking questions, following her nonsensical rules without complaint.

And the way Ilya had looked at Nattie - with such gentleness, such care - had made something in Nikolai's chest ache.

This kid, who'd been hit for making mistakes, who'd been called lazy and worthless, who'd found his mother dead at twelve years old - he was so careful with the girls. So gentle. Like he understood how precious they were, how fragile childhood could be.

"He's good with them," Sophie had said softly, coming to stand next to Nikolai in the doorway.

"Yeah," Nikolai had agreed. "He is."

Despite the cocky exterior, despite the trash talk and the confidence on the ice, Ilya was still just a kid. A kid who desperately wanted an adult to be proud of him. Who wanted to belong somewhere. Who wanted to matter to someone.

And Nikolai had realized, watching Ilya carefully braid Nattie's hair the way Sophie had taught him, that he'd do anything to protect this kid.

Anything.

Nikolai woke up early, like he always did. Sophie was still asleep next to him, her breathing soft and even, but Nikolai had barely slept. Every time he'd closed his eyes, he'd seen Ilya's face—the terror in those blue eyes when he'd flinched, the way he'd trembled while explaining about the belt. The resigned acceptance in his voice when he'd said his father would have hit him in the car, then again at home. Like it was just a fact of life, like pain after mistakes was as inevitable as sunrise.

He checked his phone. 6:47 AM. Ilya would probably sleep late after yesterday's exhaustion, both physical and emotional. The kid needed rest. God knew he needed it.

Nikolai kept thinking about those bag skates. Over an hour. After a full game. Ilya had pushed himself until his body gave out, until he vomited from exhaustion, and he'd done it because he thought it would make things easier when he got home. Easier than facing Nikolai.

The thought made Nikolai feel sick all over again.

He got up quietly, careful not to wake Sophie, and padded downstairs. The house was still, peaceful in the early morning light filtering through the kitchen windows. He made coffee, then stood at the window watching the sky lighten from deep blue to pale gray, thinking about what he needed to say to Ilya today.

They needed to talk. Really talk. About what had happened, about what Ilya's father had done, about what life in this house actually meant. Nikolai needed to make sure Ilya understood—really understood, deep in his bones—that last night wasn't an anomaly. That he was safe here. Always.

But how did you convince someone of that when they'd spent years learning the opposite? When every instinct they had was screaming that pain was inevitable, that mistakes meant punishment, that trust led to betrayal?

Nikolai didn't have all the answers. He just knew he had to try.

What Ilya had been through, what he was still going through - this was beyond Nikolai's ability to fix alone. He could provide safety, stability, love. But helping the kid process the abuse, unlearn the lessons his father had beaten into him, that would take a while lot longer.

The thought of calling it abuse still made Nikolai's chest tight with anger. But that's what it was. There was no other word for it. Making a child skate until they collapsed, hitting them with a belt for making mistakes - that wasn't discipline. That wasn't tough love. That was abuse, pure and simple.

And Ilya didn't even fully recognize it as such. He'd defended his father, said he was just trying to make him better. That's how deep the conditioning went - Ilya had been taught that he deserved the pain, that it was his fault for not being good enough.

Nikolai thought about his own father. Thought about the handful of spankings he'd gotten as a young child, and how different that had been from what Ilya described. His father had been stern, demanding, sometimes harsh with his expectations. But he'd never been cruel. Never violent. And by the time Nikolai was a teenager, any physical discipline had been long gone, replaced by conversations and consequences that didn't involve pain.

His relationship with his father now was good. They talked regularly, disagreed sometimes about Nikolai's choices - his father had never fully understood why Nikolai wanted to move to America permanently, why he'd left Russia behind. But there was respect there. Affection. His father had come to visit last summer, had spent two weeks playing with his granddaughters and telling stories about Nikolai's childhood that made the girls laugh.

That's what a father should be. Someone who challenged you, yes, but also supported you. Someone who was proud of you not just for your achievements, but for who you were as a person.

Ilya had never had that. His father had only ever seen him as a reflection of his own ego, something to be molded and controlled and punished when it didn't meet expectations.

After he’d had his first cup of coffee, Nikolai slowly started to get the ingredients out to make blinis.

It was something his mother used to make on Sunday mornings, and Nikolai had learned the recipe years ago when he was a teenager, still living at home in Moscow. His mother would stand at the stove, talking to him about school or hockey or nothing in particular while her hands moved through the familiar motions. He'd learned by watching, by helping, by absorbing the simple domesticity of it.

He hadn't made them in a while - the girls preferred pancakes. But his hands remembered the motions. Mixing the batter just right, heating the pan to the perfect temperature, that first sizzle when the batter hit the butter.

They’d be something familiar for the kid. Something that might feel like home, or at least like comfort. Something that said care without words.

Around eight, Sophie came down, already dressed for her morning plans with friends. Nikolai noticed, absently, that she’d chosen the sweater he liked best—the soft one that slipped off one shoulder if she wasn’t careful. She always looked put together in an effortless way that still caught him off guard sometimes, even after all these years.

“How are you?” she asked, coming over to kiss his cheek.

Her lips were warm, familiar. The kind of affection that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t demand a response – just existed. Once, that sort of touch had made him uneasy, like something he hadn’t earned. Now it settled into him like a second heartbeat.

“Didn’t sleep much,” Nikolai admitted, pausing from whisking the batter to pass Sophie the mug of coffee he’d made for her, just the way she liked it. Cream first, then sugar—two spoonfuls, never three. He hadn’t memorized it on purpose. He’d just paid attention.

“Neither did I.” She took a sip, sighing softly, and Nikolai watched her move through their kitchen – this space they’d built together, this life they’d somehow made real. The quiet mornings. The shared routines. The way Sophie belonged here as naturally as the sunlight stretching across the counters.

He thought about Ilya upstairs, sleeping in a room that was supposed to be his, in a house that was supposed to be his home. Did the kid even believe that yet? Or was he still waiting for it to be taken away?

His grip tightened slightly on the whisk. He knew that feeling too well—the waiting, the certainty that good things never lasted.

A hand landed on his shoulder, steady and warm, and Sophie leaned in to peek around him at the bowl on the counter. The touch grounded him instantly, like she’d reached into his chest and smoothed something frayed without even thinking about it.

“Blinis?” she asked, brows lifting.

He shrugged a bit sheepishly, glancing down at her. Standing this close, he could smell her perfume – something clean and soft, something that had long since come to mean home.

“Thought the kid could use something from home,” he said.

There was a vulnerability in admitting it out loud that made his chest feel tight. He wasn’t good at these things – comfort, reassurance. He just tried to show up where he could.

Sophie’s smile softened immediately. Not surprised. Not amused. Just quietly proud.

She reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and pulled him down into a kiss. It wasn’t rushed or playful. It lingered – her lips warm and sure against his, familiar in a way that still stole the breath from his lungs sometimes. He kissed her back just as slowly, like he was afraid of breaking the moment if he moved too fast.

When she pulled back, she didn’t step away. Instead, her hand lifted to his hair, fingers sliding gently through it, smoothing it back from his forehead. The gesture was unguarded, intimate in its simplicity, and it made something in his chest ache – softly, dangerously.

Her blue eyes held his then. Pale and striking, clear in a way that felt almost unfair. They weren’t looking at the man the world saw – the scarily intense Russian, the one people kept their distance from. They never had. They saw him.

“You’re a good man, Nikolai Petrov,” she said quietly.

Something in his chest gave at that. A small, dangerous crack.

Good. She said it like a fact. Like she wasn’t trying to convince him. She meant all of him – the rough edges, the mistakes, the anger he still carried. She saw it all and still chose that word.

His throat tightened. For a moment, he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at her.

He rolled his eyes fondly instead, a flimsy shield, and huffed out a breath. “Don’t tell anyone,” he muttered.

Sophie laughed under her breath and stepped back to grab her keys, but Nikolai stayed where he was for a beat longer, staring down at the counter. The truth was, he guarded that reputation carefully. The intimidating one. The man people didn’t mess with. It was armor. It kept expectations low and distance high.

This version of him – the softer one, the one standing in a quiet kitchen making blinis for a kid who might not trust him yet – was only for her. For their girls. And maybe, if he was brave enough, for Ilya too.

“Oh, of course not,” Sophie replied cheekily. “Wouldn’t want to ruin that reputation of yours.”

He snorted softly. Anyone who had seen him with his girls – had seen the way he softened around them, the way his whole world narrowed to keeping them safe and smiling – already knew the truth. The rest could keep their assumptions.

“You’re going to talk to him today?” she asked as she pulled on her coat.

“When he wakes up. Yeah.”

The words carried more weight than they sounded like they should. Talking meant opening something. Risking rejection. Risking hope.

"Good." She squeezed his shoulder, and the touch was comforting, grounding. "I'll be back this afternoon. Call me if you need me."

He nodded, finally meeting her eyes again, and there was something unspoken there - trust, maybe. Faith.

“I will.”

After Sophie left and the girls were settled with their various activities - Kira at a friend's house, Nell at soccer practice, Nattie with a playdate - Nikolai found himself alone in the quiet house, waiting for Ilya to wake up.

The silence felt heavy. Loaded with everything that had happened last night, everything that still needed to be said.

He was stacking the last few blinis on a plate when he heard movement upstairs. Footsteps, slow and hesitant at first. Then faster, more urgent, and Nikolai's stomach tightened because he knew that sound - panic.

Ilya appeared in the kitchen doorway looking panicked, his hair sticking up in every direction, still in the clothes he'd slept in. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion - dark circles that spoke to how little he'd actually slept despite going to bed early. But more than that, he looked scared. That bone-deep fear that Nikolai was starting to recognize, starting to hate.

"What time is practice?" Ilya asked, his voice rough with sleep and rising panic. "I need to- I missed morning skate, I need to call O'Reilly-"

The kid thought he was in trouble. Of course he did. He'd overslept, missed his alarm or hadn't set one, and now he was panicking because missing practice meant consequences. Meant punishment.

"Breathe," Nikolai said calmly, setting down the spatula. "There's no practice."

He watched the panic growing on Ilya's face, watched his hands start to shake. The kid wasn't hearing him, wasn't processing. His mind was already spiraling, already cataloging all the ways he'd fucked up, already bracing for the fallout.

"I called O'Reilly this morning," Nikolai said firmly, cutting through Ilya's spiraling thoughts. "Told him you were sick. You're not going anywhere today."

The relief that flooded Ilya's face was immediate, but it was quickly followed by confusion. Like he couldn't quite believe that Nikolai had covered for him, had lied to the coach to protect him from consequences.

And that confusion, that disbelief – that told Nikolai everything he needed to know about how Ilya's father would have handled this situation.

"Sit," Nikolai said, gesturing to the table, trying to make it sound like an invitation rather than a command. "I made breakfast."

Ilya sat, moving slowly like his body still ached from yesterday. Which it probably did. An hour of bag skates after a full game – the kid's legs had to be screaming. His whole body would be sore, muscles pushed past their limits and now protesting.

Nikolai set a plate of blinis in front of him, along with jam and sour cream, then poured him tea and sat down across from him. He watched Ilya's face as the kid looked at the food, saw something complicated flicker across his expression.

Ilya stared at the blinis like they might disappear if he looked away. Like this was some kind of trick, or dream, or temporary kindness that would evaporate if he acknowledged it too directly.

"You made these?" he asked, his voice quiet, careful.

"My mother's recipe," Nikolai said. "I thought you might need something familiar today."

He saw the way Ilya's eyes filled with tears, saw him blink them back quickly. The kid was overwhelmed – by the gesture, by the care, by the simple fact that someone had thought about what he might need and acted on it.

Such a small thing. Breakfast. But Nikolai was starting to understand that Ilya had been starved of small kindnesses for a long time. That every gesture, every moment of consideration, hit him like something monumental.

"Thank you," Ilya said, and his voice was thick with emotion.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Ilya picked at his food, eating slowly, and Nikolai could see how exhausted he still was. Dark circles under his eyes, moving carefully like everything hurt. His hands trembled slightly when he lifted his tea cup.

Nikolai thought about last night – about holding Ilya while he cried, about the way the kid had finally let himself fall apart. About tucking him into bed and calling him malchik, and the way fresh tears had leaked from Ilya's closed eyes at the word.

Six years. Six years since anyone had called him that. Six years since anyone had held him while he cried, had soothed him to sleep, had treated him like he was precious rather than a burden.

"How are you feeling?" Nikolai asked, keeping his voice gentle.

"Sore," Ilya admitted. "My legs..."

"That'll last a few days," Nikolai said. "You pushed yourself too hard."

He saw Ilya's shoulders hunch slightly, that automatic defensive posture that Nikolai was coming to recognize. The kid was already bracing for criticism, for being told he was stupid for hurting himself, for being weak.

Nikolai realized he needed to address this head-on. Couldn't dance around it, couldn't pretend yesterday hadn't happened. They needed to talk about it, needed to name it for what it was.

"We need to talk," Nikolai said gently. "About yesterday."

Ilya went very still, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Every muscle in his body tensed, and Nikolai could see the fear creeping back into his eyes. "Okay."

God, he looked so young sitting there. Eighteen years old but looking about twelve, small and scared and braced for impact.

"What your father did to you – making you skate until you collapsed, hitting you with a belt – that's not discipline, Ilya. That's abuse."

The word hung in the air between them, heavy and damning. Nikolai watched Ilya process it, saw the immediate denial forming.

Ilya set down his fork, staring at his plate. "He was just trying to make me better. To make me work harder."

There it was. The defensive justification, the need to make it make sense. Because if it wasn't justified, if his father had just been cruel for cruelty's sake, then Ilya had suffered for nothing. Had been hurt and broken for no reason at all.

And maybe that was too painful to accept.

"No," Nikolai corrected firmly. "He was hurting you. There's a difference."

"But I needed discipline," Ilya argued, and there was something desperate in his voice, like he needed this to make sense, needed there to be a reason for what he'd endured. "I was lazy, undisciplined–"

"You were a child," Nikolai interrupted, and he could hear his own voice getting harder, more intense. He gentled it, tried again. "You were a kid trying to do his best, and your father punished you for being human. For making mistakes. That's not how you make someone better. That's how you break them."

He watched Ilya absorb that, saw him turning it over in his mind. The kid wanted to argue, wanted to defend his father, but he couldn't quite find the words.

Nikolai waited, giving him time. This wasn't something that could be rushed. Ilya had spent years being conditioned to believe that the abuse was normal, was deserved, was for his own good. Undoing that would take time. Patience. Repeated gentle challenges to those beliefs.

Ilya was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then, quietly: "So your father never hit you?"

The question caught Nikolai off guard. He thought about his own father - stern, demanding at times, but never cruel. Never violent in the way Ilya's father had been.

"He spanked me when I was younger," Nikolai admitted, because he wouldn't lie to Ilya, wouldn't pretend his own childhood had been perfect. "When I was maybe five or six. If I did something really dangerous or really disobedient. But that was different."

"How?" Ilya looked up, and there was genuine confusion in his eyes. Like he couldn't see the distinction, couldn't understand how one kind of hitting was different from another.

And maybe to him, it wasn't different. Maybe when you'd been hit with a belt for making mistakes, all hitting felt the same.

"It was actual discipline," Nikolai explained carefully, trying to find the words that would make sense to Ilya. "Not punishment for mistakes or bad performance. It was if I ran into the street without looking, or if I hit my sister, things like that. Things that were genuinely dangerous or harmful. And it stopped when I was young. By the time I was your age, even close to your age, that wasn't–"

He paused, thinking about how to explain this. About the difference between a swat on the bottom for a five-year-old running into traffic and what Ilya had described – systematic, prolonged beatings with a belt for making errors in a hockey game.

"And honestly, even then, even what my father did - it's not okay now," Nikolai continued. "We know better now. There are better ways to teach children, better ways to keep them safe without using physical punishment."

He thought about his own daughters. He'd never spanked any of them, not once. When Nell had run into the street when she was four, Nikolai had grabbed her and held her and explained in terrified, urgent words why she couldn't do that. When Kira had hit Nell in a moment of anger, he'd separated them and talked to Kira about using her words, about managing her feelings.

Never once had he raised his hand to them. The thought of hitting them made him feel physically ill.

"But he didn't use a belt," Ilya said quietly, and his voice was so small, so lost. "After bad games. After I messed up."

"No," Nikolai said, and he had to work to keep his voice steady, to not let the rage seep through. "Never. And if I had a bad game – and I had plenty of them – he'd talk to me about what went wrong. Help me figure out what to work on. But he never made me skate until I vomited. He never hit me for making mistakes."

The contrast was stark, laid out like that. And Nikolai could see Ilya processing it, could see him trying to reconcile what he'd experienced with what Nikolai was describing as normal.

Ilya was quiet again, his hands wrapped around his tea mug like he was trying to absorb its warmth. His knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping it.

"I don't know how to not do that," he confessed finally, his voice small and defeated. 

And there it was. The core of it. Ilya had been so thoroughly conditioned to expect pain after mistakes that he'd learned to inflict it on himself. To take control of the inevitable punishment by administering it himself.

It was heartbreaking. And it was so deeply fucked up that Nikolai didn't even know where to begin addressing it.

Nikolai's chest tightened. "There isn't going to be any punishment. Not here. Not from me."

"You say that," Ilya said, and there was something raw in his voice, something desperate and pleading. "But how do I know? How do I know you won't change your mind?"

How did you prove a negative? How did you prove that something wouldn't happen when the person asking had spent years learning that it always did?

"Because I'm telling you," Nikolai replied evenly "Because I'm promising you. Because in six months, have I ever hit you? Ever raised a hand to you?"

"No," Ilya admitted, but his voice was uncertain, like he was waiting for the "but," for the caveat, for the conditions under which that might change.

"And I never will," Nikolai promised firmly. "Even yesterday, when I was angry - and I was angry, Ilya, but not at you, never at you - even then, did I hurt you?"

Ilya shook his head slowly.

"I was angry at the situation," Nikolai continued, trying to make this clear, trying to make Ilya understand the distinction. "Angry that you felt you had to hurt yourself. Angry at your father for teaching you that this was normal. But not angry at you. Not disappointed in you. Just worried about you."

"I thought you were," Ilya whispered, and the pain in his voice made Nikolai's chest ache. "When you yelled at the rink. I thought–"

"I know what you thought," Nikolai told him gently. The look of fear on the kid’s face when Nikolai had yelled would be burned into his mind forever, he was certain. "And I'm sorry I scared you. I should have been more careful with my words, with my tone. I was worried about you, and it came out as anger."

"You were worried about me?"

The disbelief in Ilya's voice was heartbreaking. Like the concept of someone worrying about his wellbeing - actually worrying, not just concerned about his performance or his stats or how he might embarrass them - was completely foreign to him.

Which it probably was.

"Of course I was worried about you," Nikolai answered immediately, and he heard his own voice getting rough with emotion. "You'd been skating for over an hour after a full game. You were going to hurt yourself. You were already hurting yourself."

Ilya blinked, and Nikolai could see him trying to process this. Trying to understand that worry could look like anger, that fear for someone's safety could come out harsh and sharp.

"My father never worried about me like that," Ilya told him quietly, and there was such loneliness in his voice that it made Nikolai want to fly to Moscow just so he could punch the man in the face. "He worried about me embarrassing him. About me not being good enough. But not about me actually getting hurt."

"I know," Nikolai replied, and his throat was tight. "And I'm sorry. You deserved better than that. You deserved a father who cared about you, not just about what you could do for him."

They sat in silence for a moment, Ilya staring at his half-eaten blinis. Nikolai could see his mind working, could see him trying to reconcile years of conditioning with what Nikolai was telling him now.

It would take time. This wasn't something that could be fixed in one conversation, no matter how much Nikolai wished it could be.

"I'm telling you this," Nikolai continued, switching to Russian, because he needs Ilya to truly understand each and every word he was saying. "Because I want you to understand that what your father did - that's not how parents should treat their children. That's not normal. And it's not your fault."

"It feels like my fault," Ilya said, and his voice was so small. "Like if I'd just been better, worked harder, made fewer mistakes—"

"No," Nikolai interrupted firmly, and he leaned forward, making sure Ilya was looking at him. "No. There is nothing you could have done differently. A good parent doesn't hit their child with a belt for having a bad game. A good parent doesn't make their child skate until they vomit. There is no version of this where you deserved that treatment."

Ilya's eyes were filling with tears again, and this time he didn't try to hide them. They spilled over, tracking down his cheeks, and Nikolai watched each one fall like it was cutting him open.

"I'm so tired," Ilya whispered, and the exhaustion in his voice was about so much more than physical tiredness. "I'm so tired of being scared all the time. Of waiting for you to decide I'm not worth the trouble."

Nikolai felt something crack open in his chest. He reached across the table and took Ilya's hand - the kid's fingers were cold, trembling - and Ilya let him, didn't pull away.

"You’re not trouble," Nikolai assured him, and he put every ounce of conviction he had into those words. "You are worth every bit of effort, every moment, everything. You're not a burden, Ilya.”

Ilya's face crumpled, and tilted his head to the side a bit, attempting to angle himself so that Nikolai couldn’t see the tears that had begun sliding down his face. Nikolai stood and came around the table, pulling Ilya up into a hug. This time, Ilya didn't freeze. He just collapsed into Nikolai's arms, crying into his shoulder like he'd been holding it in for years.

Maybe he had.

Nikolai held him through it, one hand rubbing slow circles on his back, the other cradling his head. He thought about the eighteen-year-old who'd arrived on his doorstep four months ago - guarded, terrified, desperately trying to be perfect. That kid was still there, still scared, still waiting for everything to fall apart.

But he was also starting to let himself be held. Starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was safe here.

He ended up putting on some action movie, having decided the kid needed a day of doing absolutely nothing. No playing hockey, no working out, no trying to brush up on his English. No, the kid needed a day to rest and watch crappy movies and lie on the couch all day. It was some plotless action movie, just explosions and car chases and simple good-versus-evil. Something where you could turn your brain off and just watch.

Ilya settled on one end of the couch, Nikolai on the other, a comfortable distance between them. Nikolai kept half an eye on the movie and half on Ilya, watching for signs that he was okay, that he wasn't spiraling back into anxiety or fear.

Halfway through the movie, Nikolai noticed Ilya listing sideways, his eyes drooping. The kid was fighting it, clearly trying to stay awake, his head bobbing slightly before he'd jerk it back up.

"It's okay to sleep," Nikolai assured softly, keeping his eyes on the TV so Ilya wouldn't feel self-conscious. "You need it."

Ilya didn’t respond, but a few minutes later, as if given permission, Ilya's eyes drifted closed. His head lolled to the side, and then - slowly, like he didn't quite realize what he was doing - he leaned over until his head came to rest on Nikolai's shoulder.

The weight was sudden, solid, trusting in a way that made Nikolai's breath catch.

He went very still, barely breathing, not wanting to disturb him. Not wanting to do anything that might make Ilya pull away, might make him remember that he was supposed to keep his distance, that he wasn't supposed to need comfort.

Within minutes, Ilya was fully asleep, his weight warm and solid against Nikolai's side. His breathing evened out, deepened, and Nikolai could feel the rise and fall of his chest, could feel how completely Ilya had relaxed into sleep.

This was trust. This was Ilya letting his guard down, allowing himself to be vulnerable in a way he probably hadn't in years.

Nikolai looked down at the kid sleeping against his shoulder - eighteen years old and still so young in so many ways. His face was relaxed in sleep, peaceful in a way it rarely was when he was awake. The worry lines between his eyebrows had smoothed out, and he looked - God, he looked like he was supposed to look. Like a kid who was safe and loved and didn't have to be afraid.

Carefully, so carefully, Nikolai shifted to make them both more comfortable. He grabbed a pillow from the other end of the couch and eased it under Ilya's head as he guided him to lie down properly, Ilya's head now in his lap. The kid didn't wake, just mumbled something in Russian that Nikolai didn't quite catch, and curled up slightly, his knees drawing toward his chest.

Nikolai pulled the throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over Ilya, tucking it around his shoulders the way he did with his daughters. Then, without really thinking about it, he started running his fingers through Ilya's hair, the same soothing motion from last night.

The dark blonde curls were soft under his fingers, still slightly messy from sleep. Nikolai combed through them gently, rhythmically, and felt Ilya relax even further into sleep at the touch.

He thought about his own daughters - about Kira and Nell and Nattie - and how freely they showed affection, how easily they climbed into his lap or leaned against him while watching TV. They'd never learned to be afraid of comfort, of closeness. They'd never had to.

But Ilya had. For six years, he'd learned that touch meant pain, that trust led to betrayal, that love was conditional. That if you made yourself vulnerable, if you let people in, they would use it against you.

And now here he was, asleep in Nikolai's lap, trusting enough to let his guard down, to be vulnerable. It was such a small thing - falling asleep during a movie - but for Ilya it was monumental. It was a leap of faith, a tentative belief that maybe he really was safe here.

Nikolai stayed there, one hand in Ilya's hair, the other resting lightly on his shoulder, and let the movie play on without really watching it. His mind was too full - of Ilya's tears this morning, of his own promises, of the long road ahead.

But also of this moment. This quiet, peaceful moment where Ilya was sleeping soundly, not plagued by nightmares, not tense with fear. Just sleeping, like any eighteen-year-old should be able to after a hard day.

Nikolai thought about last night - about the terror in Ilya's eyes when he'd flinched, about the way he'd explained what his father used to do with such quiet resignation. About holding him while he cried, about calling him malchik and seeing the way that simple word had broken something open in him.

And he thought about this morning - about making breakfast, about the careful conversation over blinis, about the way Ilya was slowly, tentatively starting to believe that maybe things could be different here.

It wasn't enough. Not yet. There was still so much work to do, so much healing that needed to happen. But it was progress. Real, tangible progress.

Sophie came home around two, and Nikolai heard her in the hallway, the familiar sound of her keys in the bowl by the door, her footsteps moving through the house. She appeared in the living room doorway, took in the scene - Ilya asleep with his head in Nikolai's lap, Nikolai's hand in his hair - and her whole face softened.

She didn't say anything, didn't disturb the peace. Just smiled at Nikolai, soft and warm and full of understanding, and blew him a kiss before disappearing back into the kitchen to start on an early dinner.

The girls came home one by one over the next hour. Nattie first, from her playdate, and Nikolai heard her before he saw her - her excited voice telling Sophie about something that had happened, her footsteps running through the hallway.

She bounded into the living room ready to tell Nikolai all about it, but she stopped short when she saw Ilya sleeping.

"Is Ilya sick?" she whispered, her voice dropping to that exaggerated whisper that five-year-olds did, still too loud but well-intentioned.

"Just tired," Nikolai whispered back. "He needs rest."

Nattie nodded seriously, her expression solemn. Then she tiptoed over - still too loud, her feet thudding on the hardwood - and very carefully placed her stuffed rabbit next to Ilya on the couch, tucking it in beside him like it might help him feel better.

Nikolai's heart melted. His youngest daughter, so empathetic, so caring, already treating Ilya like he was part of the family. Like of course you gave your favorite stuffed animal to someone who wasn't feeling well. Like that's what you did.

"Thank you, Nata," Nikolai whispered. "That's very kind."

She beamed at him, then tiptoed back out of the room with elaborate care, clearly trying so hard to be quiet.

Nell came home next, and she had none of Nattie's restraint. She burst into the living room, took one look at Ilya asleep on the couch, and immediately started asking questions in a voice that was way too loud.

"Why is Ilya sleeping? Is he okay? Did something happen? Is he—"

Sophie appeared behind her and put a hand over her mouth, gently steering her toward the kitchen. "Shh. He's resting. Come help me with dinner."

Nell's muffled protests faded as Sophie guided her away, and Nikolai smiled despite himself. His middle daughter, always full of energy, always curious, always too loud.

Kira was last, coming home from her friend's house around three-thirty. She poked her head into the living room, took in the scene with one raised eyebrow - Ilya asleep in Nikolai's lap, the stuffed rabbit tucked beside him, the movie playing on mute now - and just shook her head slightly before heading upstairs to her room.

His oldest daughter, already too cool for this kind of sentiment, but Nikolai had seen the small smile on her face before she turned away.

Ilya slept through it all. Through Nattie's whispered conversation and careful rabbit placement. Through Nell's loud questions and Sophie's shushing. Through Kira's amused assessment. He just slept, deep and peaceful and undisturbed.

It wasn't until almost four o'clock that he finally stirred. Nikolai felt it first - the change in his breathing, the slight tension returning to his muscles as consciousness started to creep back in.

Ilya's eyes blinked open slowly, confused for a moment about where he was. His head was still in Nikolai's lap, and Nikolai could see the exact moment when he realized, when awareness flooded back and-

"Hey," Nikolai greeted softly, before panic could set in. "You fell asleep."

Ilya sat up quickly, and Nikolai saw the flash of panic cross his face anyway - like he'd done something wrong, like he shouldn't have allowed himself to be that vulnerable, that comfortable.

"It's okay," Nikolai assured quickly, keeping his voice gentle. "You needed the rest."

"How long was I asleep?" Ilya's voice was rough, thick with sleep.

"Couple hours," Nikolai informed him. "The movie ended a while ago."

Ilya rubbed his face, and Nikolai could see he was still exhausted, still moving carefully like everything hurt. The sleep had helped, but he needed more, Nikolai could tell. 

"Nattie left her rabbit for you," Nikolai said, gesturing to the stuffed animal still tucked against Ilya's side. "She thought it might help you feel better."

Ilya looked at the rabbit, and something soft crossed his face - surprise, affection, something that looked almost like wonder. "She did?"

"She was worried about you," Nikolai said. "They all were."

And that was true. Over dinner last night, after Nikolai had gotten Ilya settled upstairs, Kira had asked quietly if Ilya was okay. Nell had wanted to know if she could bring him some of the cookies Sophie had baked to make him feel better. And Nattie had insisted on drawing him a picture, which was currently stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

"I'm okay," Ilya replied automatically, and Nikolai heard the script in it - the automatic response that was supposed to deflect concern, supposed to make him less of a burden.

"You will be," Nikolai corrected gently. "But it's okay if you're not right now."

They sat there for another moment, the afternoon light slanting through the windows, turning everything golden. The sounds of Sophie and the girls in the kitchen preparing dinner filtered through - Nell's voice asking questions, Nattie's laughter, the clatter of dishes and the warmth of people who loved each other moving through a shared space.

And Nikolai thought about last night - about Ilya's terror, about the flinch, about the heartbreaking explanation of what his father had done. Thought about how scared the kid had been, how convinced that pain was coming.

But today was different. Today, Ilya had cried and been comforted. Had eaten breakfast made just for him. Had fallen asleep feeling safe enough to let his guard down, to trust that he wouldn't be hurt while he was vulnerable.

It wasn't everything. There was still so much healing that needed to happen, so much work ahead. Ilya would probably have setbacks, moments where the old fears came rushing back, times when he forgot that he was safe here.

But it was a start.

And tomorrow, they'd do it again. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Until Ilya finally, truly believed that he was safe here.

The change in Ilya over the following weeks was subtle at first, so gradual that Nikolai almost didn't notice it happening. But looking back, he could pinpoint when things started to shift - after that morning with the blinis, after Ilya had finally let himself fall apart and realized the world wouldn't end.

After he'd learned that family meant being caught when you fell, not punished.

It started small. Ilya still did the dishes without being asked, still helped with homework, still braided Nattie's hair with that careful patience. But now, sometimes, he'd catch Nikolai's eye while doing it and there'd be something there - not fear of doing it wrong, but a quiet confidence. A sense of belonging.

"You're going to spoil them," Nikolai told him one evening, watching Ilya help Nell with her math homework for the third night in a row.

Ilya had looked up, and instead of the anxious apology that Nikolai was expecting, he'd gotten a small smile and: "You’ve already spoiled them. I'm just making it worse."

The cheek of it had made Nikolai laugh, startled and pleased.

Then there was the morning Nikolai had come downstairs to find Ilya had made coffee - not just for himself, but a full pot, knowing Nikolai and Sophie would be down soon. He'd even figured out how Sophie liked hers (two sugars, splash of milk) and had it ready on the counter.

"You're trying to replace me," Nikolai said, mock-serious.

"Cannot replace you," Ilya replied, that hint of playfulness creeping into his voice that Nikolai was learning to love. "You are too tall. I cannot reach top shelf."

Sophie had nearly spit out her coffee laughing.

The teasing with the girls came next, and it made something in Nikolai's chest warm every time he witnessed it.

He'd heard it first with Nell, who'd been complaining about a boy in her class.

"He's so annoying, Ilya! He keeps pulling my hair!"

"Ah, this is how boys show they like you," Ilya said sagely, nodding a little to show he was listening.

"Ew! No! I don't want him to like me!"

"Then you must pull his hair back. Show dominance."

It took every ounce of strength Nikolai had not to laugh. 

"Ilya!" Sophie called from the kitchen, clearly struggling with the same predicament. "Don't teach her that!"

"What? Is good advice. Work in Russia."

Nikolai had found them in the living room - Nell giggling, Ilya's face completely straight except for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

The kid was fucking with them. Deliberately. And clearly enjoying it.

With Kira, well, the pair bickered nearly non-stop. Throwing light-hearted barbs at each other at all hours of the day, teasing and joking. A lot of dramatic declarations from Kira about how annoying Ilya was. It reminded Nikolai of how he’d been with his own sisters. 

But it was with Nattie that Ilya was softest, most overtly affectionate. She'd claimed him completely, in the way young children did when they decided someone was theirs. And Ilya had let her, had seemed to bloom under her uncomplicated adoration.

"Ilya, look!" she'd call out seventeen times a day, wanting him to see her drawing, her cartwheel, her new stuffed animal.

"Very impressive, Nata," he'd say every time, giving her his full attention like it was the most important thing in the world.

One evening, Nikolai had found them on the couch, Nattie practically in Ilya's lap, showing him her picture book.

"And this one is about a bear," she explained seriously, "who loses his mama and is very sad."

Nikolai had tensed, worried this might be too close to home for Ilya.

But Ilya had just nodded, gentle and patient. "What happens to the bear?"

"He finds a new family. And they love him a whole lot, so then he's not sad anymore."

"That is good ending," Ilya had said softly, and when he'd looked up and caught Nikolai's eye, there had been something vulnerable and grateful there. "I like stories with good endings."

"Me too," Nattie had agreed, curling up closer to Ilya, as though sensing his sadness. 

Nikolai had to leave the room for a minute.

The cheekiness with Nikolai and Sophie themselves developed last, tentatively, like Ilya was testing the waters to see if it was really okay.

It started with small things. Making a face when Nikolai told him to read his English textbook. Rolling his eyes, fondly, playfully, when Sophie fussed over him. Stealing food off Nikolai's plate at dinner and pretending it didn't happen.

"Did you just take my chicken?" Nikolai asked incredulously, noticing half his dinner seemed to have vanished.

"No," Ilya replied cheekily, chewing obviously.

"I literally watched you do it."

"You have no proof."

The girls had dissolved into giggles. Sophie just smiled.

Then there was the morning Nikolai had been running late for a meeting and couldn't find his keys.

"Has anyone seen my keys?" he called out, increasingly frantic, knowing Fletcher would be pissed if he was late to meet with the team owners.

"Did you check your pocket?" Sophie suggested, sighing a little, knowing Nikolai’s habits by now.

"Yes, I checked my—" He patted his jacket pocket and felt them. "Oh."

"Old age is hard," Ilya said solemnly from the kitchen table, looking up from his breakfast. "Soon we must get you one of those beeping keychains. For when you forget."

"I'm forty!"

"Is what all old people say."

Nikolai pointed at him, narrowing his eyes a little. "You're on thin ice."

"Ice is where I am best," Ilya replied, grinning as he took another bite of his cereal.

And Nikolai couldn’t be annoyed, not really. Not when the kid was happy, not when he finally felt safe. 

Later that night, Sophie pulled Nikolai aside. "He's coming out of his shell."

"Yeah," Nikolai agreed, warmth spreading through his chest.

"He's happy."

"He is."

"We did that, didn’t we?," Sophie asked, squeezing his hand. 

Nikolai had thought about the scared eighteen-year-old he'd met at the draft, the one who'd flinched at raised hands and apologized for breathing. 

He thought about that same kid now, the one that felt safe enough to be a little shit. To laugh and goof off. To be a kid. 

The one who stole chicken off his plate and teased his daughters and made bad jokes about his age.

"Yeah, Soph," Nikolai replied quietly, wrapping his arms around his wife and pulling her closer, her back against his chest as he rested his chin on the top of her head, giving him the perfect view of their kids squabbling over which movie to watch in the living room. "Yeah, I think we did.”

Even as Ilya grew more comfortable, more playful, there were still moments when Nikolai would catch glimpses of the frightened kid underneath. When Ilya thought no one was watching, his face would fall into something quieter, sadder. When he made a mistake - even a small one - there'd be that split-second of tension, that bracing for impact that broke Nikolai's heart every time.

But those moments were growing fewer and further between, and Nikolai knew the kid was getting there. Knew that he was healing.

Chapter End Notes

hold onto your hats folks, next up, we're heading to the All-Stars game!

Chapter 6: chapter six

Chapter Notes

Ilya had come downstairs the morning after Fletcher told him he’d been selected for the All-Stars game to find a banner the girls had made for him hanging in the kitchen, strung across the doorway, glitter already shedding onto the floor. Nattie had been so excited she'd literally vibrated, bouncing on her toes and demanding to know if Ilya would bring her back a souvenir. Nell had wanted to know if she could tell her friends. Kira had just given him a fist bump and said "cool" in that way thirteen-year-olds did when they were trying not to seem impressed.

And Nikolai – Nikolai had just ruffled his hair as he passed by on his way to his own seat at the kitchen table, saying he was proud of him. 

It was still strange, living with them. Strange in a good way, mostly, but strange nonetheless. Six months in and Ilya still woke up sometimes expecting his father's cold disapproval, expecting punishment for some mistake he'd made. Instead he got Sophie making breakfast and Nattie climbing into his lap and Nikolai asking if he wanted to practice his shot after dinner.

The whiplash of it was sometimes overwhelming. Ilya would wake up in the morning, his heart already racing, his body braced for – something. Criticism. Disappointment. The cold silence his father wielded like a weapon.

It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. Ilya kept waiting for the catch, for the moment when Nikolai would sit him down and explain that this was all conditional. That Ilya had to earn his place here, had to be perfect, had to never fuck up.

That the banner in the kitchen was nice, but it wouldn't save him if he stopped performing. That Sophie's kindness was temporary. That the girls' affection would evaporate the moment Ilya became inconvenient.

But six months in, that conversation hadn't happened. Nikolai just– kept being kind. Kept being patient. Kept acting like Ilya belonged there, even though Ilya knew he didn't. Not really. He was just a kid the team had dumped on Nikolai, an obligation, a responsibility.

Eventually, Nikolai would get tired of it. Of him.

Everything good always ended. Ilya had learned that lesson early.

His mother's laughter had ended. Her warmth, her presence, her love – all of it had ended one day when Ilya was twelve and came home to find her in the bathroom, a bottle of pills on the floor, her eyes unseeing. 

His father's – well, his father had never been warm to begin with. But whatever scraps of approval Ilya used to get, those had ended too. After his mother died, his father had looked at him like he was a reminder of everything he'd lost, everything that had gone wrong.

So yes. Everything good ended. And living with the Petrovs was good – too good, probably. Which meant it would end too.

Ilya was just waiting to find out when.

The game itself had been fun - loose and easy, none of the intensity of regular season play. Just guys showing off, having a good time. On the ice, at least most of the time, things were easier. Ilya knew what he was doing. He was good at hockey, one of the best. He didn't tip-toe carefully, hoping he wasn’t about to ruin everything the way he did in his personal life. On the ice, he just trusted his gut. 

Later that night, he was on his bed, scrolling mindlessly through his phone when the knock came.

Three soft raps, tentative.

Ilya's heart kicked up before he even opened the door, because he knew who it would be. Had been half-expecting it, half-hoping for it, even though he'd told himself he shouldn't.

Shane Hollander.

Ilya opened the door to find Shane standing outside, looking nervous. His brown eyes met Ilya's, and Ilya felt that same pull he'd felt at the CCM shoot last summer, the same want that had landed them in a hotel room with Shane's mouth on his neck and Ilya's hands in his hair.

And now here Shane was, standing in the hallway outside Ilya's room at midnight, looking like he might bolt at any second.

"Is someone chasing you?" Ilya asked, amused by how quickly Shane slipped inside.

"I'm standing in the hallway like an idiot," Shane said, a little breathless. "Scott Hunter is right next door."

"Fuck," Ilya said, but he was grinning. "The Scott Hunter. Should I get autograph?"

It was absurd, really. Here they were, both All-Stars themselves, both supposedly at the top of their game, and Shane was worried about Scott fucking Hunter hearing him knock on Ilya's door.

Then again, Ilya understood the fear. The need for discretion. They both had too much to lose if anyone found out.

"Shut up." Shane was looking around the room like he was cataloging exits, his hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. "This is- are you sure this is okay?"

"You knock on my door and now you ask if is okay?" Ilya moved closer, enjoying the way Shane's breath hitched. "Little late, Hollander."

He liked this—the way Shane got nervous around him. The way Ilya could affect him just by moving into his space, by dropping his voice. It made him feel powerful in a way nothing else in his life did.

On the ice, Ilya was always trying to prove himself. Always trying to be faster, smarter, better. Always falling just short of perfect.

At home - at the Petrovs' house - he was trying so hard not to be a burden, not to take up too much space, not to give Nikolai any reason to regret taking him in.

But here, with Shane? Ilya could just be. Could be confident, could be in control, could stop second-guessing every word that came out of his mouth.

"I just- we haven't seen each other since-"

"October," Ilya finished for him. "I know. I was there."

"Right. Yeah." Shane was fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie, not meeting Ilya's eyes. "You played well. Against us."

"We lost."

"Still. You were good."

Ilya shrugged. They had lost, and Ilya had spent the entire game overly aware of Shane on the ice. Overly aware of every time they'd crashed into each other along the boards, every brief moment of contact.

It had been distracting. Ilya hated being distracted during games. Hated that Shane could get under his skin like that, could make him lose focus.

But he also - he'd liked it. The physicality of it. The way Shane had shoved him hard into the boards once and grinned at him after. The way they'd both known exactly what they were doing, the subtext running under every hit.

Shane was still standing there, nervous and uncertain, and Ilya remembered suddenly how different he was off the ice. On the ice, Shane was confident, graceful, physical. He played like he knew exactly what he was doing at every moment.

But off the ice, Shane was nervous. Uncertain. Awkward in a way that was somehow endearing.

It was kind of endearing, actually. Made Ilya feel less nervous himself, less like he was the only one who didn't know what the fuck he was doing.

Because Ilya definitely didn't know what he was doing. Not with this—whatever this was between them. He'd hooked up with guys before. A handful of times, always quick and furtive and tinged with guilt. Always in Russia, always with guys he'd never see again, always with the fear that someone would find out, that his father would find out.

His father would kill him if he knew. Actually kill him, probably. Or disown him, which might be worse.

But with Shane, it was different. Shane was another player. Shane was someone Ilya would have to see again, would have to play against. Shane was a risk in a way those other guys never were.

But Ilya couldn't seem to stop himself.

"How's Boston been?" he asked, stepping further into the room.

Ilya decided to entertain Hollander's awkward attempts at small talk and shrugged halfheartedly.

"Fine," he replied simply, not sure what else there was to say. "Cold."

What was he supposed to say? That it was the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him? That he felt safe for the first time in years and terrified all at once? That he woke up every morning expecting it to be taken away?

"I saw Petrov downstairs at some dinner thing with the GMs," Shane informed him, still fidgeting. "He seems...intense."

Ilya felt something defensive rise in his chest automatically. "He's not so bad."

He was surprised by how fast that feeling rose up, how immediate his need to defend Nikolai was. He'd never been so protective over his own father. Hell, most of the time, Ilya was the one insulting his old man behind his back. The one making bitter jokes about how nothing he did was ever good enough, how his father saw him as a disappointment.

But Nikolai– Nikolai was different. And Ilya found himself wanting to defend him, even to Shane, even when Shane probably didn't mean anything by it.

"No?" Shane raised an eyebrow. "I've heard stories. Old school Russian hockey, pretty strict."

"Where you hear this?"

"Around," Shane replied vaguely, waving a hand. "Just- people talk. He's got a reputation."

Ilya thought about Nikolai. About the way he'd promised Ilya that first week that no one would hit him here, that he should report immediately if anyone did. Ilya had thought it was bullshit at the time, had waited for the catch. But six months in, no one had hit him. Not Nikolai, not anyone.

About how Nikolai had held him after the bag skates, had called him malchik, had told him he was proud. Had made him blinis the next morning, had explained what abuse was, had looked at Ilya with something that looked scarily like affection.

About how Nikolai kept acting like Ilya mattered, even though Ilya was still waiting for that to change.

Still waiting for the moment when Nikolai's patience ran out, when his kindness revealed itself to be conditional, when Ilya finally did something so wrong, so disappointing, that Nikolai gave up on him.

It hadn't happened yet. But it would. Ilya was certain of it.

"He's not like that," Ilya explained, surprised by the defensive tone in his voice. "With me. He's…" Ilya struggled to find the words in English, struggled to explain something he didn't fully understand himself. "He's good to me. Patient. He doesn't-"

He stopped, not sure how to explain. How to tell Shane that Nikolai had never once raised his hand to him, had never once made him feel small or worthless or scared. That living with the Petrovs was the safest Ilya had felt since his mother died, maybe even before that.

Even if he was still waiting for it to end.

Even if he still flinched sometimes when Nikolai moved too quickly, still braced himself for blows that never came, still apologized too much for mistakes that Nikolai didn't even seem to notice.

"That's good," Shane answered softly, seeming to have sensed he’d misstepped somehow. "That you have someone like that."

Ilya shrugged, not really knowing what to say in response to that. Mostly he felt like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Nikolai to realize what a burden Ilya was and send him somewhere else. But saying that out loud felt like too much, like more than Shane needed to know.

Like admitting it would make it real, would make it happen faster.

"Your family?" Ilya asked, changing the subject. "They came to watch?"

"Yeah," Shane replied, tilting his head a bit, hair flopping into his eyes ever so slightly. "My parents are here. They're staying at a different hotel though, thank God."

"Why thank God?"

Shane looked at him like he was stupid. "Because I'm here. In your room. At midnight."

"Oh. Right."

They stood there for another moment, the air heavy between them, thick with unspoken want and the weight of everything they couldn't say out loud. Ilya could hear Shane's breathing, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each inhale, the way his hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to reach out but wasn't sure if he was allowed.

Then Hollander finally moved, throwing himself at Ilya in near desperation. Their lips clashed together with a force that made Ilya's head spin, Hollander moving far more confidently than he had the last time they were together. His hand tangled in Ilya's hair, fingers gripping tight enough to sting, and Ilya felt something hot and electric shoot down his spine at the roughness of it.

This was different from before. Better. Shane wasn't holding back the way he had in October, wasn't second-guessing every touch and kiss. He was taking what he wanted, and God, that was doing things to Ilya he hadn't expected.

Ilya pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his lips swollen and tingling. Shane's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his cheeks were flushed that beautiful pink that Ilya was quickly becoming obsessed with.

"Get on your knees," Ilya murmured, his voice rough with want.

And then Shane dropped to his knees so fast Ilya almost laughed. The sound caught in his throat, replaced by a sharp intake of breath as he looked down at Shane kneeling in front of him, looking up with those big brown eyes, waiting for instruction.

The rush of power that went through Ilya at that - at seeing Shane Hollander, confident and graceful Shane Hollander, on his knees in front of him - was almost overwhelming. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears, and his hands were shaking slightly with the intensity of it all.

This was nothing like his real life. Nothing like the constant fear and second-guessing and desperate need to be perfect. Nothing like walking on eggshells around his father, or trying to prove himself worthy of the Petrovs' kindness, or forcing himself to be someone he wasn't every single day. Here, in this hotel room with Shane kneeling at his feet, Ilya could just tell Shane what to do and Shane would do it.

Here, Ilya was in control.

It was intoxicating. Addictive. The kind of feeling Ilya knew he could get drunk on if he let himself.

After a moment that felt like an eternity but was probably only seconds, Ilya reached down and picked Shane up - easily, because despite being smaller than most players, Ilya was still strong, still spent hours in the gym building muscle. Shane made a surprised sound as Ilya lifted him, his hands gripping Ilya's shoulders for balance.

Ilya carried him over to the bed, feeling the heat of Shane's body against his, and dumped him onto the mattress with perhaps more force than necessary. Shane bounced slightly, his hair falling across his forehead in a way that made Ilya want to brush it back, to touch, to claim.

"Get on your stomach," Ilya whispered after a few moments of just looking at Shane sprawled on his bed. He patted Shane's side, a gesture that was almost gentle despite the command in his voice.

"On your stomach."

Hollander hesitantly rolled over, his movements uncertain now, the confidence from before fading into something more vulnerable. He lay face down on the hotel comforter, his shoulders tense, his hands flat against the mattress like he was bracing himself.

Ilya took a moment to just look at him. To really look. Shane Hollander, Montreal's star forward, their first-round pick, their golden boy, face-down on Ilya's hotel bed, waiting for-

For whatever Ilya wanted to give him.

The thought made Ilya's mouth go dry. His hands trembled as he reached out, hovering just above Shane's back before finally making contact. Shane's shirt was soft under his palms, and he could feel the warmth of Shane's skin beneath it, could feel the way Shane's breath caught at the touch.

Ilya felt another rush of power. Of control. This was so different from everything else in his life, where he was always trying to prove himself, always trying to be good enough for his father, for his coaches, for anyone who might decide he wasn't worth the trouble. Always falling short no matter how hard he tried. Where he was always one mistake away from losing everything—his spot on the team, the Petrovs' hospitality, his fragile sense of stability.

Here, with Shane, Ilya could just take what he wanted.

And what he wanted was Shane.

"Have you ever?" Ilya asked, his hands running over the plane of Shane's side, fingers tracing the curve of his ribs through the fabric of his shirt. Going lower and lower, down to where Shane's shirt had ridden up slightly, revealing a sliver of pale skin.

Shane was quiet for a moment, and Ilya could see him swallow, could see the way his hands clenched against the comforter.

"No."

The word was barely audible, muffled by the pillow Shane's face was pressed into. But Ilya heard it clearly enough, and he wasn't surprised by the answer.

Ilya had figured as much. Shane was only eighteen too, barely older than Ilya himself, and despite his bravado on the ice, despite the confidence he projected to the world, he was still figuring this out. They both were. Two kids playing at being adults, pretending they knew what they were doing when really they were just fumbling through in the dark.

"Do you want to?" Ilya asked, leaning down to press a kiss to Shane's ear. His lips brushed against the shell of it, and he felt Shane shiver beneath him, felt goosebumps rise on Shane's skin.

And then he felt Shane stiffen beneath him, his body going rigid, every muscle tensing like he was preparing for a blow. Ilya's blood ran cold, all the heat and desire draining out of him in an instant, replaced by something sharp and uncomfortable in his gut.

"You're scared."

It wasn't a question. Ilya could feel it in the way Shane had gone still, could hear it in the sudden change in his breathing.

"I'm not scared," Shane said, but his voice was tight, uncertain, belying his words. His hands were gripping the comforter so hard his knuckles had gone white.

Ilya leaned down, his mouth close to Shane's ear, close enough that his lips brushed against skin when he spoke. He could feel Shane trembling slightly beneath him, could feel the tension radiating through every inch of his body.

"No, it's okay," Ilya said softly, and he meant it. God, he meant it.

"I'm not scared," Shane insisted, and now there was something almost desperate in his voice, like he needed Ilya to believe him.

"I just- I've never-"

The words trailed off, hanging incomplete in the air between them. But Ilya understood. He understood the fear that came with firsts, with vulnerability, with letting someone see you like this - open and wanting and uncertain.

Because Ilya knew what it was like to not have choices. Knew what it was like to have someone bigger and stronger than you decide what happened to your body, whether you wanted it or not. Knew what it was like to have your autonomy stripped away, to be treated like an object instead of a person.

His father had taught him that lesson young, with heavy hands and cruel words. Had taught him that sometimes the people who were supposed to protect you were the ones you needed protection from.

Ilya wouldn't do that to Shane. Wouldn't do that to anyone. He'd rather cut off his own hand than make someone feel the way his father had made him feel.

He pulled back slightly, giving Shane space, and tried to think of a way to ease the tension that had settled over them like a heavy blanket.

"Do you ever touch yourself there?" Ilya asked, keeping his voice light, almost teasing.

"Jesus Christ," Shane said, and Ilya could hear the embarrassment in his voice, could imagine the way heat was probably flooding his face even though he couldn't see it with Shane face-down on the bed.

"What?" Ilya retorted, interrupting Shane's protest. He let a hint of amusement creep into his voice, trying to lighten the mood.

"Does touching your ass make you gay?"

"Rozanov-" Shane began, his voice strangled.

"'Cause you know what else makes you gay?" Ilya continued, unable to resist pushing just a little. "Sucking my dick."

"Shut up," Shane told him, but Ilya could hear the smile in his voice now, could feel some of the tension starting to drain from Shane's body as Ilya pressed another kiss to his neck, this one softer, more reassuring.

"Fuck."

"What?" Ilya asked, genuinely curious now. Shane's voice had changed again, taken on a different quality that Ilya couldn't quite identify.

"I'm trying to say I have a thing. Okay?"

Shane's voice was muffled, his face still pressed into the pillow like he was trying to hide from the conversation they were having.

Ilya blinked, still dazed from kissing, from the feeling of Shane beneath him. His lips felt swollen, his body warm, and it took his brain a moment to catch up to what Shane had just said.

"A thing?"

"A dildo," Shane said, his face going even redder than before. Even with his face pressed into the pillow, Ilya could see the flush spreading down his neck, could practically feel the heat radiating off him.

Ilya couldn't help it - he laughed. Actually laughed, bright and genuine, the kind of laugh he didn't let himself have often. The kind of laugh that felt foreign in his throat, unused. It bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest, surprising even himself with its intensity.

The absurdity of it - Shane Hollander, Montreal's golden boy, admitting he had a dildo, getting embarrassed about it like they were teenagers talking about porn instead of two people who'd already had their mouths on each other - was somehow endearing. Made him seem more human, more real, less like the perfect image the media had created and more like an actual person.

"What color?" Ilya managed to get out between laughs, his whole body shaking with it.

"Fuck you," Shane muttered into the pillow, and Ilya could hear the mortification in every syllable.

"Is it big?" Ilya pressed, grinning now, enjoying Shane's discomfort perhaps more than he should.

"I'm leaving," Shane announced, trying to push himself up from the bed, but Ilya pushed him back down, still grinning, his hand firm between Shane's shoulder blades.

"No, no, Hollander," Ilya said, his laughter finally subsiding into something more manageable. He took a breath, trying to compose himself.

"Stay. I want to fuck you."

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with promise and intent.

"Not here," Shane told him, finally turning his head to the side so Ilya could see his profile, could see the serious expression on his face.

"Not with fucking Scott Hunter next door."

And just like that, reality came crashing back. Ilya felt the smile slip from his face, replaced by something more sober, more cautious. Shane was right, of course. They were in a hotel full of hockey players, with paper-thin walls and teammates who could hear everything if they listened hard enough.

Because as much as Ilya wanted this - and he did, God, he did, wanted it with an intensity that sometimes scared him - he also couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk someone hearing, someone finding out, someone connecting the dots and figuring out what Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander were doing behind closed doors. His career was too new, too fragile, built on such shaky foundation that one wrong move could bring the whole thing crashing down. He was already walking a tightrope with the Petrovs, already living on borrowed kindness that could be revoked at any moment, already one mistake away from losing the only stable home he'd had in years.

He couldn't afford to add this to it. Couldn't afford to be found out. Couldn't afford the luxury of being careless with his secrets.

They both had too much to lose.

Shane's career was just starting too, his whole future stretching out before him bright and promising. And if anyone found out - if the media got hold of it, if their teams found out, if the wrong person overheard the wrong thing - it would be over. Not just the sex, but everything. Their careers, their reputations, their futures. Everything they'd worked for, everything they'd sacrificed, gone in an instant.

Hockey wasn't ready for players like them. Maybe it never would be. The sport was built on tradition and masculinity and unspoken rules about what was acceptable and what wasn't. And two male players fucking each other definitely fell into the "wasn't" category.

Ilya swallowed hard, pushing down the disappointment that threatened to surface. Later, he told himself. They could have this later, in private, somewhere safe.

"He is hot," Ilya said instead, trying to inject some levity back into the moment, trying to ignore the ache of wanting something he couldn't have right now.

"We should let him listen, like mating call."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Shane asked, and there was something almost playful in his voice now. He'd turned over at some point, was looking up at Ilya with a small smile tugging at his lips, relaxed again now that the immediate pressure was off.

"Mm-hmm," Ilya confirmed, letting himself smile back. The tension between them had shifted into something easier, something more manageable.

"You probably would too," Ilya added with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at Shane.

Shane's face flushed again, but he didn't deny it. Just looked away, biting his lip in that way he did when he was embarrassed but also kind of into something.

They lay there for a moment, the weight of unfinished business hanging between them but not uncomfortable. Just... present. A promise of something for later, for next time, for when they had privacy and safety and time.

"Okay," Ilya said finally, breaking the silence. "So next time."

Shane sat up, shifting so he was facing Ilya properly, looking at him with those brown eyes that always seemed to see too much.

"Next time?"

There was something in his voice - hope, maybe, or uncertainty, or both mixed together in a way that made Ilya's chest feel tight.

"Yeah, we're playing Montreal in two weeks."

The schedule was burned into Ilya's brain. Every game, every opponent, every date. He'd memorized it the day it came out, had counted down the days until they played Montreal, even though he'd told himself it was just because he wanted to prove himself against them after the loss in October. Wanted another chance to show that he was just as good as their star forward, that the first game had been a fluke.

But he'd known. Deep down, he'd known he wanted to see Shane again. Had been counting down the days not for hockey but for this - for stolen moments in hotel rooms, for kisses that tasted like victory and defeat all at once, for the feeling of being in control for just a little while.

"Yeah. But, um, where would we..." Shane trailed off, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt in that nervous way he had.

"Where would we what?" Ilya prompted, watching the way Shane's fingers twisted in the fabric.

"Meet?" Shane asked, and there was that nervousness again, that uncertainty creeping back into his voice and his posture.

"You are homeless?" Ilya quipped, finding Hollander's nervousness cute in a way he probably shouldn't.

It was cute, the way Shane could be so confident on the ice - taking shots from impossible angles, making plays that left defenders scrambling, commanding the puck like it was an extension of his body - and so uncertain off it. The way he was looking at Ilya right now, like he was afraid Ilya might disappear if he looked away, like this whole thing might evaporate if Shane said the wrong thing.

"No," Shane retorted, a hint of indignation creeping into his voice.

"Then we meet at your house," Ilya said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. And maybe it should be, but Ilya could see the way Shane's breathing picked up at the suggestion, could see the anxiety starting to creep back in.

"It's an apartment," Shane corrected, his voice taking on that slightly defensive tone he got when he was nervous.

"Hollander," Ilya sighed, sitting up fully now and really looking at Shane. He could see it clearly - the way Shane's breathing had picked up, the way his hands were fidgeting again, pulling at his shirt and then his hair and then back to his shirt. The way his eyes were darting around the room like he was looking for an exit.

"You are having a panic attack."

"I'm not-" Shane started to protest, but Ilya cut him off.

"It's just a plan to fuck," Ilya said bluntly, maybe more harshly than he intended. But sometimes Shane needed the harsh truth to snap him out of his spiral.

"Not marriage proposal. We meet, we fuck. Simple."

Except it wasn't simple. Nothing about this was simple. Ilya was eighteen and barely holding his life together, juggling his career and his living situation and his complicated relationship with the Petrovs and the ever-present shadow of his father's disapproval. And Shane was- Shane was a complication Ilya couldn't afford but couldn't seem to give up either. A risk that made no logical sense but that Ilya kept taking anyway, kept coming back to like a moth to a flame.

"I know," Shane replied, but he still looked anxious, his jaw tight and his shoulders tense. He was thinking too hard about all the ways this could go wrong, Ilya could tell. Probably cataloging every possible disaster, every way they could get caught, every consequence that could follow.

Ilya understood that feeling too. He spent most of his life thinking about all the ways things could go wrong. It was exhausting, living like that, but he didn't know how else to be.

All the ways he could fuck this up. All the ways the fragile peace he'd found with the Petrovs could shatter - one wrong word, one broken rule, one sign of ingratitude and he'd be out on the street. All the ways his father could find out about this, about Shane, about any of it. All the ways his career could implode before it even really began.

The possibilities were endless, and Ilya had thought through most of them late at night when he couldn't sleep.

They sat there for a moment, the tension from before - the heat and desire and urgency - replaced by something more awkward, more uncertain. The air between them felt heavy with things unsaid, with fears neither of them wanted to voice out loud.

Shane fidgeted with his phone, pulling it out of his pocket and then putting it back, over and over like he couldn't quite figure out what to do with his hands.

"Uh, I know we talked about Montreal in two weeks, but..." Shane started, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

"Oh my God, Hollander," Ilya interrupted, unable to help himself. A smile tugged at his lips despite everything.

"You are so boring."

"I'm not- " Shane protested, looking genuinely offended.

"Give me your phone," Ilya demanded, holding out his hand expectantly.

Shane stared at him for a moment, clearly trying to figure out what Ilya was planning, before finally pulling his phone out of his pocket and handing it over. His fingers brushed against Ilya's as he did, and Ilya felt that familiar spark of electricity at the contact.

Ilya took the phone, already pulling up the contacts, already planning. Because if they were going to do this - and they were, despite all the reasons they shouldn't - they were going to do it right.

Or at least as right as something this wrong could be.

He typed in his number, putting it under the name Lily, figuring that was innocuous enough. A girl's name, something that wouldn't raise questions if anyone saw it.

Hollander took his phone back, smiling at the name.

"So, what's my name gonna be?" he asked.

Ilya thought for a moment. He needed something equally innocuous, something that wouldn't stand out. "Jane."

"Jane?" Hollander made a face. "Why Jane?"

Ilya shrugged a shoulder, unsure of what to say besides it rhymed with Shane. It was simple, easy to remember, unmemorable enough that no one would question it.

They sat there for another moment, neither of them quite ready for Hollander to leave. The room felt smaller now, more intimate. Ilya could smell Shane's cologne, something clean and simple, slightly boring, just like Hollander, but a scent he found addictive nevertheless. 

"What's up with you?" Shane asked finally, his voice softer now.

"Nothing," Ilya replied automatically.

It was a reflex, the denial. The need to keep everything locked down, to never let anyone see too much.

"You sure?"

"Fuck off, Hollander," Ilya told him, but there was no heat in it.

Because the truth was, something was up. Living with the Petrovs was good—better than good, actually. Sophie was kind and warm and treated him like he mattered. The girls had adopted him completely, especially Nattie, who followed him around like a puppy. And Nikolai—

Nikolai was everything Ilya's father wasn't. Patient. Encouraging. Proud of Ilya for things that had nothing to do with hockey.

Just this morning, before Ilya had left for the All-Star game, Nikolai had caught him in the kitchen and said, "Have fun. You've earned this."

Ilya had almost cried. Because his father had never—would never—say something like that. Would never look at Ilya with pride instead of disappointment.

But Ilya kept waiting for it to fall apart. Kept waiting for Nikolai to realize what a burden Ilya was, how much trouble, how fundamentally fucked up. Kept waiting for the moment when Nikolai would look at him with the same disappointment Ilya's father always had.

It hadn't happened yet, but it would. Ilya was sure of it.

Because Ilya knew himself. Knew he was difficult, demanding, broken in ways that probably couldn't be fixed. Knew he was too much work for anyone to want to deal with long-term.

His own father hadn't wanted him. Why would Nikolai?

And now here he was, adding another complication to his life. Hooking up with Shane Hollander, of all people. Another secret to keep, another thing that could blow up in his face. Another way he could disappoint everyone who'd been stupid enough to believe in him.

But when he looked at Shane—nervous, uncertain Shane who kissed like his life depended on it and blushed when he talked about dildos—Ilya couldn't quite bring himself to care about the risks.

For a few hours, at least, he could be himself. Not the perfect player, not the grateful houseguest, not the son trying desperately not to be a disappointment.

Just Ilya.

Messy and complicated and still figuring himself out.

And maybe – just maybe – that was okay.

"I should go," Shane said reluctantly, standing up from the bed.

"Yeah," Ilya agreed. "Probably."

Shane headed for the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. He turned back to look at Ilya, something vulnerable in his expression. "Two weeks?"

"Two weeks," Ilya confirmed. "Your apartment."

"Okay." Shane smiled, and it was genuine, warm. Made him look younger, less like the cocky player Ilya faced on the ice and more like—like a kid. Like someone who was still figuring this out too. "I'll text you. Well. I'll text Lily."

"Is very romantic," Ilya quipped dryly.

Shane laughed and slipped out the door, checking both ways before disappearing down the hall like he was in some spy movie.

It was cute, the way Hollander was always so nervous around him. Him. Ilya, who spent most of his time terrified of fucking up, of disappointing people, of being too much or not enough.

But Shane didn't know that. To Shane, Ilya was confident. In control. Someone who knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to take it.

Maybe Ilya could be that person, at least with Shane. At least in hotel rooms and borrowed apartments where nobody knew them.

Maybe he could be someone other than the perpetually anxious kid waiting for everything to fall apart.

Ilya lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind spinning.

Two weeks until Montreal. Two weeks until he saw Shane again.

Two weeks until he had to go back to pretending that this – whatever this was – didn't mean anything.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up, expecting Shane.

But it wasn't Shane. It was Nikolai.

Hope you're getting some sleep. We're all proud of you.

Ilya stared at the text for a long moment. We're all proud of you.

The words felt impossible. How could they be proud of him? He'd played okay today, sure, but not great. He'd gotten one assist. He hadn't embarrassed himself, but he hadn't been spectacular either.

He'd been nervous the entire game. Had second-guessed every play, every pass, every shot. Had been hyperaware of the cameras, of the crowd, of all the ways he could fuck this up.

And they were proud of him anyway?

But Nikolai said it anyway. Said it like it was true, like Ilya had done something worth being proud of just by being here.

Ilya still didn't quite believe it. Didn't quite trust it. Didn't quite understand how he could be worthy of pride when all he'd done was not completely fail.

But it was nice to pretend, even just for a moment, that it might be true.

That maybe - just maybe - he was enough.

He climbed into bed, exhausted but restless, his mind spinning with thoughts of Shane and Nikolai and the precarious balance he was trying to maintain between the person everyone thought he was and the person he actually was.

The person who wanted Shane's hands on him.

The person who wanted Nikolai to keep being proud of him.

The person who was terrified that both of those things would disappear the moment anyone realized who Ilya really was.

"Ilya?"

He looked up from the dish he'd been washing for the past five minutes—definitely clean by now, he'd just been staring at it—to find Sophie watching him with concern.

Dinner had ended twenty minutes ago. The girls had scattered to do homework or watch TV. Nikolai was in his office doing something with scouting reports. And Ilya had volunteered to help clean up because he needed something to do with his hands, needed to feel useful, needed to not think.

Except he couldn't stop thinking.

"Are you okay?" Sophie asked gently, taking the dish from his hands and setting it in the drying rack. "You've seemed distracted lately."

Ilya opened his mouth to say he was fine. The automatic response, the easy lie. He was fine. Everything was fine.

But looking at Sophie – at the genuine concern in her eyes, at the way she'd stopped what she was doing to actually pay attention to him – he found he didn't want to lie.

"I think—" He stopped, swallowed. "Can we sit? I need to—I think I should tell you something."

Sophie's expression shifted immediately, worry creeping in. "Of course. Let me get Nikolai."

She disappeared toward the office, and Ilya sat down at the kitchen table, his hands clasped in front of him. His stomach was churning. He shouldn't bother them with this. This was his problem, his family, his responsibility to deal with.

But he was so tired of dealing with everything alone.

Sophie returned with Nikolai, who looked concerned but calm as he sat down across from Ilya. Sophie took the seat beside him, close enough that Ilya could feel her warmth.

"What's going on?" Nikolai asked.

Ilya took a breath. "It's my father. I think– I think he's sick."

"Sick how?" Sophie asked, her brow furrowing.

“He’s been…confused,” Ilya began, biting his lip a little as he tried to find the words. “His memory isn’t quite right.”

"Like dementia?" Nikolai asked quietly, his expression going serious.

"Maybe," Ilya agreed, the word sitting heavily in his chest. "I don't know for sure. But he's been confused. The past few times I talk to him on phone." He swallowed hard. "He asked me to pick up bread on way home. Forgot I'm in America now. And yesterday he asked to speak to Alexei, asked if Alexei was home yet. Alexei doesn't live there anymore. Hasn't for five years."

Sophie reached across the table and took his hand. "Oh, Ilya."

"My brother says everything is fine," Ilya continued, his voice getting tighter. "Says I'm being dramatic. That Papa is just getting older, that people forget things. But this isn't – it's not normal forgetting. It's like he doesn't know where he is. Or when."

"Have you tried talking to your stepmother?" Sophie asked. "Polina, right?"

Ilya's jaw tightened at the name. "She won't care."

"Ilya—"

"She won't," he insisted, pulling his hand back. "She married my father less than year after my mother died. She never wanted us. Me and Alexei, we were just- just obligations to her. Things she had to deal with to be with my father. She never cared about us."

The bitterness in his voice surprised even him. He didn't talk about Polina. Tried not to think about her - about the way she'd moved into their apartment while it still smelled like his mother's perfume, about how she'd thrown away his mother's things, about how she'd made it clear that Ilya and Alexei were burdens she was tolerating, not children she was choosing to love.

"She won't help," Ilya said quietly. "She'll probably be happy if something's wrong with him. Means she can put him in home and be done with it."

Nikolai and Sophie exchanged a look, some silent communication passing between them.

"Have you tried really talking to Alexei?" Nikolai asked. "Explaining how serious this might be?"

Ilya laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Alexei doesn't listen to me. He never has. I'm just- I'm just the baby brother. The one who ran away to America. The one who-" He stopped, his throat tight. "He doesn't respect me. Every time I call him, he either tells me I'm overreacting or he asks me for money."

"He asks you for money?" Sophie's voice was sharp.

"Da. Yes." Ilya looked down at his hands. "He's always asking. Says he needs it for rent, or for bills, or for- I don't know. I send it because he's my brother. Because I'm supposed to help family. But then when I try to talk to him about Papa, he doesn't want to hear it."

The truth of it sat heavy in his chest. He'd been sending Alexei money for months now - thousands of dollars at a time from his signing bonus, from his paychecks. And what did he get in return? Criticism. Dismissal. The constant reminder that he was the younger brother, that he didn't know anything, that he should stop worrying about things that weren't his concern.

"This is a lot for you to be carrying," Nikolai commented quietly.

"It's fine," Ilya corrected automatically. "I can handle it."

"You shouldn't have to," Sophie told him firmly. "Ilya, you're eighteen. You're basically still a kid. This is- this isn't something you should be worrying about by yourself."

"But he's my father," Ilya argued, even though saying it made his chest ache. Even though he wasn't sure his father deserved that title. "And Alexei won't listen, and Polina won't care, so if I don't - if I don't try to help, then who will?"

"What about other family?" Nikolai asked. "Aunts, uncles? Cousins?"

Ilya shook his head. "My father, he doesn't talk to his family anymore. They had– I don't know, some fight when I was small. And my mother's family, we never see them. Not since…"

So it was just him. Just Ilya, thousands of miles away, trying to manage a situation he had no control over with a brother who wouldn't listen and a stepmother who didn't care.

He felt suddenly, overwhelmingly tired.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I don't- I can't help from here. And even if I was there, I don't know if I could help. But I can't just ignore it. Even if he- even if he was terrible father, I can't just-"

"Hey." Nikolai's voice was gentle but firm. "You're not ignoring it. You're trying to get help. That's the right thing to do."

"But Alexei won't listen—"

"Would you like me to talk to him?" Nikolai offered.

Ilya's head snapped up. "What?"

"I could call your brother," Nikolai said. "Talk to him adult to adult. Sometimes it's easier to hear difficult things from someone outside the family."

"You would do that?" Ilya asked, his voice small.

"Of course," Nikolai answered, like it was obvious. "If it would help."

Ilya's throat was too tight to speak. He'd been handling things on his own for so long – since his mother died, really, since his father had made it clear that Ilya's problems were his own to solve. The idea of having someone else step in, someone else take on the burden of dealing with Alexei's dismissiveness and Polina's indifference–

It felt like being able to breathe for the first time in weeks.

"Yes," Ilya breathed out, a touch of hope in his voice. "Yes, please. I- I've tried talking to him but he just- he doesn't take me seriously. Maybe he'll listen to you."

"I'll call him tomorrow," Nikolai promised. "And Ilya - even if your brother doesn't listen, even if nothing changes - you did the right thing by telling us. By asking for help. That takes courage."

"Doesn't feel like courage," Ilya muttered. "Feels like giving up."

"It's not giving up," Sophie said firmly. "It's recognizing that you can't fix everything by yourself. That's not weakness, sweetheart. That's wisdom."

Ilya wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that asking for help didn't mean he was failing somehow. That letting Nikolai handle this didn't make him a bad son, a bad brother.

But the voice in his head - his father's voice, always his father's voice - kept saying he should be strong enough to deal with this himself. That real men didn't ask for help. That he was being soft, weak, American.

"What if–" Ilya stopped, swallowed hard. "What if it is dementia? What happens then?"

"Then your father will need care," Nikolai answered, as though it was easy. "Professional care, probably. But that's for Alexei and Polina to arrange. Not you."

"But—"

"Ilya," Nikolai leaned forward, his expression serious. "I need you to hear this. You are not responsible for your father's care. You're eighteen years old. You live in another country. You have your own life, your own career. It is not your job to manage this situation."

"Then whose job is it?" Ilya asked weakly, even though he knew the answer.

"Your brother's," Nikolai told him firmly. "He's the eldest. He lives in Russia. He's an adult. This is his responsibility."

"But he won't-"

"Then that's on him," Nikolai interrupted. "Not you. If Alexei chooses not to handle this, if he chooses to ignore the warning signs, that's his failure. Not yours."

Ilya wanted to argue. Wanted to say that it didn't work like that, that he couldn't just absolve himself of responsibility because it was hard. That family meant showing up even when you didn't want to, even when the person didn't deserve it.

But he was so tired.

Tired of carrying everything. Tired of trying to fix things he couldn't fix. Tired of being the only one who seemed to care, even though caring hurt.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay."

"We'll figure this out," Sophie said, squeezing his hand. "Together. You're not alone in this."

Together. The word settled warm in Ilya's chest, easing some of the tightness there.

He wasn't alone.

He had Nikolai, who would call Alexei and try to make him understand. He had Sophie, who was looking at him with such compassion it made his eyes sting. He had this family, who somehow cared enough to help him with a problem that wasn't even theirs.

"Thank you," Ilya said, his voice rough. "For- for helping. For caring. I know this isn't your problem–"

"We’re always here to help, honey," Sophie interrupted gently. "Your problems are our problems. That's how this works."

Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice.

They sat there for a moment longer, the kitchen quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of the girls upstairs.

"Why don't you take the night off from worrying," Nikolai suggested gently. "Go watch TV with the girls. Or play video games. Or just rest. I'll call Alexei tomorrow and we'll figure out next steps."

"Okay," Ilya agreed hesitantly, standing up and pausing for a moment. "What will you say to him? To Alexei?"

"The truth," Nikolai explained, eyes softening a little as he looked at Ilya. "That I'm concerned about your father based on what you've told me. That he needs to take this seriously and get your father evaluated by a doctor. That if he needs resources or guidance, I can help connect him with people."

"He might not listen," Ilya warned.

"He might not," Nikolai agreed. "But at least we'll have tried. And Ilya – if he asks for money, I'll make it clear that's not happening anymore."

Ilya's eyes widened. "But–"

"You've been supporting your brother financially for months," Nikolai said, his voice firm but not harsh. "And he's been dismissing your concerns in return. That's not okay, kid."

Ilya wanted to argue. Wanted to say that family helped family, no matter what. But the truth was, Alexei hadn't been acting like family. He'd been acting like Ilya was an ATM machine that occasionally annoyed him with worry.

"Okay," Ilya said again.

"Good." Nikolai stood and pulled Ilya into a brief hug. "Now go relax. You've done enough worrying for one day."

Ilya left the kitchen, his mind still churning but his chest feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

In the living room, he found Nell and Nattie watching some cartoon while Kira sat nearby with a book, earbuds in. Nattie saw him first and immediately scooted over, patting the couch cushion next to her in invitation.

Ilya sat down, and Nattie leaned against his side without hesitation, her small warmth grounding him.

He still didn't know what was going to happen with his father. Didn't know if Alexei would listen to Nikolai. Didn't know if there was anything anyone could do from this far away.

But for the first time since those confusing phone calls had started, Ilya felt like maybe – maybe – he didn't have to figure it all out alone.

Maybe it was okay to let someone else help carry the weight.

Maybe that's what family meant.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

"Sorry it's messy," Shane said, closing the door behind them as Ilya entered his apartment. Ilya had to bite back a snort of laughter. Hollander’s version of messy was still far neater than what most of the guys in the league would consider clean. The lock clicked, loud in the quiet apartment. "I wasn't– I didn't think you'd actually come."

It was a nice apartment, large with floor to ceiling glass windows overlooking the city. It was exactly the sort of place Ilya had imagined Hollander living. Snow was falling heavily outside, enough that the cab ride over had been rough, but it hadn’t stopped the game. Ilya was convinced that the greatest blizzard of all time could’ve hit Montreal, and they still would’ve played. Hockey didn’t stop for snow. 

The game had been thrilling, in the way it only ever was playing against Shane. Sure, other games were entertaining, but playing against someone as good as he was, getting to chirp Hollander and watch him blush, pressing him against the boards, that was fun.

"Why not?" Ilya asked, genuinely curious. He'd said he would, hadn't he?

Shane shrugged, and Ilya noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way he was still standing too far away like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to get closer. "I don't know. Thought maybe you'd change your mind. Realize this was crazy."

"I almost did," Ilya admitted, shrugging a little. So maybe, just for a couple of seconds, he’d consider telling the cab driver to keep going. Had sat in silence on the ride over rehearsing excuses he could text to Shane. Something came up. Coach wants to meet. I'm too tired. All lies, but easier than the truth.

"But you didn't."

"No," Ilya replied, swallowing heavily. "I didn't."

Because apparently Ilya's self-preservation instincts had completely abandoned him somewhere between Nashville and Montreal.

They looked at each other, and the air felt charged, heavy with everything they weren't saying. With the risk of this, the stupidity of this, the want that was stronger than either of those things. Ilya could feel his pulse in his throat, could see the way Shane's chest was rising and falling just slightly too fast.

"You want something to drink?" Shane asked, his voice a little too bright, a little too forced. "I have– beer, I think. And water."

Ilya almost laughed. Shane was nervous. Shane Hollander, who'd scored the game-winner tonight and celebrated like he owned the ice, was nervous about this. About Ilya being in his apartment.

"I'm okay," Ilya told him, glancing around the apartment.

It was exactly the type of place he’d imagine the golden boy of Canada living in. 

"Okay." Shane was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, twisting the fabric between his fingers. "So, um—"

"Come here," Ilya demanded, cutting through whatever awkward small talk Shane was about to attempt.

Shane crossed to him immediately, and Ilya kissed him before either of them could overthink this anymore. Shane's mouth was warm, familiar, and he made a small sound when Ilya's hands went to his hips – a sound Ilya remembered, had thought about more than he should have in the weeks since the All-Stars game.

Shane tasted like mint toothpaste and something else, something that was just Shane, and Ilya let himself sink into it. Let himself forget, just for a moment, all the reasons this was a terrible idea.

They kissed for a while, standing in the middle of Shane's apartment, and Ilya felt some of the tension start to drain out of him. This– this he knew how to do. This he could control. The physical was simple. Straightforward. It didn't require him to think about consequences or feelings or what the fuck they were doing.

Shane's hands moved from Ilya's hips to his back, pulling him closer, and Ilya went willingly. One of Shane's hands slid up to cup the back of Ilya's neck, thumb brushing the sensitive skin there, and Ilya shivered despite himself.

“Bed?” Shane asked, once they’d both broken apart, breathing hard.

"Yeah," Ilya agreed, his voice coming out rougher than he'd intended.

Shane's bed was made perfectly, far too many pointless pillows on it that Ilya eagerly chucked out of the way. 

They fell onto it together, still kissing, and Ilya pushed Shane onto his back, straddling him. He liked this – being in control, being able to see Shane's face, watch his reactions. Shane's hands went to Ilya's hips, holding on, thumbs pressing against his hipbones.

"You sure about this?" Ilya asked carefully, looking down into those brown eyes that were probably going to be Ilya's downfall.

"Yeah," Shane replied quietly with a small nod. "Yeah, I'm sure. I just– I want to make sure you are too."

"We go slow," Ilya said, and he meant it. Whatever else this was, whatever complications existed outside this room, he wasn't going to hurt Shane. "Okay? We stop if you don't like it."

"Okay," Shane agreed, and the trust in his voice made Ilya's heart do something complicated.

They took their time. Ilya had been with guys before – with Sasha in Russia, and a stranger in Boston, always quick and furtive and tinged with shame. Where Ilya would leave feeling more empty than satisfied. Where the fear of being caught was almost as strong as the need that had driven him there in the first place.

But this wasn’t the same. Shane wasn't some stranger in a bathroom or a hotel room. Shane was—

He was different.

So Ilya went slow. Kissed Shane until they were both relaxed and wanting, until Shane was making those small sounds again, the ones that drove Ilya crazy. Touched him carefully, paying attention to what made him gasp, what made him arch up into Ilya's hands, what made his breath catch.

Ilya learned that Shane was sensitive along his ribs, that he liked it when Ilya bit his lower lip gently, that he made the best sounds when Ilya's fingers pressed just right. Filed away each reaction, each response, adding them to the growing collection of things Ilya knew about Shane Hollander that had nothing to do with hockey.

He noticed the brown eyes eyeing him nervously, and smirked a bit. 

“Don’t worry, it will fit,” he teased playfully, getting rewarded by Hollander smacking him in annoyance, a bit less on edge than he’d been before. 

"You okay?" Ilya asked when he finally had Shane on his stomach, had worked him open carefully, patiently, taking his time even though his own need was making his hands shake slightly. 

"Yeah," Shane breathed into the pillow. "Yeah, I'm good."

It wasn't perfect. They had to stop once because Shane was too tense, and Ilya talked him through it, voice low and steady, until Shane relaxed again. Had to adjust positions twice because something wasn't working, and they fumbled through it together, Shane laughing awkwardly at one point which somehow made it better.

But it was – good. Real in a way that Ilya's previous experiences had never been. Shane made these small sounds that drove Ilya crazy, little gasps and moans that he seemed unable to control, and when Ilya finally pushed inside, Shane's hand reached back to grip Ilya's hip, holding him there like he needed the anchor.

"Okay?" Ilya asked, not moving, fighting every instinct that was telling him to just take what he needed.

"Yeah," Shane gasped. "Yeah, just– give me a second."

Ilya waited, pressed against Shane's back, feeling his racing heartbeat through his skin, feeling the way Shane's body gradually relaxed around him, and tried very hard not to think about what this meant. Tried not to acknowledge that this felt different than those quick hookups in Russia, different than anything Ilya had experienced before. Tried not to notice that he cared whether Shane was okay, whether this was good for him, whether Shane would want to do this again.

Tried not to notice that he was memorizing every detail of this moment—the way Shane's shoulders looked in the dim light, the sound of his breathing, the feeling of his hand gripping Ilya's hip like Ilya was something worth holding onto.

This was just sex. That's all it was.

When Shane finally relaxed, when he pushed back against Ilya experimentally and made a sound that went straight to Ilya's gut, they found a rhythm. Slow at first, Ilya watching Shane's face in profile, watching for any sign of discomfort. Then faster when Shane started pushing back harder, when his sounds got more desperate, when he started begging in broken sentences that Ilya only half understood but felt in his bones.

Shane's hand twisted in the sheets, his face pressed into the pillow, and Ilya–

Ilya felt like he was falling apart. Like every wall he'd built was crumbling. Like everything he thought he knew about himself, about what he wanted, about what he could let himself have, was being reorganized into something new and terrifying.

After, when they were both catching their breath, lying boneless and sweating, Shane rolled over and looked at Ilya. His hair was completely wrecked, his lips swollen, and he looked – satisfied. Happy. Like this had been exactly what he wanted.

"That was– " Shane started, breathing heavily.

"Yeah," Ilya agreed, cutting him off before Shane could make this into something it wasn't. Before Shane could say something that would force Ilya to acknowledge what was happening here, what this was becoming.

They lay there for a while, not touching, just existing in the same space. Ilya could hear Shane's breathing gradually slow, could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell sex and sweat and Shane's shampoo. He should leave. Should get back to the hotel before someone noticed he was gone. Should definitely leave before this got weird, before they had to talk about what this meant or where it was going or any of the thousand questions Ilya didn't want to answer.

"You can stay if you want," Shane told him quietly, breaking the silence. "Just for a bit."

It was a bad idea. Ilya knew it was. But that didn’t keep him from wanting to say yes. Still, he couldn’t. This was casual. Just a bit of fun. The second they started acting like it was anything more than that, everything would blow up in Ilya’s face. 

Ilya should say no. Staying was dangerous. Staying made this mean something.

"I need to get back," Ilya told him apologetically, already sitting up, putting physical distance between them before he could change his mind.

"Oh," Shane said, and was that disappointment in his voice? It sounded like disappointment, and that made something in Ilya's chest twist uncomfortably. "Okay."

"I have to be back before—" Ilya gestured vaguely, not finishing the sentence. Before what? Before his teammates noticed? Before Murph texted asking where he was? Before Ilya had to face the reality of what he was doing? "Before people notice."

It wasn’t a total lie. The guys were bound to notice he was gone at some point. Sure, they probably assumed he was out with yet another girl, but Ilya wasn’t risking his chances. 

"Right. Yeah. That makes sense."

Ilya got dressed quickly, Shane watching him from the bed. His disappointment hung heavily in the air, so obvious it was impossible to ignore. 

Ilya headed for the door, his hand already on the knob, already planning his escape route back to the hotel, when something made him pause. Maybe it was the look on Shane's face. Maybe it was the way his own chest felt tight at the thought of this being the last time. Maybe he was just an idiot. So, before he could stop himself, the words just slipped out. 

“You can text me,” he informed Hollander, hand still on the door knob.  

“For next time?” Shane asked, tilting his head in confusion. 

Ilya shrugged, pointedly not looking him in the eye. 

“Or just…to text,” he explained stiffly. 

Sure, so far they’d only texted to confirm plans for hooking up, but it didn’t have to be that way. They could text about other things. They could talk.

It wasn’t like Ilya didn’t have anyone he could talk to. He had plenty of people. Nikolai, Sophie, the guys on the team, Svetlana. 

But there would always be a part of himself that he had to hide from them. 

With Hollander, it was easier. Easier to get the words out, to say what he wanted to, to get things off his chest. 

"Yeah?" Shane sat up, and Ilya could hear something hopeful in his expression even without seeing his face.

"Yeah," Ilya confirmed, trying to sound casual, like this didn't matter. "Why not?"

"Okay," Shane agreed. "Yeah. I'll text you."

Ilya left before either of them could say anything else. Before this could turn into a conversation about what they were doing, what this meant, what they were to each other.

Because it didn't mean anything.

It was just sex.

Really good sex, sure. The best sex Ilya had ever had, if he was being honest with himself, which he absolutely was not. But still just sex.

Ilya repeated that to himself the entire drive back to the hotel. Repeated it as he snuck back to his room, as he stood in the shower trying to wash away Shane's scent, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

Just sex.

Nothing more.

He almost believed it.

Chapter End Notes

I decided to go ahead with Shane and Ilya's first planned Montreal hookup in Shane's apartment because when has a hockey game ever been cancelled because of snow?

Chapter 7: chapter seven

Ilya was lying in bed, scrolling through his phone, when it buzzed.

Jane: can't sleep

It was 2:47 AM. They'd both played games earlier that evening—Montreal had beaten Toronto 3-2, Boston had lost to Pittsburgh 4-3. Ilya should be sleeping. Should be resting up for practice tomorrow.

Instead, he was texting Shane Hollander.

Lily: me neither

Jane: bad game?

Lily: we lost. so yes.

Jane: sorry

Lily: not your fault

Jane: still sorry

Jane: you played well though. saw the highlights. that goal was unbelievable

Ilya felt something warm bloom in his chest. Shane had watched his highlights. Had paid attention even though they weren't playing against each other.

He stared at that message for a moment, trying to figure out what to say back. They'd been doing this for weeks now – texting at odd hours, nothing important, just... talking. It was easier than it should be. Easier than talking to anyone else, sometimes.

They texted for another hour. About nothing important – about their teams, about the weather, about the terrible movie Shane had tried to watch on the plane. Easy conversation that felt more natural than it should.

Ilya should put his phone down. Should try to sleep. But he didn't want to stop talking to Shane, didn't want to lose this connection that felt like the only real thing in his life sometimes.

Jane: i should get to sleep

Jane: practice tomorrow

Lily: yeah me too

Jane: night 

Lily: good night hollander

Ilya set his phone down on his nightstand and stared at the ceiling, resolutely ignoring that warm feeling still glowing in his chest.

The locker room was loud with post-practice chatter. Fitzy and Benny were arguing about something stupid, Murph was on the phone with his wife, and half the team was still in various states of undress.

Ilya sat in his stall, freshly showered, and checked his phone.

Jane: laroche is driving me insane

Ilya felt his mouth twitch into a smile. He glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to him before typing back.

Lily: what did he do?

Jane: keeps "accidentally" hitting me with pucks during shooting drills

Jane: i swear he's doing it on purpose

Lily: maybe you just have bad reflexes

Jane: fuck you

Jane: my reflexes are excellent

Ilya actually laughed out loud at that, then quickly tried to cover it with a cough when Murphy glanced over at him.

Lily: sure they are

Jane: i hate you

Lily: no you don't

Ilya watched the bubbles appear on the screen as Shane typed, and he was smiling like an idiot, he knew he was, but he couldn't help it.

Jane: ...no i don't

Jane: but i should

"Who you texting?" Benny asked, suddenly looming over Ilya's shoulder.

Ilya nearly dropped his phone, angling the screen away quickly. "No one. Just my brother."

"Your brother makes you smile like that?" Benny raised an eyebrow. "That's a 'talking to a girl' smile, Rozy."

"It's not—I'm not—" Ilya felt heat flood his face. "Fuck off, Benny."

"Ooh, defensive," Fitzy called from across the room. "Definitely a girl."

"It's my brother," Ilya repeated firmly. "He's being annoying."

Murph eyed him from across the room, the only one who knew the truth. That Ilya hadn’t spoken to Alexei in months, not since Nikolai called him. Whatever the man had said had made his brother finally leave him alone. For now. Thankfully, the captain didn’t call him out on it. 

"If you say so," Benny said with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder before moving away.

Ilya waited until the attention had shifted elsewhere before looking back at his phone.

Lily: guys are being nosy. have to go

Jane: talk later?

Lily: okay

Ilya put his phone away and tried to ignore the way his heart was still racing. This was dangerous. The texting, the smiling, the way he looked forward to Shane's messages more than he should.

But he couldn't seem to stop.

Nattie was sprawled across the couch, her head in Ilya's lap, watching the TV with wide eyes. Some kids' hockey movie that she'd insisted on – Kira and Nell were both at sleepovers, and Sophie and Nikolai had gone out to dinner, leaving Ilya in charge.

"This is the best movie ever," Nattie declared firmly, brown eyes staring at him with the serious intensity she’d inherited from Nikolai.

"It's okay," Ilya replied, running his fingers absently through her hair.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out carefully, trying not to disturb Nattie.

Jane: what are you up to?

Ilya glanced down at Nattie, who was completely absorbed in the movie, and typed back one-handed.

Lily: babysitting Nata, Nik and Sophie are out to dinner

Jane: does the great Ilya Rozanov secretly participate in tea parties?

Ilya snorted quietly. Tea parties. As if Nattie would sit still for something that calm and organized. No, Nattie's idea of playing was turning her stuffed animals into an army and staging elaborate battles across the living room. Last week she'd made Ilya be the "enemy general" while her rabbit led a "dangerous mission" to "capture the kitchen." The week before that, she'd insisted her dolls were astronauts exploring a hostile alien planet (also known as the backyard).

Tea parties were far too boring for Nattie.

Lily: please. Nata is not a tea party girl. We are watching movie

Jane: what movie?

Ilya looked at the TV, trying to remember what Nattie had called it.

Lily: Some children's hockey movie. About ducks?

Jane: MIGHTY DUCKS?!?!?!

Lily: yes that

Jane: it's not just "some" movie. It's a classic

Lily: it is children's movie, Hollander

Jane: how dare you. its a masterpiece

Jane: which one are you watching?

Lily: I don't know. There are more than one?

Jane: there are THREE

Jane: this is a cultural education you're receiving right now 

Jane: keep up

Ilya looked back at the TV, where a bunch of kids in hockey gear were doing something that was probably supposed to be impressive but looked ridiculous.

Lily: they are very small

Jane: they're kids

Jane: that's the point

Lily: why are they called ducks

Jane: because of the sponsor

Lily: this is very complicated for children's movie

"Ilya," Nattie whined, poking his arm. "You're not watching."

"Sorry, malyshka," Ilya said apologetically, putting his phone face-down on the arm of the couch. "I'm watching."

Nattie settled back against him, satisfied, and Ilya tried to focus on the movie. But his phone buzzed again, and he couldn't help but check it.

Jane: nattie mad at you for not paying attention?

Lily: how did you know

Jane: because if i was watching a CLASSIC FILM with you and you were on your phone i'd be mad too

Lily: you are ridiculous

Jane: you like it

And the thing was – Ilya did. He liked Hollander’s enthusiasm for stupid things, liked the way he got excited about kids' movies and terrible jokes. Liked the way Shane texted him at 2 AM just to talk about nothing.

On screen, the kids were doing some elaborate play that Nattie was cheering for. Ilya watched her instead of his phone, watched the way her whole face lit up with joy, and felt something settle in his chest.

This – Nattie in his lap, his phone buzzing with messages from Shane, the knowledge that Nikolai and Sophie would be home soon – this was good.

His phone buzzed again.

Jane: you stopped responding

Jane: nattie definitely yelled at you didn't she

Lily: she made me put phone away

Lily: I am watching very seriously now

Jane: good

Jane: mighty ducks demands your full attention

Ilya put his phone in his pocket and wrapped his arm more securely around Nattie, letting himself get absorbed in the movie. It was ridiculous and over-the-top and completely unrealistic, but Nattie loved it, so it was perfect.

And when his phone buzzed again twenty minutes later, Ilya didn't check it until the movie was over and Nattie had fallen asleep against his shoulder, drooling slightly on his shirt.

Jane: hope the movie was good

Jane: and that nattie didn't give you too much trouble

Ilya looked down at Nattie's sleeping face, so peaceful and trusting, and thought about Shane in Montreal, probably in bed by now, probably waiting for a response.

Lily: movie was fine

Lily: Nata fell asleep

He set his phone aside and carefully shifted Nattie so he could stand up, lifting her into his arms. She felt so small, fitting perfectly against his chest as he carried her upstairs to bed, a barely there weight in his arms.

As he tucked her in, pulling the covers up to her chin and making sure her stuffed rabbit was within reach, Nattie's eyes fluttered open for just a moment.

"Love you, Ilya," she mumbled sleepily.

Ilya froze.

The words hit him like a physical blow, stealing the breath from his lungs. His chest tightened painfully, his throat closing up.

Love you.

When was the last time someone had said those words to him? Not his father – never his father. Not Alexei. Not any of the girls he'd hooked up with on road trips, obviously. Perhaps Sveta, but she didn’t say it often. 

His mother had said it, had told him she loved him every night before bed, had called him her malchik and held him close.

And then she'd died, and no one had said those words to him for a long, long time.

And now Nattie – five-year-old Nattie with her wild imagination and her stuffed animal armies – was saying it like it was simple. Like it was obvious. 

"Love you too, malyshka," Ilya managed to choke out, his voice rough and cracking.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his eyes burning with tears he refused to let fall.

Nattie made a soft sound of contentment and burrowed deeper into her pillow, already asleep again.

Ilya stood there for a moment longer, just watching her breathe, trying to get his own breathing under control.

She loved him.

This tiny person loved him, and she'd said it so easily, like it wasn't the most precious thing anyone had given him in years.

He backed out of the room quietly, closing the door most of the way, and stood in the hallway trying to pull himself together.

Downstairs, he heard the front door open – Nikolai and Sophie coming home. Ilya took a deep breath, wiped at his eyes quickly, and headed down to meet them.

Sophie immediately pulled him into the kitchen to ask how everything went, if Nattie gave him any trouble, if he'd eaten dinner.

"She was perfect," Ilya answered, forcing his voice to come out steady and mostly succeeding. "We watched a movie, and she fell asleep on the couch. I just put her to bed."

"Thank you for watching her," Sophie said warmly, squeezing his arm. "We really appreciate it."

"It's no problem," Ilya replied honestly, shrugging a bit. "I like spending time with her."

With all of them. With this family that had somehow become his.

Normal. Easy. Family.

His phone stayed in his pocket for the rest of the night, but Ilya knew there'd be a message from Shane waiting when he checked it later. 

There always was.

The season ended on a Tuesday in Philadelphia.

They lost to the Flyers 5-2, and with that loss, their playoff hopes officially died. The math had been against them for weeks, but there'd still been that slim possibility, that mathematical chance that had kept hope alive. Now it was gone.

O'Reilly gave them a speech in the locker room afterward about next year, about learning from this, about how they were a young team and they'd get there. His voice was steady, encouraging, the voice of a coach who believed in his players even when they'd fallen short.

Ilya sat in his stall and tried not to feel like a failure.

The disappointment was there, yes. The frustration at coming so close but not close enough. The what-ifs that would plague him all summer – what if he'd been faster on that play, what if he'd made that pass, what if, what if, what if.

But underneath the disappointment about playoffs was something else. Something heavier.

Fear.

Because the season ending meant summer. And summer meant– what? Most billets were only for one season. Surely Nikolai and Sophie would expect him to move out. To find his own place. To stop taking up space in their home, in their lives, in their family.

The thought made his chest ache worse than the playoff loss.

He'd been preparing himself for this for weeks. Had been trying to build up the courage to bring it up, to thank them for everything and assure them he'd find somewhere else to live next season. Had been dreading the conversation more than he'd ever dreaded anything on the ice.

Because leaving the house on Beacon Hill, leaving Sophie's cooking and Nikolai's quiet presence and the girls' chaos – leaving all of that felt worse than any hockey loss could ever feel.

"Hey," Fitzy said, dropping down next to him. "Don't look so depressed. First season, kid. You did good."

"We didn't make playoffs," Ilya pointed out, as though that had somehow escaped Fitzy’s notice, his voice flat.

"Yeah, but you had– what was it, Murph?" Fitzy called across the room.

"Fifty-two goals, fifty-four assists," Murphy supplied without looking up from unlacing his skates. "One hundred and six points. Calder finalist."

"See?" Fitzy said, elbowing Ilya gently. "Not bad at all."

"Could've been better," Ilya muttered, because it was easier to focus on hockey disappointment than the other kind.

"It's always could've been better," Benny piped up from across the locker room, his voice carrying that wisdom of someone who'd been in the league for a decade. "That's hockey. But Rozy – you had a hell of a season. Be proud of it."

Ilya tried to be proud. Tried to focus on the good – the goals, the assists, the moments when everything had clicked and he'd felt unstoppable on the ice. The fact that he was a Calder finalist, that he'd exceeded everyone's expectations, that he'd proven he belonged in this league.

But mostly, he just felt tired.

And scared.

"Roz?" Fitzy was looking at him with concern. "You okay, kid?"

"Just tired," Ilya lied, forcing himself to start unlacing his skates. "Long season."

"It's been a brutal one," Murph agreed. "Go home. Get some rest. We'll see you at the end-of-season party this weekend."

Home. The word settled strangely in Ilya's chest. Was Boston still home if he'd have to leave it? Or was Moscow home, even though the thought of going back there made him want to throw up?

Or was it just – nowhere, again?

The team gathered at Murphy's house for their annual end-of-season party. Wives, girlfriends, kids – everyone was there, filling Murphy's spacious backyard with noise and laughter and the smell of grilling meat.

Ilya arrived with the Petrovs. Sophie had made her famous potato salad, Nikolai was carrying a case of beer, and the girls immediately scattered to find their friends among the players' kids.

"Rozy!" Benny called out, waving him over to where he and Fitzy were manning the grill. "Get over here and help us. We need someone who actually knows what they're doing."

"I know what I'm doing," Fitzy protested, waving a spatula defensively.

"You just burned three burgers," Benny pointed out.

"They're not burned, they're– charred. It's a flavor profile."

"That's the same thing as burned," Ilya said, taking the spatula from Fitzy's hand. "Move. Before you burn down Murph's house."

"See, this is the problem with kids today," Fitzy complained, but he was grinning. "No respect for their elders."

"You're like twenty-six," Ilya pointed out.

"Exactly. Ancient. Decrepit. One foot in the grave."

They fell into easy banter, and Ilya felt himself relax for the first time in days. This was good. This was– normal. Family, almost.

Except it wasn't really his family, was it? He was just – borrowing theirs. Temporarily.

Murphy appeared with a beer for each of them, pressing one into Ilya's hand, who took it gleefully, happy Murph had apparently decided to ignore the fact that he was under 21 for once. "Good season, guys. I mean it. We didn't make playoffs, but we're building something here. You can feel it."

"Next year," Benny agreed, clinking his bottle against Murphy's.

"Next year," they all echoed.

Ilya took a sip of his beer and tried to believe it. Tried to imagine next year, playing for the Bears again. Tried to imagine where he'd be living, what his life would look like.

The uncertainty made his stomach churn.

Murphy threw an arm around Ilya's shoulders as they walked toward the picnic tables, casual and easy in a way that still sometimes surprised Ilya. "I'm proud of you, you know that? Really proud.”

Ilya felt his throat go tight. "Thanks, Murph."

Murphy ruffled his hair – a gesture that would've made Ilya flinch a year ago but now just made him feel warm and cared for – and Ilya had to look away before the captain could see how much the words affected him.

"Also," Fitzy added with a grin, joining them with a plate piled high with food, "you stopped being such an asshole. That helped."

"He’s still an asshole," Connors retorted, no real heat behind his words. 

"Yeah, but now he’s our asshole," Benny argued, coming up behind them with his own plate. "There's a difference."

"Big difference," Murphy agreed, smirking teasingly as he ruffled Ilya’s hair once more, this time being purposefully aggressive about it. 

"I hate all of you," Ilya informed them, attempting to seem mad but unable to keep the smile off of his face. 

Later, when the sun was setting and people were starting to head home, when the younger kids had been collected by tired parents and the older kids were running around with flashlights in the gathering dusk, Ilya found himself sitting with Nikolai on Murphy's deck.

They were both nursing beers, not really drinking them, just holding them as an excuse to sit in comfortable silence. Below them, Nattie was playing with Rodriguez's daughter, their laughter carrying up through the evening air.

"You played well this season," Nikolai told him quietly, breaking the silence. "I know you wanted the playoffs, but you should be proud of what you accomplished."

"Thanks," Ilya said, taking a sip of his beer that he didn't really taste.

The silence stretched between them, comfortable but weighted. Nikolai seemed to be waiting for something, and Ilya knew what it was. Knew this conversation had to happen eventually.

Might as well get it over with.

"Next season—" Ilya stopped, swallowed hard. His heart was pounding. "I should probably find my own place, right? For next year. I mean, I'll be nineteen soon. Most billets only stay one season and I—" His voice cracked slightly. "I don't want to overstay my welcome."

There. He'd said it. Had given Nikolai the easy out, the polite excuse to agree, to help him find an apartment somewhere and move on with their lives.

Nikolai turned to look at him, and there was something complicated in his expression. Something Ilya couldn't quite read in the fading light.

"Is that what you want?" Nikolai asked carefully, and Ilya cursed, not for the first time, how difficult the man was to read. "Your own place?"

"I don't–" Ilya stopped, his throat tight. He couldn't say what he actually wanted. Couldn't say that the thought of leaving made him feel like he was drowning. "I don't know. I just– you've done so much for me already. You and Sophie and the girls. I don't want to be a burden. I don't want to– to take advantage of your kindness."

The words felt inadequate. Felt like they couldn't possibly convey the weight of what he was feeling – the gratitude and the fear and the desperate hope that maybe, somehow, they'd tell him he could stay.

"Ilya," Nikolai said, and his voice was firm in a way that made Ilya look at him. "You're not a burden. You've never been a burden."

"But—"

"No buts," Nikolai interrupted, and there was something almost fierce in his tone now. "If you want your own place because you want independence, because you want your own space, because you're ready for that, that– that's fine. We'll help you find something good, somewhere safe. But if you're leaving because you think you should, because you think we don't want you there anymore–" He stopped, shook his head. "That's not happening."

Ilya stared at him, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. "You don't– you don't mind if I stay?"

"Mind?" Nikolai repeated, and there was something almost incredulous in his voice. Like the question itself was absurd. "Kid, Sophie would probably cry if you moved out. The girls would stage a rebellion. Nattie's already told everyone at school that you're her big brother. And I–" He paused, and Ilya saw him choose his words carefully. "I like having you there. You're part of our family now. Part of our life. The house would feel wrong without you in it."

Ilya felt something crack open in his chest. Relief, so overwhelming it was almost painful. "Yeah?" he managed, his voice rough.

"Yeah," Nikolai confirmed, his voice soft now. Gentle. "So if you want to stay, you stay. For as long as you want. And I mean that. This isn't– we're not just being polite. We want you there."

Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice. He could feel tears threatening and blinked them back hard, staring out at the darkening yard so Nikolai wouldn't see.

They sat in silence for a moment, and Ilya felt the fear that had been sitting in his chest for weeks start to loosen, start to ease.

He could stay. They wanted him to stay.

"What about summer?" Nikolai asked after a moment, his voice careful. "You planning on going back to Moscow?"

"I don't know," Ilya admitted, the relief of the previous conversation making him more honest than he might otherwise have been. "I should probably visit. See my father, see Alexei. But—"

"But you don't want to," Nikolai finished.

"No," Ilya confessed quietly, the words slipping out into the dark night. "I really don't."

He expected Nikolai to tell him he should go anyway. That family was important, that he had obligations, that he needed to maintain those relationships even if they were difficult.

That's what his father would have said. What Alexei had said, the few times Ilya had tried to talk to him about it.

But Nikolai was quiet for a long moment, seeming to think about his words carefully.

"I don't like the thought of you going back there," Nikolai said finally, and there was something heavy in his voice. Something protective. "For the summer, I mean. Being there for months with him."

Ilya's chest went tight. "Nik—"

"I'm not going to stop you," Nikolai continued, cutting him off gently. "It's your choice. Your family, your decision. If you want to go, if you feel like you need to go, I'll support that. But–" He stopped, and when he continued, his voice was rough. "I don't think you're safe there. And I can't make you stay here. But I need you to know that I don't think you should go."

I don't think you're safe there.

The words hit Ilya like a physical blow. He stared at Nikolai, something painful twisting in his chest.

His own father had never cared about his safety. Had never asked if Ilya felt safe, if he was okay, if he needed help. Grigori had been the source of danger, not the protection from it. Had been the person Ilya needed to be safe from, not safe with.

And here was Nikolai – not even his real father, just the man who'd taken him in when he'd had nowhere else to go – saying he was worried. Saying he didn't think Ilya was safe. Saying he wanted Ilya to stay.

Caring about whether Ilya lived or died in a way Grigori never had.

"Stay here," Nikolai suggested, and his voice was soft now. Almost gentle. "Stay with us for the summer. We want you to stay, malchik."

Ilya felt his eyes sting, felt tears threatening for real now. He tried to blink them back but one escaped, tracking down his cheek before he could stop it.

"Thank you," he managed, his voice breaking. "Thank you, I—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't articulate what this meant to him—that someone cared enough to worry, to notice, to want him safe.

Nikolai's arm came around his shoulders, tugging him closer, and Ilya let himself lean into it. Let himself accept the comfort, the affection, the care.

"You're ours, you know," Nikolai told him quietly, his arm still around Ilya's shoulders, solid and warm and safe. "For as long as you'll have us."

Ilya couldn't speak past the lump in his throat, so he just nodded against Nikolai's shoulder.

But inside, he was thinking: Forever. I'd have you forever if I could.

But he couldn’t. Ilya knew he couldn’t.

Chapter 8: chapter eight

September, 1993

The bookstore was quiet on Tuesday afternoons, which Sophie appreciated. It gave her time to actually read instead of just shelving books, gave her space to work on her political science readings for Columbia without her roommate's constant chatter as distraction.

She was twenty-two years old, in her final year of undergrad, and still wasn't entirely sure what she wanted to do with her life. Political science had seemed practical – her advisor had suggested law school, maybe government work. But it was her minor in Russian literature that actually made her excited. The ones that made her want to keep learning, to dig deeper, to understand not just the language but the culture, the history, the soul of it all. But that didn't exactly translate to a career path. Hence the political science degree and the vague plans for grad school that she kept putting off thinking about too hard.

She was restocking the foreign language section when she heard a throat clear behind her.

"Excuse me," came a voice, accented and deep. "Do you have anything in Russian?"

Sophie didn't turn around immediately, scanning the shelf in front of her. "We have Crime and Punishment in English, but it's a shitty translation."

She heard a huff of surprised laughter behind her – warm and genuine, like he hadn't expected her bluntness. "Why is it shitty?"

Sophie turned around to explain and–

Oh.

The thought came unbidden, immediate, stealing her breath for just a moment.

He was tall – easily over six feet – with broad shoulders that filled out his leather jacket in a way that suggested athlete rather than gym membership. Mid-twenties, probably, with wavy brown hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it more than once today, leaving it slightly mussed in a way that was entirely too appealing. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, the kind of face that would photograph well but was even better in person.

But it was his eyes that really got her.

Soft brown, warm like honey in the afternoon light filtering through the bookstore windows. Not just one shade of brown but layers of it – lighter near the center with flecks of gold, darker around the edges. The kind of eyes that looked like they'd be warm to touch, if that were possible. Kind eyes. Intelligent eyes.

Sophie had always been a complete sucker for brown eyes.

Her brain short-circuited for a moment, her carefully prepared explanation about translation theory evaporating as she just– looked at him.

He was looking back, and Sophie saw something flicker in his expression. Interest, maybe. Or amusement at her sudden silence.

She gathered herself, forcing her brain to start working again.

"The– the translation," she said, trying to remember what they'd been talking about. Right. Dostoevsky. She could do this. She'd written a whole paper on this. "It completely misses Dostoevsky's nuance. The translator tried to make it too accessible for American audiences and lost all the psychological complexity. It reads like– like a thriller instead of a character study."

There. That was coherent. Professional, even.

"You've read the original?" he asked, and there was interest in his voice now. Curiosity. He'd stepped slightly closer and Sophie caught his scent – something clean and masculine, soap maybe, mixed with leather from his jacket.

"I studied Russian in college," Sophie explained, pulling the book off the shelf anyway because at least it gave her something to do with her hands. "Well, I'm still in college. Columbia. Political science major, but I have a minor in Russian literature. Once you've read Dostoevsky in the original, the English translations just– they don't capture it."

She was rambling. She was definitely rambling. But he didn't seem to mind, his expression attentive as he listened.

"You speak Russian?" He sounded impressed, and Sophie felt a small flutter of pleasure at that.

"Not as well as I used to," Sophie admitted, turning to hand him the book. "I'm rusty. I don't get to practice much here, and if you don't use it–" She shrugged. "But yes. I can hold a conversation, read literature, understand the news."

He took the book, his fingers brushing against hers briefly, and Sophie felt that touch like a spark. His hands were large, she noticed. Strong-looking, with calluses on the palms and a few small scars across the knuckles. Working hands. Hands that did things.

Get it together, she told herself firmly. He's just a customer.

A really attractive customer with kind eyes and an accent that was doing things to her pulse.

"Your Russian is probably better than my English," he said, smiling slightly – just a small upturn at the corners of his mouth, but it transformed his whole face. Made him go from handsome to devastating. "I've been here five years and I still make mistakes."

"Your English sounds pretty good to me," Sophie told him honestly. He had an accent, yes – Russian, clearly – but his grammar was solid, his vocabulary stronger than most Americans. "Really good, actually. Better than a lot of people I know who've been here their whole lives."

"Maybe that says more about them than it does about me" he retorted with a grin, and there was something warm in his eyes that made Sophie's stomach flip. "I'm Nikolai."

"Sophie," she said, shaking his extended hand. His grip was warm and firm, his palm slightly calloused in a way that made her wonder what he did for a living. The calluses felt like they came from holding something – a tool, maybe, or–

"Are you– are you visiting New York?" she asked, trying not to seem too invested in the answer. "Or do you live here?"

"I live here now," Nikolai explained, hesitating for a moment before continuing. "I play hockey."

Oh. That explained the calluses. Hockey stick. And the build – of course he was an athlete.

"Oh," Sophie exclaimed aloud, pieces clicking into place. Russian. Athletic build. Five years in America. "Oh! You're Nikolai Petrov. The center."

His eyebrows raised, clearly surprised, and Sophie saw something flash across his face – pleasure, maybe, that she knew who he was. Or maybe just surprise that she followed hockey at all.

"You know hockey?" he asked, tilting his head a bit.

"My dad loves hockey," Sophie explained, feeling herself relax slightly. This she could talk about. This was safe territory. "I grew up watching games with him. He's obsessed. Has been since he was a kid. We'd watch every game we could – Bears, Admirals, didn't matter. And the Olympics, always the Olympics. You scored the winning goal in the '88 Olympics, right? Against Canada?"

Something complicated crossed Nikolai's face – pride mixed with something else. Nostalgia, maybe. Or homesickness. The Olympics had been in Calgary, Sophie remembered. And that had been less than – what, a year before everything changed? Before the Baltic Way, before Gorbachev ended the Brezhnev Doctrine, before the Berlin Wall fell. 

"Yeah," Nikolai answered softly, nodding ever so slightly, and his voice was softer now. “That was me.”

"That's incredible," Sophie said genuinely. "My dad was so mad when the Soviets won – well, he's American, you know, so he was rooting for Canada because at least they weren't the Soviets. But even he said it was some of the best hockey he'd ever seen. That goal was–" She stopped, realizing she was probably gushing. Heat crept up her neck. "Sorry. I'm rambling."

"No, please," Nikolai assured her, and his smile had widened, reaching his eyes now and making them crinkle slightly at the corners. "It’s nice to meet someone who knows hockey. Who understands what it–" He gestured vaguely. "What it means. Winning for your country."

Sophie found herself smiling back, feeling the last of her nervousness fade. "You defected, didn’t you?”

It was a bold question, maybe too personal for a first conversation, but Nikolai didn't seem offended.

"Yes," he answered simply, a complicated mix of emotions flashing across his face. "Right after. Took the opportunity while I could. I–" He paused, seemed to choose his words carefully. "It was the right choice. For me."

Sophie heard the weight behind those words. The things he wasn't saying. The family left behind, the life abandoned, the decision that couldn't be unmade.

"That must have been hard," she commented softly.

"It wasn’t easy," Nikolai agreed. "But necessary, I think.”

They stood there for a moment, something unspoken passing between them. Understanding, maybe. Or just– connection. The recognition of a kindred spirit.

"So," Sophie said, breaking the moment before it could get too heavy. "You've been with the Admirals for four seasons?"

"Yes. Since '88." Nikolai's expression lightened. "It’s a good team. Good city. I like New York."

They talked for another twenty minutes, right there in the foreign language section. Customers browsed around them, Maria shot Sophie curious looks from the register, but Sophie barely noticed. She was too caught up in conversation, in learning about the man in front of her.

She learned that he read voraciously – Russian literature, American classics, history, even poetry though he seemed slightly embarrassed to admit that last one. That he called his mother in Moscow every Sunday without fail, even though the calls were expensive and sometimes the line was terrible. That he missed Russian food desperately, especially his mother's blini and pelmeni. That he'd been learning English since he was a teenager but still struggled with idioms and slang. That he took his coffee black because he found American milk too sweet, whatever that meant. 

Sophie told him about growing up in a small coastal town north of Boston and feeling like the city was both exhilarating and overwhelming. About growing up with three brothers and no sisters. About her roommate who thought Sophie was crazy for studying Russian—"who's going to hire you for that?"—and her parents who were supportive but clearly worried about her job prospects.

Nikolai listened with complete attention, asking questions that showed he was actually interested, not just being polite. When she talked about Dostoevsky, he engaged with her analysis. When she mentioned her paper on Crime and Punishment, he wanted to know her thesis. When she admitted she was thinking about grad school but wasn't sure what to study, he didn't offer unsolicited advice, just asked thoughtful questions.

It felt– easy. Natural. Like talking to someone she'd known for years instead of twenty minutes.

Finally, reluctantly, Nikolai glanced at his watch – it was a nice watch, Sophie noticed, simple and elegant – and his expression shifted to something like regret.

"I should– I have practice soon. Coach gets angry if we're late." He paused, and Sophie saw him take a breath, like he was gathering courage. "But I would like to see you again. Maybe dinner? This week?"

Sophie's heart jumped, doing a little flip in her chest that was probably embarrassing but she couldn't help it.

"I'd like that," she said, trying to sound calm and casual instead of desperately eager.

"Saturday?" Nikolai suggested. "I could pick you up. If you give me your number."

Sophie wrote her number on a bookmark from the counter, trying to keep her hands from shaking with excitement. Her handwriting came out slightly messier than usual, and she hoped he could read it.

"Saturday," she confirmed, handing him the bookmark. "Call me."

"I will," Nikolai promised, and the way he said it – serious, certain – made Sophie believe him.

He bought the Dostoevsky anyway, leaving with a small wave and a smile that made Sophie's knees a little weak, the bell above the door chiming as he walked out into the September afternoon.

Sophie stood there for a moment, just staring at the door, the book-lined shop suddenly feeling too small to contain everything she was feeling.

January, 1994

Sophie had learned a lot about Nikolai Petrov in three months.

She'd learned that he took his coffee black, that he read voraciously in both Russian and English, that he was quietly funny in a way that snuck up on you. She'd learned that he was fiercely loyal to his teammates, that he had a scar on his left shoulder from a hockey fight that had gone too far.

But mostly, she'd learned that there were two Nikolais.

There was the Nikolai the world saw – quiet, intense, somewhat intimidating. The Nikolai who gave terse answers in post-game interviews, who had a reputation for being serious and focused. The Nikolai who walked into a room and made it go quiet, whose presence commanded respect without him saying a word.

And then there was the Nikolai she got to see.

They were at a coffee shop in Greenwich Village, tucked into a corner booth on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Nikolai was reading the sports section of the Times, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked through the English. Sophie was supposedly reading a book for her grad school seminar – she'd decided to apply after all, for Russian literature, because life was too short to study things that didn't make her excited – but she kept getting distracted.

By him.

By the way the gray light from the window caught in his hair, highlighting those hints of curl that he tried so hard to tame. By the line of his jaw, strong and defined, with just the faintest shadow of stubble because it was Sunday and he hadn't shaved. By his hands, large and scarred from years of hockey, surprisingly gentle as they turned the pages. By the little furrow between his eyebrows when he encountered a word he didn't know, the way his lips moved slightly as he sounded it out.

By his eyes.

God, his eyes.

Sophie had always been a sucker for brown eyes, but Nikolai's were something else entirely. They weren't just brown – they were layers, depths, whole worlds. In bright light, they were the color of warm honey, amber with flecks of gold near the pupil that caught the sun and shimmered. In dimmer light, they went darker, deeper, the brown of aged whiskey or strong coffee. Rich and complex and infinitely deep, the kind of brown you could drown in if you weren't careful.

She could stare into his eyes for hours and never get bored. Could map the small ring of darker brown around the iris, could trace the way the gold flecks scattered like stars, could lose herself in the warmth she found there. Could watch the way they changed with his moods – lighter when he was happy, darker when he was thinking hard, soft and warm when he looked at her.

When Nikolai looked at her – really looked at her – she felt seen in a way she'd never experienced before. Like he was cataloging every detail, committing her to memory, treating the sight of her like something precious. Like she mattered. Like she was worth his full attention, his complete focus, all the intensity he was capable of.

It was intoxicating. And a little terrifying. And absolutely wonderful.

"What?" Nikolai asked, glancing up and catching her staring.

"Nothing," Sophie said, but she was smiling, couldn't help smiling, because how could she not when he looked at her like that?

"You're looking at me," Nikolai pointed out, and there was that hint of amusement in his voice that most people never heard. That softness that was just for her. The corner of his mouth quirked up, not quite a smile but close.

"I'm allowed to look at my boyfriend," Sophie countered, feeling bold. They'd been using that word for a month now, but it still gave her a little thrill every time.

"Boyfriend," Nikolai repeated, testing the word. His accent made it sound exotic, special, the syllables shaped differently in his mouth. "Is strange word. In Russian, we would say парень" He said something in Russian that Sophie didn't quite catch, the words flowing together in a way that made her wish she was more fluent. She could read the language far better than she could understand it these days

"Young man?"

"Mm-hm,'" Nikolai confirmed with a nod. "But it means someone you are serious about. Someone you are considering for–" He gestured vaguely, and Sophie saw pink creep across his cheekbones. "For future."

Sophie's heart did a small flip, that organ apparently determined to react physically to every romantic thing this man said. "Is that what I am? Someone you're considering for future?"

Nikolai set down his newspaper completely now, giving her his full attention. When he looked at her like this – direct, intense, unwavering – it was almost overwhelming. Like being in a spotlight, except instead of harsh and exposing, it was warm. Safe. Like standing in sunshine.

"Sophie," he said, his voice low and serious, and she loved the way he said her name. "I was considering you for my future the moment you told me the Dostoevsky translation was terrible."

She laughed, delighted, the sound bursting out of her before she could contain it. "Really? That's what did it?"

"You were smart," Nikolai explained simply, but the way he was looking at her suggested there was nothing simple about it at all. "And beautiful. And you spoke Russian. And you—" He paused, seeming to search for words, his brow furrowing in that way that made her want to smooth the wrinkle with her thumb. "You looked at me like I was just a man. Not a hockey player. Not Russian. Not a defector or Olympic gold medalist or any of the things people usually see. Just…me."

Sophie felt something warm bloom in her chest, spreading through her like honey. "You are just a man," she pointed out softly.

"Yes," Nikolai agreed. "But not everyone sees that. They see–" He gestured vaguely. "They see what I was. What I did. The politics of it. The story. You just saw me."

Sophie reached across the table and took his hand. His palm was warm, calloused from holding a hockey stick for hours every day, and when his fingers closed around hers, she felt safe in a way that was hard to articulate. Grounded. Like everything else could be chaos but this – this connection between them – was solid.

"I see you," she promised.

Nikolai's expression softened – that transformation that still took her breath away, the way his entire face changed when he let his guard down. The intensity remained, but it was tempered with something gentler. Something vulnerable. Something that was just for her.

His eyes went from serious to warm, the brown lightening slightly, the gold flecks catching the weak winter sun through the coffee shop window. 

"I know," he told her quietly. "That's why I love you."

Sophie's breath caught. They hadn't said those words yet. Had been dancing around them for weeks, but neither had taken the leap. She'd felt it, had known she was in love with him probably since their third date, but saying it felt – big. Important. Irrevocable.

"You love me?" she whispered.

"Of course," Nikolai said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like it was as obvious as gravity or the sunrise. 

"I love you too," Sophie replied, and her voice came out rough with emotion, thick with all the feelings she'd been carrying around for weeks.

Nikolai smiled – a real smile, the kind that showed his teeth and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. The kind of smile that transformed him from intimidating to beautiful. From the serious Olympic athlete to just– Nikolai. Her Nikolai.

"Good," he said, bringing her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, his lips warm against her skin. "Then we are – what is the word – on the same page?"

"Yes," Sophie confirmed, laughing even as her eyes stung with happy tears. "We're definitely on the same page."

And sitting there in that coffee shop in Greenwich Village, the rain pattering against the windows, Nikolai's hand warm in hers, Sophie thought: This is it. This is the person I'm going to spend my life with.

She didn't say it out loud. It was too soon, too fast, they'd only been dating three months. But she felt it, bone-deep and certain.

This was forever.

May, 1994

They drove up to Manchester-by-the-Sea together on a Saturday afternoon, windows down, the spring air warm and salty as they got closer to the coast.

Sophie had been nervous about this for weeks. Her parents were important to her—she called them every Sunday, visited as often as she could, valued their opinion on everything from career choices to whether she should cut her hair. And this was Nikolai. The man she was in love with. The man she was planning a future with. She needed them to like him. Needed them to see what she saw – the kindness underneath the intensity, the gentle soul behind the serious exterior.

"You're nervous," Nikolai observed, glancing over at her. His hand was on the gearshift, close enough that Sophie reached over and laced their fingers together.

"A little," she admitted.

"Your parents will hate me," Nikolai said, but there was a hint of humor in his voice that suggested he didn't entirely believe it.

"They won't hate you," Sophie assured him. "They're going to love you."

"How do you know?"

"Because I love you," Sophie said simply. "And they want me to be happy. And you make me happy."

Nikolai squeezed her hand, bringing it to his lips briefly before putting his hand back on the gearshift. "I hope you're right."

Manchester-by-the-Sea was exactly as Sophie had described it – a small coastal town where everyone knew everyone, where the biggest events were the annual lobster festival and the Fourth of July fireworks. Her parents lived in a small house three blocks from the ocean, the kind of place that had been in her mother's family for generations. Weathered shingles, a porch with rocking chairs, a garden that her mother tended obsessively.

Home.

They pulled into the driveway and Sophie's dad appeared on the porch before they'd even turned off the engine. He was wearing his usual weekend uniform – jeans, a flannel shirt, an apron that proclaimed him "The Grill Master."

"Sophie!" he called out, grinning. "And you must be the famous Nikolai!"

They got out of the car and Sophie's dad came down the porch steps, hand extended. "Tom Brennan," he introduced himself. "Though I figure you probably knew that already."

"Nikolai Petrov," Nikolai replied, shaking her father's hand. "It’s good to meet you, sir."

"None of that sir business," her dad argued, waving a hand dismissively. "It's Tom. Come on, come in. Elle’s been cooking all morning. Fair warning – she's made enough food to feed an army."

They walked into the house and Sophie was immediately hit with the smell of home – her mother's famous pot roast, fresh bread, apple pie cooling on the counter. Her mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and immediately pulled Sophie into a hug.

"Hi, sweetheart," she greeted, then turned to Nikolai with a warm smile. "And you must be Nikolai. Sophie's told us so much about you."

"All good things, I hope," Nikolai said, and Sophie was pleased to hear his voice was steady, confident.

"Mostly," her mother teased. "Come in, sit down. Dinner's almost ready. Sophie, show him around while I finish up."

Sophie gave Nikolai the tour – the house was small enough that it didn't take long. She showed him the living room with its worn but comfortable furniture, the photos on the walls chronicling her childhood. The kitchen where she'd learned to bake from her mother. The back porch with its view of the ocean.

"It's beautiful," Nikolai told her, standing on the porch and looking out at the water. "I understand why you missed it."

Dinner was– good. Better than good. Her father asked Nikolai about hockey, about the Olympics, and didn't make it weird or political, just genuinely interested in the sport. They talked about the differences between Soviet and American training methods, about Nikolai's adjustment to life in the States, about the Admirals' chances next season.

"I watched you in the '88 Olympics," her dad said, passing the potatoes. "That goal you scored against Canada in the final? Beautiful. Just beautiful. Though I gotta tell you, we Americans are still pretty pissed about that loss."

Sophie winced internally. Her dad meant it as a joke, he was always like this, but Nikolai was so serious sometimes, so careful with his words, and she worried he'd take it the wrong way–

But Nikolai's mouth quirked into a small smile. "Well," he said, his accent thick but his tone light, "the Russians are still pissed about ‘80. So I think we're even."

Her dad laughed, delighted, and Sophie let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Nikolai caught her eye across the table and winked, and she fell a little more in love with him right there at her parents' dining room table.

Her mother asked about Sophie's grad school applications, about Nikolai's family in Russia, about their apartment in New York. She was warm and welcoming in the way that only Eleanore Brennan could be, making Nikolai feel like part of the family from the first moment.

After dinner, they all walked down to the beach together, the sun setting over the water, painting everything gold and pink and orange.

"Your parents are wonderful," Nikolai remarked quietly as they walked behind her parents along the shoreline, their shoes off, feet sinking into the sand.

"They like you too," Sophie said. "I can tell."

"How can you tell?"

"Because my dad's already planning fishing trips with you," Sophie said, smiling. "And my mom invited you to Thanksgiving. Trust me – you're in."

"Good," Nikolai declared firmly, taking her hand. The ocean breeze blew his hair around, and the setting sun caught in his eyes, turning them amber-gold. "Because I—" He stopped, seemed to gather himself. "Because this is important to me. You're important to me. Your family is important to me."

Sophie squeezed his hand, understanding what he was trying to say. That he was thinking long-term. That he wanted to be part of this – her family, her life, everything.

And watching the sunset over the ocean, Nikolai's hand warm in hers, her parents walking ahead of them talking about god knows what, Sophie thought: This is it. This is my future, right here.

December, 1994

They were walking through Central Park, the city decorated for Christmas, the air cold enough that Sophie could see her breath misting in front of her.

Nikolai had been quiet all evening. Not distant, exactly, but – preoccupied. Like he was thinking about something important. They'd had dinner at a nice Italian place in Midtown, then decided to walk through the park even though it was freezing, because Sophie loved seeing the city at Christmas.

"You okay?" Sophie asked, tucking her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow. "You've been quiet."

Granted, Nikolai had always been the quieter half of their relationship, but he was unusually quiet tonight. 

"Fine," Nikolai assured her, squeezing her arm gently. "I just– I want to show you something."

He led her to Bow Bridge, the same place they'd walked on their third date. The bridge was strung with white lights that reflected off the water below, the city skyline glittering in the distance.

"This is where I knew," Nikolai told quietly, stopping in the middle of the bridge.

"Knew what?"

"That I loved you," he said, turning to face her. The Christmas lights caught in his eyes, making them shine. "We were walking here and you were telling me about your thesis, and you were so passionate about it, so smart, so– so beautiful. And I thought–" He stopped, took a breath. "I thought, 'I'm going to marry this woman.'"

Sophie's heart was racing now, her breath coming faster, and it wasn't from the cold. "Nik–"

"I know we've only been together a year," Nikolai continued, and his voice was steady despite the nerves she could see in his face. "I know some people will say it's too fast. But Soph– you're it for me. You're everything I want. And I—" He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box.

Sophie's breath caught.

Nikolai knelt down on the bridge, right there in the middle of tourists and Christmas lights and the cold December night, and opened the box.

Inside was a ring – simple, elegant, a solitaire diamond on a gold band. Beautiful. Perfect.

And Sophie looked into his eyes – those soft brown eyes that had captivated her in the bookstore over a year ago – and felt like she was falling all over again.

In the lamplight they were the color of warm caramel, rich and deep, with those flecks of gold scattered throughout like stars in a night sky. The ring of darker brown around the edge made them look even deeper, more infinite. Eyes she could look into for the rest of her life and never get tired of. Eyes that were looking at her right now with such love, such hope, such certainty that she was what he wanted.

She could see her whole future in those eyes. Could see children with brown eyes like their father's. Could see growing old together, those eyes getting laugh lines at the corners, getting softer with age but never losing their warmth.

Could see home.

"Sophie Brennan," Nikolai said, his voice strong and clear despite the cold, despite the nerves. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes," Sophie answered immediately, not even needing to think about it. "Yes, of course yes, a thousand times yes."

Nikolai's face broke into the biggest smile she'd ever seen on him – pure joy, unguarded and bright. He stood, slipping the ring onto her finger with hands that shook slightly, and kissed her while people around them clapped and cheered.

The ring fit perfectly.

"I love you," he murmured against her lips, grinning, his words soft as a prayer.

"I love you too," Sophie replied, and she was crying now, happy tears freezing slightly on her cheeks in the December air. "So much.”

They stood there on Bow Bridge, wrapped in each other's arms, and Sophie felt like her heart might burst from happiness.

This was it. This was everything.

This was the beginning of the rest of their lives.

March, 1997

The miscarriages hurt.

Not just physically – though that was bad enough, the cramping and bleeding and visits to the hospital, the sympathetic looks from doctors who said "these things happen" like that made it better. But the emotional toll was worse. The hope every time the test came back positive, the cautious optimism, the careful way she and Nikolai would start planning. And then – nothing. Loss. Grief. Starting over.

Two years of trying. Two years of hope and disappointment, of watching Nikolai's face try to stay strong for her while she saw the devastation in his eyes. Those soft brown eyes that usually held such warmth going dark with worry every time she had to tell him it hadn't worked, they'd lost another one.

"We can stop trying," Nikolai told her softly one night after the third miscarriage, holding her while she cried. "If this is– if this is too hard. We don't need children to be happy. We have each other."

"I want this," Sophie argued fiercely, even through the tears. "I want our baby. I want to see your eyes in a little face. I want– I want everything we talked about."

"Then we keep trying," Nikolai replied simply, kissing the top of her head. "For as long as you want. I'm not going anywhere."

And then, finally – finally – a pregnancy that stuck. That made it past the first trimester, then the second. That resulted in Sophie getting huge and uncomfortable and complaining about her swollen feet while Nikolai rubbed them and looked at her like she was performing a miracle.

Kira Alexandra Petrov was born on a snowy March morning in 1997, after eighteen hours of labor that left Sophie exhausted and triumphant and absolutely in love.

The nurse placed her in Sophie's arms – this tiny, perfect little person with downy blonde hair and bright blue eyes that matched her own – and Sophie felt something fundamental shift in her chest. Like her heart had been rearranged, making room for a love she hadn't known was possible.

"She's perfect," Sophie whispered, tracing Kira's tiny features with one finger. "Nik, look at her. She's perfect."

But it was when the nurse handed Kira to Nikolai that Sophie really lost it.

He took their daughter with such careful reverence, cradling her against his chest like she was made of glass. His big hands – scarred from years of hockey, strong enough to fight off opponents – were impossibly gentle as he supported her head, adjusted the blanket around her.

And his eyes – God, his eyes.

They went soft in a way Sophie had never seen before, filling with tears that he didn't bother to hide. All that intensity, all that focus he usually directed at hockey or her, now completely fixated on the tiny person in his arms.

"Privet, malyshka," he murmured, voice softer than Sophie ever could’ve thought possible, his voice rough with emotion. "I've been waiting so long to meet you."

Kira made a small sound – not quite a cry, more like a question – and Nikolai smiled through his tears.

"I know," he said softly, switching to English. "The world is very big and very bright and very scary, hm? But you're safe, Papa’s got you."

Sophie was crying now too, watching her husband meet their daughter for the first time. Watching all those months of fear and loss and hope culminate in this moment – Nikolai holding their baby girl, looking at her like she hung the moon.

He pressed a kiss to Kira's forehead, so gentle, so tender, and Sophie thought: This is it. This is everything I wanted. Right here.

Nell came four years later, on a warm spring day in May of 2001, and she announced her arrival with absolutely no subtlety whatsoever.

Sophie's water broke at 3 AM, and by 4 AM they were racing to the hospital with Sophie’s mom – who'd come to help with Kira – staying with their toddler. By 6 AM, Nell was born, coming into the world fast and furious after barely two hours of labor.

And loud. Oh God, so loud.

Where Kira had been a relatively quiet baby, making soft sounds and only crying when something was really wrong, Nell screamed from the moment she emerged. Not distressed crying – opinionated crying. Like she had thoughts about being removed from her comfortable womb and she wanted everyone to know about it.

"Well," the doctor commented with a laugh, handing the wailing baby to Sophie. "This one's got lungs."

Nell was red-faced and furious, her little fists waving in indignation. When Sophie tried to soothe her, she just cried louder.

"Come here, little one," Nikolai said, taking her from Sophie. "What’s all this noise about, hmm?"

Nell stopped crying immediately. Opened her eyes –  the same as Kira’s, the same as Sophie’s own – and stared at her father with an expression that could only be described as deeply suspicious.

"Yes, hello," Nikolai continued amused, completely unfazed. "I'm your papa. And you, apparently, have many opinions."

As if in response, Nell made a loud, disgruntled sound that wasn't quite crying but definitely wasn't happy.

Sophie started laughing, exhausted and overwhelmed and completely in love with this tiny, angry person. "She's going to be a handful."

"She's going to be fierce," Nikolai corrected, but he was smiling, eyes flicking up to look at her with such fondness that it almost took her breath away. "Like her mama. Strong and stubborn and absolutely unstoppable."

Nell chose that moment to start crying again—not upset crying, just... expressing her feelings loudly and at length.

Natalia – Nattie – came three years later, on a rainy day in July of 2004, and she nearly killed Sophie in the process.

The pregnancy had been harder than the others. Sophie was more tired, more uncomfortable, and when she started having contractions at thirty-two weeks, panic set in immediately.

It happened fast. Too fast. Sophie barely remembers the ambulance ride, the rush to the hospital, the doctors' urgent voices. She remembers pain – sharp and terrible – and Nikolai's hand gripping hers, his voice saying over and over, "You're okay, you're okay, I'm here."

She remembers the anesthesiologist saying something about an emergency C-section.

And then– nothing.

She woke up in recovery, groggy and disoriented, her abdomen aching. The first thing she saw was Nikolai sitting beside her bed, his face pale and drawn with exhaustion and worry.

"The baby," Sophie croaked out, panic flooding through her. "Nik, where's– did we–"

"She's okay," Nikolai promised immediately, taking her hand. His eyes were red-rimmed like he'd been crying. "She's okay, Sophie. She's little, but she's a fighter."

"I want to see her," Sophie said, trying to sit up and immediately regretting it. Pain lanced through her abdomen and she gasped.

"Easy," Nikolai murmured, helping her settle back, his hands so incredibly gentle. "Doctor says you need to rest. The surgery was– it was complicated. You lost a lot of blood."

"I don't care," Sophie told him stubbornly. "I need to see our daughter."

It was another day before the doctors finally let Nikolai wheel Sophie down to the NICU. Nattie was in an incubator, so tiny that she looked like a doll. Barely four pounds, all delicate limbs and translucent skin. Wires and tubes connected to her tiny body, monitors beeping steadily.

Sophie's breath caught. "Oh, sweet girl."

"She's breathing on her own," Nikolai said quietly, his hand on Sophie's shoulder. "The doctors say that's good. Very good for thirty-two weeks. She just needs time to grow."

Sophie couldn't touch her – not really, not properly – but she could reach through the incubator ports and rest her finger against Nattie's tiny palm. The baby's fingers curled around it automatically, the grip surprisingly strong.

"Hi, sweet girl," Sophie whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I'm your mama. And you're so strong, aren't you? Such a fighter."

Nattie's eyes were closed, her breathing rapid but steady. She looked impossibly fragile and impossibly determined all at once.

Over the next few weeks, Sophie practically lived at the hospital. Nikolai juggled practice and games and taking care of Kira and Nell at home, but whenever he could, he was there. Sitting beside Nattie's incubator, reading to her.

Sophie would find him there at odd hours – early morning before practice, late at night after games. He'd pull a chair up close to the incubator, open whatever book he'd brought, and read.

Russian fairy tales. American children's books. It didn't matter. 

But Nikolai’s voice – deep and comforting and soft – became the one constant in Nattie’s tiny, scary world. 

"She knows his voice," one of the NICU nurses told Sophie. "Watch her heart rate on the monitor when he reads. It stabilizes. He calms her."

And it was true. Whenever Nikolai read, Nattie's tiny body would relax slightly. The furrow between her miniature eyebrows would smooth out. Like even in her little, terrifying world of bright lights and medical equipment, she knew: That's my papa. I'm safe.

Sophie found him there late one night, two weeks after Nattie was born. She'd gone home to shower and change, to kiss Kira and Nell goodnight, and when she came back, there he was. Reading Peter Pan in his accented English, holding Nattie gently against his chest, since she’d finally gotten well enough for them to hold her for a bit at a time. 

"'All children, except one, grow up,'" he read softly. "'They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this...'"

Sophie's eyes filled with tears. Not sad tears – overwhelmed tears. Grateful tears.

Because this– this was the man she'd married. The one who'd knelt on a bridge in Central Park and promised forever. The one who held their daughters like they were the most precious things in the world. The one who sat in a NICU at midnight reading fairy tales to a baby who weighed less than five pounds, because he knew it would help.

Nikolai looked up and saw her. "She's doing better today," he said quietly. "Gained another ounce."

"You're a good dad," Sophie told him, moving to sit on the armrest of the chair he was in, carding a hand through his thick brown waves. 

"I try," Nikolai said simply. Then, looking back at Nattie: "Look—" He set the book down for a moment, holding out a finger to Nattie, and Sophie watched as her baby’s tiny hand gripped it tightly. "She’s getting stronger. Our little fighter."

Sophie smiled softly, leaning forward a bit to rest her chin on the top of Nikolai’s head, looking down at their little girl. 

"Like her papa," Sophie said softly.

Nell had gotten her stubbornness but Sophie was glad Nikolai’s fierceness, his steadfastness, had been saved for their last little girl, the one who needed it the most. 

Nattie came home two weeks later, still tiny but healthy. Strong. A fighter.

And Sophie, watching Nikolai carry their youngest daughter through the door while Kira and Nell clamored to see their baby sister, thought: This is it. This is everything. These four people – they're my whole world.

The doctor had been gentle when she told Sophie. Kind, even. But it didn't make the words any easier to hear.

"Given the complications with Natalia's birth, and the amount of scar tissue from the C-section, I strongly advise against another pregnancy. The risks would be significant – to you and to any baby you might carry."

Sophie had nodded, holding Nikolai's hand so tightly her knuckles went white. She understood. Of course she understood. She had three beautiful, healthy daughters. She was lucky. Blessed. She should be grateful.

And she was.

But that didn't stop the grief.

It hit her at odd moments. When she'd see a father playing catch with his son in the park. When Nikolai's teammates would bring their boys to family skate days, and she'd watch Nikolai teaching Kira and Nell to skate, and wonder what it would be like if there was a little boy there too. A boy with Nikolai's dark waves and strong heart. A boy with those soft brown eyes that had captured her heart in a bookstore all those years ago.

She'd imagined him sometimes, late at night when she couldn't sleep. What he'd look like. How he'd have Nikolai's intensity but her sense of humor. How he'd probably be stubborn as hell – getting that trait from both sides – but sweet underneath, like his father. How he'd have a mischievous grin that would get him out of trouble. How Nikolai would teach him to skate, to play hockey, to be a good man.

She never told Nikolai about these thoughts. It seemed cruel, somehow. He was so happy with their girls, so present and devoted. He'd never once expressed disappointment about not having a son. Never made their daughters feel like they were lacking for not being boys.

But still. Her heart ached for the little boy they'd never have. The one with brown eyes and a stubborn streak and Nikolai's quiet intensity.

Eventually, the acute grief faded. Became something she carried with her, a small weight she'd learned to live with. She poured her love into Kira, Nell, and Nattie. Watched them grow into remarkable little people – fierce and funny and so loved.

And life went on.

The rink was controlled chaos.

Sophie stood in the stands, coffee in hand, watching as players and their families took over the ice. Kids were everywhere – tiny ones in full hockey gear three sizes too big, older ones showing off their skills, toddlers just trying to stand upright on skates while their fathers held their hands.

It was Sophie's favorite day of the year. Something about seeing these tough, intimidating hockey players reduced to patient teachers and gentle encouragers for their children – it never got old.

"Mama, watch me!" Nell called out, waving frantically from center ice.

Sophie waved back, smiling. Nell was already racing across the ice with Rodriguez's son, both of them laughing and shoving each other in that way kids did when they were having the time of their lives.

Kira was nearby, skating with measured precision. At twelve, she was too cool to show much excitement, but Sophie could see the small smile on her face as skated around the rink.

And Nattie—

Sophie's heart squeezed as she watched Nattie circling the rink slowly, a bit wobbly on her skates, one small hand gripping Ilya's much larger one.

Ilya was skating backward, his movements careful and controlled, keeping pace with Nattie's smaller strides. He was talking to her—Sophie was too far away to hear what he was saying, but she could see Nattie's face light up, could see her nodding seriously at whatever guidance Ilya was giving.

"You're doing great, Nata!" Ilya's voice carried across the ice, encouraging and warm.

Sophie watched as he guided her daughter across the ice, the patience in every movement, the gentleness, the genuine joy on his face as he helped her—

Sophie felt something shift in her chest.

This was what Ilya was like when he thought no one important was watching. When he wasn't performing for coaches or teammates or trying to prove himself worthy of being kept. This was who he was underneath all the bravado and defense mechanism – someone kind, someone patient, someone who loved her daughters like they were his own sisters.

"Ilya, watch me!" Nattie demanded, skating toward what looked like a makeshift goal someone had set up.

"I'm watching," Ilya assured her, positioning himself as an extremely generous goalie.

Nattie took a shot – it was more of a gentle push than a shot, really – and Ilya made a great show of diving for it, missing it by miles, letting it slide into the net.

"Goal!" he shouted, throwing his hands up. "Nattie scores! The crowd goes wild!"

Nattie's face lit up with pure joy, and Sophie felt tears prick at her eyes.

When had this happened? When had Ilya stopped being the scared eighteen-year-old they were helping and become – this? Become someone who knew exactly how to make Nattie feel like the greatest hockey player in the world, who understood that sometimes the best thing you could do was lose dramatically and celebrate someone else's victory?

When had he become hers?

Sophie thought back over the past year. Tried to pinpoint the exact moment when Ilya had shifted from the billet to something more, something deeper.

Was it that first morning when he'd helped her with breakfast, quiet and careful, like he was afraid of doing something wrong? Was it the day he’d watched the girls while she was sick, attentive and reassuring? Was it the night he'd had the bag skate and Nikolai had held him while he cried? 

Or was it a thousand small moments, accumulated over months, that had slowly woven him into the fabric of their family until Sophie couldn't imagine what life had been like without him?

"Ilya!" Kira called out, skating over with that particular expression she got when she wanted to show off. "Race me to the blue line?"

Sophie watched Ilya's face carefully, seeing his pale blue eyes lit up the way they always did around her daughters. 

"You think you can beat me?" he asked, already positioning himself next to her.

"I know I can," Kira shot back, and there was that competitive streak she'd inherited from Nikolai.

"Okay then," Ilya agreed teasingly, getting ready. "On three. One, two—"

Kira took off on two, laughing as she got a head start.

"Cheater!" Ilya shouted, but he was laughing too as he chased after her.

He caught up to her easily – he was a professional hockey player, after all – but Sophie noticed the way he slowed down just slightly at the end, let Kira cross the blue line first by half a second.

"I won!" Kira crowed.

"You cheated," Ilya pointed out, but his voice was fond. "Started early."

"All's fair in hockey," Kira declared, grinning.

"Is that so?" Ilya asked, and there was something mischievous in his voice now. "Then I guess this is fair–"

He reached out and ruffled her hair, gentle but deliberate, knowing it would annoy her.

"Ilya!" Kira shrieked, shoving at him. "Stop it!"

But she was laughing, really laughing, and Sophie realized she couldn't remember the last time Kira had laughed like that. Twelve was that awkward age where everything was embarrassing, where vulnerability was terrifying, where letting people in felt impossible.

But somehow, Ilya had gotten in. Had become someone Kira trusted, someone she could be silly with, someone who teased her like the annoying older brother she'd never had but had somehow gained anyway.

Sophie's throat went tight. She'd always wanted four kids. Had dreamed about it, back when she and Nikolai were first married. Three girls and a boy – the exact configuration hadn't mattered as much as the feeling of a full house, of chaos and laughter and love spilling out of every room.

After Nattie, after the complications and the terrifying NICU stay and the doctor's firm recommendation against more pregnancies, Sophie had mourned that dream. Had made peace with three daughters, had convinced herself that her family was complete as it was.

But there had always been that small ache. That wondering about the child she'd never have. The little boy with Nikolai's brown eyes and stubborn chin, the one who'd teach his sisters to play hockey and drive Sophie crazy with his teenage attitude and grow up to be fiercely protective of his family.

She'd let that dream go. Had boxed it up and put it away and moved on.

And then Ilya had shown up.

Not the little boy she'd imagined. Not a baby she could raise from the beginning, could shape and mold and protect from the world's cruelties.

But a hurt, scared, defensive teenager who needed them more than he'd ever admit. Who was so desperate to be loved and so terrified of that same desperation. Who pushed people away with one hand while reaching for them with the other.

Sophie hadn't chosen him. Fletcher had asked for a favor, and she and Nikolai had agreed because it was part of the job, because they had the space, because it seemed like the right thing to do.

But somewhere along the way, Sophie had fallen in love with him.

Not the way she'd loved her daughters from the moment they were born, instant and overwhelming and biological.

But the way you fell in love with anyone – slowly, carefully, one choice at a time. One moment of patience, one flash of humor, one glimpse of vulnerability. One shared meal, one quiet conversation, one crisis weathered together.

She'd fallen in love with the way he helped with dishes without being asked. With the way he read to Nattie before bed, doing all the voices even though he was clearly embarrassed. With the way he listened to Nell's endless stories about school with genuine interest. With the way he and Kira teased each other, bickering constantly. 

She'd fallen in love with the way he looked at Nikolai – like he'd found something he'd been searching for his whole life and couldn't quite believe it was real.

She'd fallen in love with the way he tried so hard to be good, to be worth keeping, even as he slowly learned that he didn't have to earn their love.

And now, watching him on the ice with her daughters, Sophie realized something that took her breath away. 

Ilya wasn't the son she'd imagined. 

He was better. 

He was real.

"Ilya! Ilya!" Nell was waving frantically now. "Come race me and Mateo!"

"I'm coming!" Ilya called back, skating over to where Nell and Rodriguez's son were waiting.

Sophie watched him go, watched him immediately engage with whatever challenge Nell had dreamed up, watched him give her his full attention like she was the only person in the rink.

He did that, she realized. Made each of her daughters feel like they were the most important person in the world when he was with them. Nattie got his patience and gentleness. Kira got his competitive spirit and gentle teasing. Nell got his enthusiasm and willingness to play whatever game she invented.

He knew them. Really knew them. Knew what each of them needed and gave it freely, without hesitation, without keeping score.

Because that's what family did.

"Your boy's good with them."

Sophie turned to find Lila Murphy settling into the seat next to her, coffee in hand, a knowing smile on her face.

Your boy. 

Lila said it like she already knew. Like it was obvious, plain to anyone that watched them together. 

"He is," Sophie agreed softly.

"They adore him," Lila continued, watching as Ilya let Nell win their race by a dramatic margin. "All three of them. It's sweet."

"Yeah," Sophie said, her throat suddenly tight. "It is."

"How's he doing?" Lila asked, lowering her voice. "I know the season didn't end the way anyone wanted."

Murph had been especially disappointed, Sophie knew. A tweaked knee had meant he wasn’t able to finish the season as strongly as he would've liked. And, at 33, time wasn’t exactly on his side for another Cup win. Especially since Sophie knew Lila wanted to wait till Murph was retired to start their family. 

They’d tried for years to have a baby, naturally at first, then through IVF. But it just hadn’t happened. Lila had mentioned last time they had a double date that they were considering adoption, but it wasn’t something she wanted to pursue while Murph was still playing, which Sophie took to mean he’d be retiring sooner rather than later. 

"He's okay," Sophie answered, shrugging a bit. "Disappointed about the playoffs, but he's handling it well. Better than I expected, honestly."

"He's got you guys," Lila pointed out. "That helps. Having a family that cares, having stability – it makes a difference."

Sophie nodded, watching as Ilya scooped Nattie up and spun her around, both of them laughing.

Family. The word settled into her chest, warm and right.

That's what this was. What they'd become. Not billet and host family, not temporary arrangement, not even close family friends.

Just family.

On the ice, Nikolai had appeared, skating over to where Ilya was still holding Nattie. Sophie's breath caught slightly, the way it still did sometimes after sixteen years of marriage, at the sight of her husband.

He was in jeans and a Bears quarter-zip, his hair slightly messy from the wind outside, and even from here Sophie could see the softness in his expression as he approached Ilya and Nattie. That particular gentleness he got with their kids, so different from the intimidating assistant GM persona he wore at work.

She watched as Nikolai said something to Ilya, watched Ilya grin and set Nattie down carefully before turning his full attention to Nikolai.

They talked for a moment – Sophie wished she could hear what they were saying – and then Nikolai reached out and shoved Ilya's shoulder. Playful, the way he did when he was feeling particularly paternal.

Ilya shoved back, laughing.

And then they were roughhousing like teenage boys, Nikolai getting Ilya into a gentle headlock while Ilya tried to shove him away, both of them laughing so hard they could barely stand. It was completely undignified for an assistant GM and one of his players. It was ridiculous and silly and—

And it was exactly what fathers and sons did.

Sophie felt something crack open in her chest.

Ilya had managed to escape Nikolai's headlock and was now skating backward, taunting him, his face bright with laughter and mischief. Nikolai chased after him, and even from here Sophie could see the expression on her husband's face.

Pride. Affection. Love.

The same expression he wore watching their daughters.

Sophie's eyes burned with tears.

Those were her boys.

The thought appeared so easily, so naturally, that it caught her completely off guard.

Her boys. Both of them.

Nikolai, her husband, her partner, the father of her children. The man she'd fallen in love with in a bookstore sixteen years ago because he'd had kind eyes and an accent that made her heart flutter. Who'd married her in a tiny church in a tiny town on the coast of Massachusetts, all because it had been Sophie’s dream wedding, and promised her forever. Who'd held her hand through three difficult pregnancies and countless sleepless nights with newborns. Who loved her fiercely and completely and forever.

And Ilya. This boy – one who was becoming a young man faster than Sophie could blink – who'd shown up on their doorstep nearly a year ago scared and defensive and absolutely certain he wasn't worth keeping. Who'd slowly, painfully learned to trust them. Who'd become part of their family so seamlessly that Sophie sometimes forgot he hadn't always been there.

Her boys.

The realization should have been shocking. Should have felt sudden or presumptuous or too fast.

But it didn't. It felt like finally acknowledging something that had been true for months, maybe longer. Like giving a name to something she'd been feeling but hadn't quite been ready to say out loud.

And watching Nikolai with him now – watching them laugh and play and just be together, so comfortable and easy and right – Sophie felt her love for the both of them deepen in ways she hadn't thought possible.

Ilya had somehow ended up with Nattie on his shoulders again, skating carefully while she shrieked directions at him like a tiny dictator. Nikolai was laughing so hard he had to stop skating, bent over with his hands on his knees.

When he straightened up, when the laughter faded into something softer, Nikolai's eyes found Sophie in the stands.

Those eyes. God, those eyes.

After sixteen years, they still made her heart skip.

They were brown – a deep, rich brown that reminded Sophie of coffee and expensive chocolate and warm earth. But that simple description didn't capture them, not really.

In bright light, they were the color of honey, amber and gold and almost translucent. You could see layers in them – rings of darker brown near the pupil, flecks of gold scattered throughout like stars, a deeper rim of coffee-brown around the edge of the iris.

In dimmer light, they went darker, richer. The brown of aged whiskey or strong espresso. Deep enough to get lost in, warm enough to feel safe in.

But it wasn't just the color. It was what she saw in them.

When Nikolai looked at her – really looked at her – she saw everything he felt reflected there. Love and desire and partnership and home. She saw the young man that he'd been when they met, still a little lost in a new country, trying so hard to be strong. She saw the man he'd become, confident and capable but still soft when it mattered.

She saw her whole life in those eyes. Their past, their present, their future.

Nikolai smiled when he caught her eye, a broad unwavering grin, the kind of carefree expression that was rare on her husband's face. His expression softened even further, and he mouthed something Sophie couldn't quite make out but understood anyway: I love you.

She mouthed it back, her heart so full it physically hurt.

"You two are disgustingly in love," Lila observed, but she was smiling. "After how many years?"

"Our wedding anniversary’s in June. Sixteen years," Sophie explained, her eyes never leaving Nikolai Nikolai. "And yeah. We are."

"It's nice," Lila said softly, almost wistfully. "Good for the kids to see. Shows them what marriage should look like."

Sophie thought about that. About what her daughters – and Ilya – saw when they looked at her and Nikolai. About the example they were setting.

Love that lasted. Commitment that endured. Partnership built on respect and trust and genuine affection.

She hoped they were learning that. All four of them. Hoped they were internalizing it, building their own expectations for relationships based on what they saw at home.

Hoped Ilya especially was learning that love didn't have to hurt. That the people who claimed to love you should make you feel safe, not scared. That family meant showing up, over and over, even when it was hard.

"Yeah," Sophie agreed softly. "It is nice."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the chaos on the ice. Nell had recruited several other kids for some elaborate game that seemed to involve more falling down than actual skating. Kira was practicing crossovers with O’Rielly’s oldest. And Nattie had climbed onto Ilya's back again and was demanding he skate faster.

"Faster, Ilya! Faster!"

"I'm going as fast as I can, Nata!" Ilya told her – which Sophie knew was a lie, because he’d never do anything so dangerous with Nattie – but he picked up a little speed anyway, careful and controlled even as Nattie shrieked with delight.

Sophie watched Nikolai watching them, saw the expression on his face – soft and fond and completely unguarded.

Her family. All of them.

Three girls and a boy.

The thought still felt new, still made her breath catch, but it also felt inevitable. Like this was always where they were headed, they just hadn't known it yet.

Later that night, after they'd gotten home and fed everyone dinner and listened to Nattie's dramatically retelling of how she'd scored a goal ("Ilya said it was the best goal he'd ever seen, Mama!"), after they'd gotten everyone into bed and the house had finally quieted down, Sophie found herself lying in bed next to Nikolai, both of them wide awake despite the late hour.

He was on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm behind his head. She could tell by his breathing that he wasn't asleep, not yet. Could tell that he was thinking about something.

"You okay?" he asked quietly, and she rolled onto her side to face him as he tilted his head toward her.

"Just thinking," she told him, sighing a little.

"About?"

The silence stretched between them, comfortable and familiar. After sixteen years of marriage, they'd learned how to be quiet together, how to give each other space to gather thoughts before speaking them.

Finally, Sophie said what had been building in her chest all day, what she'd been thinking about since watching Ilya on the ice with their daughters.

"He's ours now," she said softly. "You know that, right?"

Nikolai turned his head to look at her, and even in the dim light filtering through their bedroom window from the streetlamp outside, she could see his eyes. Those brown eyes she'd been staring into for sixteen years, that she could read better than anyone else in the world.

She saw understanding there. Agreement. Relief that she'd said it first.

"Yeah," he agreed, his voice rough with emotion as he swallowed heavily. "I know."

"I mean really ours," Sophie continued, needing him to understand the depth of what she was feeling. "Not just for the season, or until he gets traded or moves out or whatever.”

The word felt momentous. Felt like something that should be said with more ceremony, more gravity. But it also felt natural, inevitable. Like she was just stating a fact that had been true for months and she was only now acknowledging it.

"I know," Nikolai repeated, and his voice was even rougher now.

Sophie reached out and took his hand, lacing their fingers together. His palm was warm, calloused from years of hockey, familiar in every way.

"Good," she said firmly. "Because I'm keeping him."

She'd always been stubborn. It was one of the things that had drawn Nikolai to her in the first place – her refusal to back down, her certainty in her convictions, the way she dug her heels in when she believed in something.

And she believed in this. In Ilya. In their family.

She could feel it in the set of her jaw, in the way her hand tightened on Nikolai's. This wasn't a discussion. This wasn't something she was considering or thinking about or entertaining as a possibility.

This was a declaration. A fact. A line in the sand.

Ilya was theirs, and nothing – nothing – was going to change that.

"Me too," Nikolai replied, and there was something fierce in his voice now. Something protective and possessive in the best possible way.

The same tone he used when talking about their daughters. When someone upset Kira or when Nell got hurt or when Nattie needed defending.

That fierce parental protectiveness that said: This is mine. This is my child. And I will do anything to keep them safe.

Sophie felt tears prick at her eyes. She reached out with her free hand, running it through Nikolai's hair. The soft, tousled brown waves felt exactly as they had sixteen years ago, though there were streaks of gray now, just above his ears. Nikolai squawked whenever she pointed them out, insisting he wasn't that old yet, but Sophie loved them. Loved the proof of their years together, the evidence of the life they'd built.

His eyes, though – those were exactly the same as the day she'd met him.

Brown with flecks of gold, like honey in sunlight. Serious and intense when he was focused, but soft when he looked at her or their children. Deep enough to drown in, warm enough to feel safe in.

She could stare into those eyes forever and never get bored. Could trace the patterns of gold and amber, could lose herself in the way they changed color depending on the light, could read every emotion he felt reflected in their depths.

Right now, they were soft. Tender. Full of love and understanding and that quiet strength that was so essentially Nikolai.

"I watched you with him today," Sophie told him, her fingers still playing with his hair. "You're good with him. Gentle."

Nikolai hummed a little, softening under her ministrations. 

“He deserves someone who's gentle with him,” he answered casually, shrugging a little. Sophie could fill in the blanks, could read between the lines her husband had left empty. Ilya deserved a father who was gentle with him. 

Gentle wasn't a word often used to describe her husband. To most people, Nikolai was intimidating, serious, pragmatic. An Olympic gold medalist, a decorated player, an assistant GM who commanded respect through sheer presence alone.

And for a man who'd grown up in Soviet Russia, who'd been taught that emotions were a weakness and that affection was frivolous, who'd learned to keep his softer feelings carefully hidden – for that man to be so openly gentle with Ilya was nothing short of remarkable.

Even with the girls, Nikolai was often gruff – although it was a loving gruffness, one the girls had always associated with their papa, one that made them feel safe and loved. He showed his affection through actions more than words. Through blinis on Sunday mornings and attendance at every recital and game and fierce protectiveness when anyone dared upset one of his daughters.

But with Ilya, Nikolai was different.

Nikolai had seen past the brash, cocky exterior Ilya tried to put up and had seen the scared kid hiding behind it. Had seen that kid – a boy he owed nothing to, someone else's child he had no responsibility toward – and had decided that Ilya was his. His to love, his to protect, his to keep.

And while Nikolai had never once backed down to anyone – not on the ice, not in the front office, not in any aspect of his life – for Ilya, he made himself gentle.

For the kid sleeping down the hall from them, the one who was scared and sensitive and had been taught that tall, fierce men would only ever hurt him, Nikolai made himself soft.

Sophie had noticed it from the beginning, but it had become more pronounced over the months. The way he verbalized his feelings more, instead of just assuming Ilya would pick up on them the way Sophie and the girls did. The way his voice would soften automatically when Ilya seemed on edge. The way he initiated physical affection – a hand on Ilya's shoulder, a brief ruffle of his hair, a hug – knowing Ilya wouldn’t seek it out himself. 

To most of the world, Nikolai was aloof, intimidating, all business.

But with their boy – with Ilya – he was soft.

And watching that softness, seeing the way Nikolai loved this hurt, broken kid who'd been handed to them like a gift they hadn't known they needed—

It made Sophie fall in love with her husband all over again.

She'd thought, on their wedding day, when he looked at her like she was the only person in the world, that she could never love Nikolai more than she already did. That her heart was full to capacity, that this was the limit of what she could feel.

She'd been wrong.

She'd fallen more in love with him when he'd held Kira for the first time, tears streaming down his face as he whispered to her in Russian. Then again, when he'd sat up all night with Nell when she had the flu, patient and gentle and steady. And even more, when he'd spent three weeks in the NICU with Nattie, reading books and stories to her all day even though she was too small to understand, his voice the one constant in her tiny, scary world.

Each time, she'd thought: I can't love him more than this. This is the limit of what my heart can hold.

If you'd asked Sophie a year ago, she would've been certain. She loved Nikolai Petrov as much as she could ever love someone, with every ounce of her soul.

And yet, watching him with Ilya – with this scared, hurting kid trying so hard to protect himself, to keep everyone at arm's length, with this boy who became sweet and kind and gentle if you only gave him an ounce of care, with this boy who hadn't been born theirs yet had somehow wormed his way into Sophie's heart anyway–

It was like falling in love with Nikolai all over again.

Harder. Deeper. More completely than she'd thought possible.

Because she'd watched him choose to love Ilya. Had watched him decide, consciously and deliberately, that this boy was worth the effort. Worth the patience. Worth the love. 

She’d watched him take this broken boy and piece him back together through sheer force of patience and love.

Nikolai was the fiercest man Sophie had ever known, in every single regard. Not just in hockey, though his competitive drive had been legendary. But in every aspect of his life. In his convictions, in his compassion, in his commitment. 

And in his love.

It took Sophie's breath away sometimes, her husband's capacity for love. The way he committed himself wholly and completely to the people he cared about, loving with a fierceness that could be overwhelming in its intensity.

Seeing him love this boy, their boy, it only made Sophie love Nik all the more, in ways she couldn’t even begin to describe. 

Ways that made her eyes sting and her chest ache and her heart feel like it might burst from the fullness of it all.

Nikolai turned his head to look at her fully now, and she could see the emotion in his eyes. Raw and honest and completely unguarded.

"Four kids," Sophie said, a smile tugging at her lips despite her tears. "We have four kids now."

"Yeah," Nikolai agreed, and he was smiling too, that soft smile he saved for moments like this. "We do."

Sophie shifted closer, resting her head on Nikolai's chest. His arm came around her automatically, holding her close, his hand running up and down her back in that soothing pattern he'd been doing for eighteen years.

She listened to his heartbeat – steady, strong, familiar – and thought about their family. About how far they'd come, how much they'd grown, how their life had expanded in ways they never could have predicted.

They fell into comfortable silence, both lost in thought. Outside, Sophie could hear the distant sound of traffic, the wind rustling through the trees. Normal sounds of the city at night, the white noise of their neighborhood settling in for sleep.

Inside, her family was sleeping. All of them. Safe and loved and home.

The thought made Sophie's throat tight.

"We should ask him," she declared suddenly, the words spilling out before she'd fully thought them through. "About staying. Not just for the summer, but– for good. For as long as he wants."

"I already did," Nikolai admitted, and there was something almost guilty in his voice, as though he was worried he’d overstepped. 

Sophie pulled back to look at him, surprised. "You did?"

"At the team party last week," Nikolai explained, shifting a little. "He mentioned finding his own place next season, said he didn't want to overstay his welcome. So I told him–" His voice cracked slightly, emotion thick in every word. "I told him he wasn't overstaying. That he's family. That he can stay as long as he wants."

Sophie felt her eyes burn. "What did he say?"

"He looked–" Nikolai stopped, swallowing hard. "He looked so relieved, Soph. Like he'd been terrified we were going to kick him out. Like he'd been bracing for rejection and didn’t know what to do when he didn’t get it. He just nodded and said thank you. Like we were doing him some huge favor instead of just– just wanting our kid to stay home."

A tear slipped down Sophie's cheek. She didn't bother wiping it away.

"He really doesn't know, does he?" she asked, her voice breaking. "That we love him?"

"I think he's starting to," Nikolai told her slowly, thinking it over. "But it's hard for him to believe. Hard to trust that it's real and it's not going to be taken away."

"Then we keep showing him," Sophie replied firmly, and there was that stubbornness again. That fierce determination that had defined so much of her life. "Every day. We keep showing him that he belongs here, that he's wanted here, that he's loved here. Until he believes it."

"Yeah," Nikolai agreed, his voice rough. "We do."

Sophie settled back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. They'd done this so many times over the years – laid in bed talking about their children, making plans, sharing concerns, celebrating victories.

But this felt different. Momentous, somehow.

"I love you," Sophie told her husband softly, the words inadequate for everything she was feeling but the only ones that fit.

"Ya tebya lyublyu," Nikolai replied, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

They held each other in the dark, thinking about their family. About three girls sleeping down the hall and one boy two doors down. About the life they'd built together – the struggles and the joys, the ordinary moments and the extraordinary ones, the carefully planned parts and the beautiful accidents.

And lying there in the dark, wrapped in her husband's arms, knowing all four of their children were safe and sleeping under the same roof, Sophie felt something she'd been chasing for years without quite knowing it.

Complete.

Their family was complete.

Chapter 9: chapter nine

Chapter Notes

Ilya knew something was wrong when both Nikolai and Sophie asked him to sit down after dinner.

The girls had been sent upstairs – "homework time," Sophie had said, though Nell had protested she'd already finished hers – and now it was just the three of them at the kitchen table.

Ilya's stomach twisted. This felt like an ambush. His mind immediately started racing through possibilities. What had he done wrong? Had they finally decided he was too much trouble? Was this it – the moment they told him it wasn't working out?

"We want to talk to you about something," Sophie started gently. "And we need you to listen with an open mind."

Open mind. That meant they were going to say something he wouldn't like. Something he'd want to argue against.

"Okay," Ilya agreed slowly, his hands already clenching into fists under the table. He forced his face to stay neutral, his posture relaxed. Don't let them see you're scared, that was lesson number one of surviving his father.

Nikolai and Sophie exchanged a look, and Ilya's chest tightened further. They'd planned this. Discussed it. Decided together that something needed to be done about him.

Then Nikolai leaned forward, and Ilya had to fight the urge to lean back, to put distance between them.

"We're concerned about you," he said simply, straight to the point, as always. Most of the time, Ilya appreciated that about Nikolai, the way he just said what needed to be said. Now, he wasn’t so sure. "About how you're doing. Mentally, emotionally."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. They'd noticed. Of course they'd noticed – he'd been sloppy, careless, letting them see too much.

Ilya's defenses went up immediately. This was it. He’d put Nikolai and Sophie through so much, and this was their breaking point. He couldn’t even blame them either. It was his own fault for being too much, too weak, too lazy. Maybe if he’d worked harder, put more effort in– "I'm fine."

The lie came automatically, reflexive. He'd said it so many times it should have been believable by now.

"You're not fine," Sophie corrected, and her voice was so gentle it almost hurt. Like she actually cared. Like this wasn't just about getting rid of a problem. "Ilya, you still flinch when people move too quickly. You apologize for things that aren't your fault. You work yourself to exhaustion and then keep working. You have trouble sleeping–"

Each observation felt like an accusation. She'd been watching him. Cataloging his failures. Building a case.

"I sleep fine–"

"We hear you up sometimes, at night," Nikolai interrupted, and Ilya's stomach dropped. "Pacing in your room, or downstairs getting water, or outside smoking."

Fuck. He'd thought he'd been quiet enough. Thought he'd hidden it better.

Ilya's jaw clenched. "So what? I have trouble sleeping sometimes. That's not–"

"What happened with your mother," Nikolai continued, his voice careful in that way that meant he was trying not to spook Ilya, although it failed miserably. Ilya flinched violently, the way he always did when someone brought up his mama. "Ilya, that was traumatic. And with your father… You're allowed to be affected by it. You're allowed to need help processing it."

Traumatic. Like he was weak. Like he couldn't handle what every other hockey player had gone through. His father had been hard on him, but that's what made champions. That's what separated the good from the great.

"I've processed it," Ilya retorted stubbornly, even though he could still feel the crack of his father’s belt sometimes when he closed his eyes. "I'm fine."

"You’re self-destructive,” Nikolai replied pointedly, easily switching to Russian to ensure Ilya understood. “You’re too hard on yourself. You train too hard, you push people away, and… I know about the girls.”

Ilya froze, his blood running cold. The girls. Oh God, had he done something? Had he upset them somehow? He'd tried so hard to be good with Kira and Nell and Nattie, to be patient and kind and gentle the way they deserved. Had he failed at that too?

His heart was racing now, panic flooding his system. If he'd hurt the girls, if he'd scared them somehow, then Nikolai and Sophie would never forgive him. They'd kick him out for sure. He'd lose the only family he had left.

"I didn't mean to upset them," Ilya said quickly, his voice rising with panic, his carefully maintained control slipping. "I'm sorry, I didn't– whatever I did, I'll fix it, I'll–"

"Ilya, stop," Nikolai interrupted, holding up a hand. "Calm down. I'm not talking about Kira, Nell, and Nata."

Ilya blinked, confused. His mind was still racing, still trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. "Then who—"

Understanding dawned on Nikolai's face, and Ilya saw something like sadness there. "I mean the girls you've been spending time with. On road trips. The– The girls you sleep with.”

Oh. Oh.

Ilya felt heat flood his face, humiliation burning through him. They knew. Murphy must have said something, or maybe Benny. Rats. Either way, they knew, and now they were judging him for it.

Thankfully, Nikolai had spoken quickly enough that Sophie didn’t seem to quite have grasped their new topic of conversation. Silver linings, he supposed. The last thing he needed was Sophie of all people knowing about all the girls. 

"I– that's– how do you even–"

"Murphy mentioned it," Nikolai said casually, and Ilya swallowed heavily, a familiar feeling of rage boiling up inside of him. 

"That’s none of your business," Ilya shot back, his embarrassment turning to anger because anger was safer than shame. 

Who was Murph to judge him, or Nikolai for that matter? Ilya didn’t really see what the big deal was. So what if he hooked up with girls – and occasionally Hollander – every now and again? It wasn’t like he was married, or in a relationship. And the girls were always, well… enthusiastic about being with him. 

"It is when you’re using them to avoid your problems," Nikolai retorted, his voice getting harder. 

How dare he. How dare Nikolai act like he knew what Ilya was doing, what Ilya was thinking. He didn't know anything.

"I’m not—" 

"You think I don’t see? You think I don’t understand?" You think I don't see? You think I don't understand?

"You don’t understand! You could never–" 

"Okay, stop!" Sophie interrupted firmly. "Both of you. I can't follow when you talk that fast, and this conversation isn't going to devolve into an argument."

Ilya's chest was heaving, his hands shaking under the table. He'd lost control. He'd let them see him angry, defensive, exactly what his father had always accused him of being – emotional, weak, undisciplined.

They both fell silent, still glaring at each other across the table. Ilya forced himself to breathe, to calm down, to put the mask back on.

Sophie took a breath, visibly collecting herself. "Ilya, we're not trying to control you. We're just… we’re concerned, sweetie. And we think therapy might help."

Therapy. The word landed like a stone. Therapy was for people who were broken. Therapy was admitting you couldn't handle things on your own. Therapy was–

Weakness.

"I don't need therapy," Ilya answered automatically, his voice flat, the way he always responded to his father’s orders.

"We found someone," Sophie continued as if he hadn't spoken, and that made it worse somehow – that they'd already found someone, already planned this out. "Dr. Galina Molchalina. She's speaks fluent Russian and English. We thought–"

"I'm not going," Ilya interrupted, panic rising in his chest again.

"Ilya–"

"I said I'm not going," Ilya repeated, his voice getting louder. He could hear himself losing control again but couldn't stop it. "I don't need some stranger poking around in my head, asking me about my feelings. I'm fine."

He waited for them to get angry. For Nikolai to use that stern voice, the one that meant you'd crossed a line. For Sophie to get frustrated, to throw up her hands and say they were done trying to help someone who wouldn't help himself.

For them to give up on him the way everyone else had.

But they didn't.

Instead, they just looked– sad. Concerned. Worried in a way that made guilt curl heavy and sick in Ilya's stomach.

This was worse. Anger he could handle. Disappointment he understood. But this – this gentle concern, this patient sadness – he didn't know what to do with it.

"Okay," Nikolai said quietly, and his voice was so tired. "We can't force you. We just– we want you to know the option is there. When you're ready."

When he was ready. Like they actually believed he might change his mind. Like they weren't giving up.

"I won't be ready," Ilya said stubbornly, even though part of him – a small, desperate part – wanted to say yes. Wanted to accept help. Wanted to stop feeling like this.

But that part was weak. That part would get him hurt.

Sophie reached across the table and took his hand, her palm warm against his. "We love you. That's all this is. We love you and we're worried about you."

The words made Ilya's throat tight. Love. They kept saying that word like it was simple, like it was true, like it didn't come with conditions.

Ilya pulled his hand back, standing up abruptly. The chair scraped loudly against the floor. "I'm fine. I need to—I have film to watch."

He left the kitchen before they could say anything else, before they could see how close he was to breaking, taking the stairs two at a time up to his room.

Behind him, he heard Sophie's quiet voice: "That went well."

And Nikolai's tired response: "Give him time."

Time. Like that would fix anything. Like eventually Ilya would just magically become someone who didn't need fixing.

Shane fucking hated these things.

The MLH Awards were in June, held in Las Vegas this year, and Shane had been nominated for the Calder Trophy along with Rozanov and Vincent Lemaire.

There were always so many people, all of them wanting to shake his hand and talk his ear off. The room was usually too hot, the air heavy with an unpleasant smell. The food sucked, and he had to sit there for ages listening to the Commissioner talk. 

If he hadn’t thought he had a shot at winning, he would’ve tried to weasel his way out of it. 

He'd seen Ilya earlier, across the room. The Bears had a few guys nominated for various awards, and Ilya looked good in his suit. Really good. His hair was actually styled instead of its usual messy curls, and Shane wanted to mess it up, wanted to—

He shook his head. Not helpful. Not here, not now, not in a room full of cameras and NHL executives and people who would absolutely notice if Shane stared too long at his supposed rival.

And now here he was, on his side of the room, trying not to stare at Ilya while Ilya talked to Murphy and some other Bears players.

"Hollander," someone said behind him, and Shane turned to find Nikolai Petrov standing there.

Shane's stomach dropped.

He'd never actually met Petrov in person – had only seen him from a distance at games, knew his reputation as one of the old-school tough guys who didn't take shit from anyone. Had heard the stories about the enforcers he'd fought, the hits he'd delivered, the way he'd protected his teammates with a ferocity that was legendary.

Up close, the man was intimidating as hell. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp eyes that looked like they could see right through you. Eyes that had probably seen Shane staring at Ilya across the room.

Fuck.

"Mr. Petrov," Shane greeted, trying to keep his voice steady, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Petrov replied, shaking his hand. His grip was firm but not crushing, and Shane tried not to read too much into that. "You played well this season."

"Thank you, sir."

"Calder nomination is deserved." Petrov's eyes were assessing, and Shane felt like he was being evaluated, measured against some standard Shane didn't understand. "You and Ilya both had strong rookie years."

"Yeah," Shane agreed, carefully neutral. "Rozanov, he's really talented."

Was that too much? Did he sound too interested? Shane forced himself to stay calm, to not show any reaction beyond professional respect.

"He works hard," Petrov told him, and there was something in his voice – affection, maybe? Pride? Shane wasn't sure, but it made him relax slightly. "Too hard, sometimes."

This man clearly cared about Ilya, even if Shane didn't know the exact nature of their relationship. Ilya had mentioned living with the Petrovs, but he'd been vague about the details, dismissive in that way he got when he didn't want to talk about something.

Petrov's eyes flicked across the room to where Ilya was standing, and his entire expression softened. Just slightly, just for a second, but Shane saw it. Saw the way Petrov's mouth quirked up at one corner, saw the way his shoulders relaxed, saw something that looked almost like parental pride cross his face.

"Excuse me," Petrov said, and headed across the room toward Ilya.

Shane watched as Petrov approached, watched Ilya's face light up when he saw him – a genuine smile, not the careful neutral expression Ilya wore most of the time. Watched Petrov say something that made Ilya laugh, really laugh, his head thrown back. Watched Petrov reach out and ruffle Ilya's carefully styled hair, completely destroying whatever product the stylist had used.

Ilya squawked in protest, batting at Petrov's hand, but he was smiling. Really smiling. The kind of smile Shane had only seen a few times, usually when Ilya was too relaxed to remember to guard himself.

And Petrov – Petrov was grinning too, looking far too pleased with himself.

Shane felt something complicated twist in his chest. Ilya had mentioned the Petrovs a few times – never much, never in detail, but enough that Shane understood that Ilya was billeting with them.

But watching this easy affection between them, watching the way Ilya's whole body language changed around Petrov – relaxed, open, unguarded in a way Shane had never seen on the ice – Shane realized it was more than just a housing arrangement.

Petrov looked at Ilya like– like he mattered. Like he was family.

Like he was someone worth protecting.

Later, after the ceremony, after the photos and the media obligations and all the bullshit, and taking three rounds of shots with Scott Hunter, Shane finally managed to catch Ilya alone near the bar.

"Hey," Shane greeted quietly, even though no one else was that close to the bar.

Ilya turned, and his face was carefully neutral again, all traces of that earlier smile gone. "Hey."

They stood there awkwardly. Shane wanted to touch him – just his arm, his shoulder, anything – but couldn't. Not here. Not with cameras everywhere, with other players milling around, with Petrov probably watching from somewhere.

"You want to–" Shane started, then stopped. Glanced around. Too many people. Too many eyes. "Later?"

"1521," Ilya agreed, his voice dropping slightly as he informed Shane of his room number.

"Okay."

They stood there for a second longer, and Shane noticed Ilya’s hair was still messy from where Petrov had ruffled it earlier. One curl was sticking up at an odd angle, stubborn and obvious, and Shane had to resist the strange, instinctive urge to reach out and fix it himself. 

“Your hair’s fucked up,” Shane told him instead.

Ilya’s hand went up self-consciously, fingers swiping at the wayward curl without much success. “Nikolai did it. He thinks is funny.”

So it was Nikolai now.

The thought landed heavier than Shane expected. He found himself wondering when Ilya had stopped calling him Petrov – when the shift had happened, quiet and unannounced.

“It kind of is,” Shane admitted, smirking a little. 

“Fuck you,” Ilya shot back, but there was no heat in it. Just the familiar, easy banter that meant he felt safe enough not to brace himself.

Shane hesitated, weighing his next words. He’d learned, over time, that timing mattered with Ilya. Push too hard and he shut down. Say nothing and he filled the silence with the worst possible assumptions.

“I met him,” Shane said finally, leaning against the bar as he took another sip of ginger ale. “Petrov. Earlier.”

The change was immediate. Ilya’s shoulders tightened, his posture going sharp and guarded like a switch had been flipped.

“Oh?”

Shane caught it all – the way his jaw set, the way his eyes flicked away for just a second. He chose his words carefully, like stepping around thin ice.

“He seems–” Shane paused, searching for something honest but non-threatening. “He seems like he actually gives a shit about you.”

Ilya scoffed, waving a hand as if brushing the idea away. “Is his job to give a shit,” he  explained a little too quickly. “I live in his house.”

There it was. That tone. Shane recognized it instantly – the one Ilya used when he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. The one that came out whenever something felt too close to hope.

“I don’t think it’s just that,” Shane said quietly.

“You don’t know anything about it,” Ilya snapped, his voice sharpening, eyes flashing with something defensive and raw.

Shane raised his hands in surrender immediately. He knew that look too. Knew when pressing further would only make Ilya dig in harder.

“Okay,” he agreed evenly. “You’re right. I don’t.”

Ilya looked like he wanted to argue more, like there were words stacked up behind his teeth with nowhere safe to go. His jaw stayed tight for a moment longer—then his phone buzzed.

He checked it and sighed, the tension bleeding out of him just a little, like a punctured balloon. “I have to go. Team dinner thing.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll text you later,” Ilya told him, voice softer now, almost reluctant. 

“Yeah,” Shane replied. “See you.”

Ilya headed off, and Shane stayed where he was, watching him weave back toward the Bears group. Watched Petrov waiting there – not looming, not impatient. Just… present.

He watched Petrov’s hand land on Ilya’s shoulder, casual but sure. Watched the way Ilya leaned into the touch just slightly, unconsciously, like it was something his body trusted even if his head didn’t. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Shane exhaled slowly.

Whatever Ilya wanted to believe about their arrangement, it was obvious to Shane that Petrov cared about him. Not in a contractual way. Not out of obligation. In the quiet, steady way that showed up in small touches and bad jokes and ruffled hair.

Shane just didn’t know if Ilya could see it.

Or if Ilya would let himself believe it – even if he could.

Shane showed up at Ilya's hotel room just after midnight, still in his dress pants but with his tie gone and his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His hair was messy, like he'd been running his hands through it.

"Hey," he said when Ilya opened the door.

"Hey," Ilya replied, stepping back to let him in, his heart already beating faster.

Shane crossed the room and kissed him immediately, deep and demanding, and Ilya sank into it. Let himself be pushed back against the wall, let Shane's hands frame his face, let himself forget everything except the heat of Shane's mouth on his.

This– this he knew how to do. This made sense. This was simple and physical and didn't require him to think about Petrov's hand on his shoulder or the way everyone at that ceremony had looked at him like they knew something he didn't.

They fell onto the bed together, hands already pulling at clothing, and Ilya focused on the physical. On Shane's mouth on his neck, Shane's hands on his skin, the familiar heat between them. On the way Shane's breath hitched when Ilya bit his collarbone, on the sound Shane made when Ilya's hand found him through his pants.

This was simple. This was easy.

This was all it was.

Afterward, when they were both catching their breath, sprawled across the hotel bed, Shane said: "What are you doing this summer?"

Ilya groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. "We're not doing pillow talk, Hollander."

"I'm just asking a question," Shane protested.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't know," Shane replied, shrugging a little. "Just curious."

Ilya was quiet for a moment, staring at the ceiling, at the generic hotel light fixture that looked exactly like every other hotel light fixture he'd ever seen. "The Petrovs said I could stay with them. For the summer."

"And?" Shane prompted when Ilya didn't continue.

"And I don't know if I should."

"Why not?" Shane asked, and he sounded genuinely confused, like the answer should be obvious.

"Because—" Ilya stopped. Because why? Because he was waiting for them to get tired of him? Because staying felt too much like accepting that this was real, that they actually wanted him around? Because good things didn't last, not for Ilya, and he'd rather leave first than wait to be left? "Because I don't know."

"You don't want to go back to Russia," Shane said. It wasn't a question.

"No," Ilya admitted, the word coming out more vehement than he'd intended. The thought of going back, of facing his father, of returning to that life – no. He couldn't.

"So stay."

"Is not that simple."

"Why not?" Shane rolled onto his side to look at Ilya, propping himself up on one elbow. "You don't want to go back to Russia. They're offering to let you stay. Seems pretty simple to me."

"You don't understand–"

"Then explain it to me," Shane challenged, and there was something in his eyes that made Ilya's defenses rise.

Ilya turned his head to glare at him. "Since when do you care about my living situation?"

"I don't," Shane said quickly, and Ilya tried not to feel disappointed by that. "I just– it seems stupid to turn down a good thing because you're scared."

"I'm not scared," Ilya argued, even though they both knew it was a lie.

"Liar.”

"Fuck you."

"You already did," Shane said, grinning, and Ilya couldn't help it – he laughed.

Ilya shoved him, and Shane laughed too, easy and unguarded. The sound loosened something in Ilya’s chest despite himself. The tension broke, and they settled back, shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the ceiling.

They lay there in silence for a while.

Ilya focused on the faint crack running along the plaster, followed it with his eyes like it might give him something solid to hold onto. He tried not to think about how easy this was. How natural it felt to exist in the same space without bracing for impact. How Shane could pull a laugh out of him even when Ilya had walked in fully prepared to be pissed off.

That was the dangerous part.

Comfort was a slippery thing. It made you forget to keep your guard up.

“Petrov cares about you,” Shane said finally, breaking the quiet. His voice was softer now, stripped of the teasing edge. “I saw it today. The way he looks at you—”

“Can we not do this?” Ilya cut in, too fast, the words tripping over each other as that familiar tightness bloomed in his chest. Panic, sharp and unwelcome, flared like a warning light.

Shane turned his head slightly. “Do what?”

“Talk about feelings and shit,” Ilya clarified, jaw tightening. He hated how exposed it made him feel, lying there with nowhere to hide. “That’s not what this is.”

Shane was quiet for a beat. Too quiet.

“Okay,” he said easily, but Ilya didn’t miss the careful neutrality. “What is this then?”

“You know what it is.”

“Say it.”

Ilya swallowed. He needed to box this up, name it, shrink it down into something manageable before it grew teeth. Before it started to mean something.

“Fuck off, Hollander.”

“Say it,” Shane insisted, still calm, still steady. “What are we doing here?”

“Hooking up,” Ilya said flatly. He forced the words out like they might bruise him less if he didn’t soften them. “That’s it. That’s all this is.”

He stared harder at the ceiling, like eye contact might crack something open he couldn’t afford to deal with.

“Right,” Shane murmured in response.

There was something in his voice then—subtle enough that Ilya could pretend he hadn’t heard it if he wanted to. Something that might’ve been hurt. Might’ve been disappointment. Or maybe just Shane recalibrating, tucking something away the same way Ilya was trying to.

“Just hooking up.”

“Yeah.”

“Cool,” Shane commented, voice sounding oddly hollow. “Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

Ilya nodded once, even though Shane couldn’t see it.

Same page meant safe. Same page meant no expectations, no promises, no chance of wanting more than the other person was willing or able to give. He told himself that was a relief.

Still, the silence that followed felt heavier than the one before, and Ilya couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he’d drawn a line he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted there.

But wanting things had never ended well for him.

So he stayed quiet, stared at the ceiling, and let the moment pass – pretending that was all it was.

They were quiet again, the silence less comfortable now. Ilya knew he should say something, should smooth this over, should make a joke or kiss Shane again or do something to fix whatever he'd just broken. But he didn't know what. Didn't know how to explain that defining this, keeping it simple, was the only way Ilya could let himself have it at all.

"I should probably go," Shane said after a while, sitting up and reaching for his clothes.

"Okay," Ilya agreed, and hated how small his voice sounded.

Shane got up and started getting dressed. Ilya watched him from the bed, feeling like something had shifted but not sure what. Shane's movements were mechanical, efficient, none of the lazy comfort from earlier.

At the door, Shane paused with his hand on the knob. "For what it's worth – I think you should stay. With the Petrovs. They obviously want you there."

"You don't know that," Ilya corrected, even though he'd seen it himself. Saw it in the way Nikolai looked at him, in the way Sophie made his favorite foods, in the way they'd both insisted he didn't need to leave.

"Yeah," Shane told him, meeting his gaze, those brown eyes reeling Ilya in. "I do. But whatever. Your choice."

He left, and Ilya lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling the absence of Shane's presence like a physical thing.

Just hooking up. That's all this is.

He'd said it. Had made it clear. Had drawn the line exactly where it needed to be, had kept Shane firmly on the other side of the walls Ilya had built around anything that mattered.

So why did it feel like shit?

It happened so casually that Ilya almost missed it.

They were in the kitchen a week after the MLH awards, Ilya making a sandwich, Nikolai going through mail at the counter. Normal, mundane, nothing special.

Nikolai set down an envelope and glanced at the clock. "I need to head back to the office for a few hours. Should be home by six."

"Okay," Ilya said, spreading mustard on bread.

Nikolai grabbed his keys, patted his pockets to make sure he had his phone and wallet, then paused by the door. "Love you, kid. See you tonight."

And then he was gone.

Ilya stood frozen, the knife still in his hand, mustard dripping onto the counter.

Love you.

Said so easily. So casually. Like it was nothing. Like it was just – true.

But it couldn't be true. Nikolai was still upset about the therapy conversation, still disappointed that Ilya had refused help. This had to be – what? Some kind of test? A manipulation tactic to make Ilya feel guilty enough to change his mind?

Or maybe Nikolai just felt obligated to say it. Like saying "good morning" or "have a good day." Empty words that didn't mean anything.

Ilya's chest felt tight. His hands started shaking. The words echoed in his head, wrong and false and impossible.

He set down the knife carefully, his appetite gone. Left the half-made sandwich on the counter and went upstairs to his room.

Closed the door. Sat on his bed. Stared at the wall.

Love you.

Why would Nikolai say that when it wasn't true? When he was clearly still frustrated with Ilya for being difficult, for refusing therapy, for making everything harder than it needed to be?

Love wasn't casual. Love wasn't easy. Neither was Ilya. It was the reason no one had loved him since his mama. 

Love was earned through perfection, through never making mistakes, through being so good that someone couldn't help but–

But Ilya wasn't good. He was broken and difficult and too much work. And Nikolai knew that better than anyone after weeks of watching Ilya pretend to be fine.

So why would he lie?

Ilya's phone buzzed. A text from Nikolai: Forgot to mention, picking up Nattie from camp on my way home. 

Nothing about what he'd said. No acknowledgment. Like he hadn't just casually dropped those words and walked away.

Because they didn't mean anything. Because Nikolai probably didn't even remember saying them.

Ilya stared at the text until the screen went dark.

He didn't text back.

Dinner was normal. The girls chattered about their day. Sophie talked about a book she was reading. Nikolai mentioned something about contract negotiations.

Ilya pushed food around his plate and said nothing.

Every time he looked at Nikolai, he heard those words again. Love you. And every time, his mind screamed that they were a lie. That Nikolai was just being polite. That he was probably still frustrated about the therapy thing, just hiding it better.

"You okay?" Sophie asked at one point, concern creasing her forehead.

"Fine," Ilya said automatically. "Just tired."

Another lie. He was getting so good at lying. 

Just like he’d lied to Hollander at the awards. When he’d pretended like he meant nothing to Ilya. 

He hadn’t heard from him since. Ilya had tried to pretend like it didn’t bother him, but… 

He didn’t realize how much he’d enjoyed the random texts he’d get from Shane, how he’d started looking forward to them. 

Nikolai caught his eye across the table. Ilya looked away quickly, his chest tight.

After dinner, Nikolai tried to corner him in the hallway. "Hey, you sure you're—"

"I have film to watch," Ilya interrupted, already heading for the stairs. "For tomorrow's practice."

He felt Nikolai's eyes on his back as he left. Didn't turn around. Couldn't look at him without hearing those words, without wondering what Nikolai actually thought of him.

In his room, Ilya sat at his desk and opened his laptop. Stared at the blank screen. Didn't actually pull up any film.

Nikolai was probably downstairs right now telling Sophie how worried he was. How Ilya was being difficult again. How maybe they should push harder about therapy, or maybe they should just—

Stop. Don't think about it.

But he couldn't stop. Because if Nikolai was lying about loving him, what else was he lying about? Was any of it real? The concern, the care?

Or was it all just- obligation? Duty? A sense of responsibility for the broken kid they'd agreed to billet?

Ilya closed his laptop and lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

He didn't sleep.

Nikolai woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

He lay still for a moment, listening. Quiet, careful footsteps—someone trying not to be heard. That meant it was Ilya, not one of the girls.

His chest tightened with worry. This was the fourth night in a row he'd heard Ilya moving around the house at ungodly hours. The kid wasn't sleeping, that much was obvious. Dark circles had appeared under his eyes, getting deeper each day. He'd barely spoken at dinner tonight, had pushed his food around his plate without eating more than a few bites.

Something was wrong. Something had been wrong since Tuesday, and Nikolai couldn't figure out what had triggered it.

Next to him, Sophie stirred. "Nik?"

"It's fine," he murmured, though it wasn't fine. Nothing about this was fine. "Go back to sleep. I'll check on him."

Sophie made a soft sound of agreement and rolled over, already drifting off again.

Nikolai waited a few more minutes, giving Ilya time to settle wherever he was going. Then he got up quietly, pulled on sweatpants and a t-shirt, and went downstairs.

The back porch light was off, but through the kitchen window he could see the orange glow of a cigarette.

Nikolai stopped in his tracks, his jaw tightening immediately.

Ilya was smoking on the porch. The one thing Sophie had explicitly asked him not to do. She'd been so gentle about it too, explaining that she didn't like the smell, didn't want it near the house where the girls might be exposed to it. And Ilya had agreed, had promised to smoke only when he was out, away from the house.

Frustration flared hot in Nikolai's chest. He and Sophie had been so patient with Ilya, so understanding of his struggles. They'd given him space, hadn't pushed too hard about therapy, had tried to respect his boundaries. And this was how he repaid that patience? By deliberately breaking the one boundary Sophie had set?

Nikolai crossed the kitchen and opened the back door, probably harder than necessary.

"Ilya."

The kid didn't turn around. Just took another drag of his cigarette, his shoulders tense.

Defiant. He was being deliberately defiant.

"I know," Ilya said, his voice flat. "Sophie doesn't want me smoking here."

"Yeah," Nikolai agreed, stepping out onto the porch. The night air was cool, but he barely felt it. "She doesn't."

"Well, she's asleep," Ilya retorted, and there was an edge to his voice that made Nikolai's frustration spike higher. "So she won't know."

The disrespect in that statement – the casual dismissal of Sophie's feelings, the implication that it only mattered if he got caught – made Nikolai's hands clench at his sides.

"I'll know," he pointed out, his voice harder than he'd intended.

Ilya finally turned to look at him, and even in the dim light Nikolai could see the exhaustion in his face, the dark circles, the hollow look in his eyes.

But he could also see the defiance. The challenge.

"So what?" Ilya asked, raising an eyebrow. "You going to tell on me?"

Tell on him. Like this was some childish game. Like Sophie's reasonable request didn't matter.

"No," Nikolai said, trying to rein in his irritation. "I'm going to ask you what's going on. You haven't been yourself for days."

"I'm fine."

And there it was. That automatic lie. The one Ilya used whenever he was anything but fine.

"You're not fine," Nikolai argued, and he couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice now. "You've been avoiding me. Barely talking at dinner. Sophie said you're not sleeping—"

"Sophie should mind her own business," Ilya snapped, more heat in his voice than Nikolai had ever heard.

The words hit like a slap. After everything Sophie had done for Ilya – the cooking, the care, the maternal love she'd poured into this kid – and this was how he talked about her?

Nikolai felt his anger rising, hot and defensive.

"You are her business," he declared, his voice getting firmer, harder. "You're family. We're worried about you."

"Right," Ilya scoffed, and he laughed – bitter and harsh. "Family."

The sarcasm in that word made something snap in Nikolai's chest.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he demanded. "We've done everything we can for you, and you – what? You think we don't mean it? You think this is all fake?"

"I think you're tired of dealing with me," Ilya shot back. "I think you wish I'd just go to therapy and stop being so much work."

"That's not–" Nikolai stopped, took a breath, but the anger was still there, simmering. "You know what? Maybe therapy wouldn't be such a bad idea. Because this–" he gestured at Ilya, at the cigarette, at everything "-this clearly isn't working.”

Ilya jolted a little, something resembling hurt flashing in his blue eyes, the look instantly making something akin to nausea rise up in Nikolai’s stomach. 

"Oh, here we go," Ilya said, his voice rising. "Back to therapy. That's what this is really about, isn't it? You're pissed I won't do what you want."

"I'm pissed that you're hurting yourself!" Nikolai's voice was getting louder too, his control slipping. "I'm pissed that you’re too fucking stubborn to accept help! I'm pissed that you're standing here at 2 AM smoking on the porch that Sophie explicitly asked you not to smoke on, acting like none of this matters!"

"It doesn’t matter!" Ilya shouted, waving a hand, voice rising.

"That is complete bullshit," Nikolai snapped, his anger flaring white-hot in the way he was always so careful to make sure it didn’t when he was around Ilya.

“Oh, because you know what’s best for me?” Ilya questioned, sarcasm dripping from his voice. 

Nikolai forced himself to take a deep breath, not that it helped much. 

“What the hell am I supposed to do with you, kid?” he sighed bitterly, not knowing where else to go from here. 

What could he do, really, if Ilya was refusing help? 

“Just do it then,” Ilya demanded, shouting still, and Nikolai could have sworn his voice was shaking, which didn’t make much sense at all. “C’mon. You know you want to!”

And then he shoved Nikolai, hard, both hands flat against his chest. 

Nikolai took a step back, stumbling slightly, caught off guard not by the force, but by the fact that it happened in the first place. 

“Do what!?” Nikolai snapped, confusion and frustration melding together into his anger. 

“I know you want to. You’ve wanted to since the day I got here! So just do it. Just hit me already!”

The words were like ice water dumped over Nikolai's head.

Everything stopped.

The anger drained away instantly, replaced by horrified understanding.

"What?" Nikolai's voice came out shocked, all the fight gone from it.

"I'm being disrespectful," Ilya continued, and his voice was rising higher, more frantic. "Breaking your rules. Not listening. Yelling at you in the middle of the night. That's what my father would have done. He would have hit me. So just– just do it!"

Oh God.

Oh God, this whole thing – the fight, the provocation, breaking the rule about smoking – this had all been deliberate.

Ilya had been trying to make him angry. Trying to make him lose control.

Trying to prove that Nikolai was just like his father.

Nikolai felt sick. He'd fallen right into it. Had gotten angry, had raised his voice, had let his frustration show. And now Ilya was standing here, asking – no, begging – to be hit.

All the anger evaporated, replaced by a bone-deep sadness and a fierce, protective love.

"I don't want to hit you," Nikolai told the boy, his voice carefully controlled now, all the anger gone. "I would never– Ilya, I’d never–"

“Why not?” Ilya demanded, his tone sharp as a knife, eyes wild as he shoved Nikolai again, harder this time. 

He saw it coming this time, and didn’t move, simply absorbing the blow. Ilya was strong, sure, but Nikolai had three inches and about 20 pounds on the kid, and had been taking checks for longer than Ilya had been alive. So, one little shove was nothing in the grand scheme of things.

“Because I love you," Nikolai explained quietly, unable to keep the sadness out of his voice. No other explanation was needed, at least, not in Nikolai’s mind. 

"Stop lying!" Ilya snapped, pushing him again, and he sounded so young in that moment, so broken, that Nikolai felt his heart break in two. 

The pieces clicked into place. Tuesday. When Nikolai had said "love you" so casually on his way out the door. He'd meant it – of course he'd meant it – but Ilya had heard it and couldn't believe it. Had spent three days spiraling, convinced it was a lie.

Nikolai's heart broke.

This kid. This brave, terrified, broken kid who'd been hurt so badly he couldn't even accept love when it was offered freely.

"Ilya," Nikolai started, his voice gentle now. “I’m not lying.”

"Yes, you are!" Ilya demanded, shoving Nikolai again. "Come on! Just– just– just hit me!

Nikolai planted his feet, absorbing the impact. His chest ached – not from the physical shoves, but from watching this kid he loved so much try so desperately to make himself hurt.

“I’m not going to do that, malysh. Not now, not ever,” Nikolai told him, and Ilya shook his head, clearly not believing him. 

“Why?”

"Because I love you," Nikolai repeated, and his own voice was thick with emotion now. 

"Stop saying that!" He was sobbing now, his words barely coherent as he shoved Nikolai again and again, desperately so. “Stop lying!”

Nikolai couldn't watch this anymore. Couldn't stand here and let Ilya tear himself apart trying to prove he was unlovable.

He caught Ilya mid-shove and pulled him forward into his arms, wrapping them tightly around his shoulders.

"No!" Ilya struggled immediately, trying to push away, his fists hitting Nikolai's back, his chest, anywhere he could reach. "Let go! Stop– stop lying!"

But Nikolai just held him tighter, his own eyes burning with tears. One arm around Ilya's shoulders, one hand cupping the back of his head, pressing Ilya's face against his shoulder.

This kid. This kid who'd been taught that love came with violence, that he had to earn affection through perfection, that showing weakness meant being hurt. This kid who'd been so broken by his father that he literally couldn't believe someone could love him without conditions.

Nikolai's kid now. His son. His to protect, his to love, his to keep safe.

"I'm not lying," Nikolai murmured, his voice rough. "I love you. I love you, Ilya."

"Stop," Ilya sobbed, still fighting, still trying to break free. His fists were getting weaker, his struggles less coordinated. "Please– just– just stop–"

"I love you," Nikolai repeated, holding firm even as his own tears started falling. "Everyone in this house loves you.”

"You can't," Ilya gasped between sobs, and Nikolai felt wetness soaking through his shirt. "You— you can't love me, nobody– nobody loves–”

"I can, and I do," Nikolai said firmly, leaving absolutely no room for argument, squeezing the nape of Ilya’s neck. "You’re mine, and I love you."

God, this kid. This brave, beautiful, broken kid who'd survived so much and still didn't believe he deserved to be loved.

But he did. He deserved all the love in the world.

Ilya's knees gave out.

Nikolai went down with him, both of them sinking to the porch steps, and still he didn't let go. Couldn't let go. Not when Ilya was falling apart like this, not when he needed someone to hold him together.

His back would ache tomorrow from sitting on the hard wood. His knees were already protesting. He didn't care.

"I love you," Nikolai said again, and again, and again. "I love you, malchik. Nothing you do is going to change that."

Something in Ilya finally broke. All the fight drained out of him and he collapsed into Nikolai's arms, sobbing so hard his whole body shook.

Nikolai held him through it, one hand running through his hair, the other firm on his back. His own tears were falling now, soaking into Ilya's hair.

How could someone hurt a child like this? How could Grigori Rozanov look at this sensitive, caring, brave kid and decide he needed to be beaten into submission? How could he take someone so good and make them believe they were worthless?

The anger Nikolai had felt earlier – the frustration about the cigarettes, about the broken rules – that had been nothing. Surface irritation that evaporated the moment he understood what was really happening.

This anger was different. Deeper. A cold, steady rage at the man who'd done this to Ilya. Who'd taken a child and taught him that love meant pain, that mistakes meant punishment, that being human meant being broken.

But underneath the anger was something stronger: love. Fierce, protective, unconditional love for this kid who was his now, who would always be his.

"I love you," Nikolai promised, a vow he would keep for the rest of his life. "I'm not going anywhere. You're safe. You're loved. I've got you."

Ilya clung to him, fingers digging into Nikolai's shirt, his whole body trembling with the force of his sobs. Years of pain, of believing he was unlovable, of waiting for everyone to leave—it was all pouring out.

Nikolai let him cry. Let him fall apart. Held him through every sob, every gasped breath, every moment of breaking.

Because that's what fathers did. They held their kids when they fell apart. They stayed when things got hard. They loved without conditions.

"I'm sorry," Ilya gasped between sobs. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

"Nothing to be sorry for," Nikolai assured him, his voice thick. "You're okay. You're safe. I've got you."

They sat on the porch floor, Ilya falling apart in his arms, and Nikolai just held him. Held him and loved him and promised silently that no one would ever hurt this kid again.

Not his father. Not anyone. Not even himself.

Eventually, the sobs quieted to hiccupping breaths. Ilya's grip on his shirt loosened slightly, though he didn't pull away.

They sat there for a while longer. The sky was starting to lighten—dawn wasn't far off. Somewhere nearby, a bird started singing. Normal morning sounds, the world waking up.

But here on this porch, something fundamental had shifted. Ilya had finally let himself break. Had finally let someone see how hurt he was.

And Nikolai had been there to catch him.

"Come on," Nikolai murmured eventually, carefully. "Let's get you inside. Get you some water."

Ilya nodded against his shoulder but didn't move for another moment. When he finally pulled back, his face was swollen, his eyes red and puffy. He looked exhausted. Wrung out.

But also – younger, somehow. More vulnerable. Like the walls he'd been holding up had finally come down.

Nikolai's heart squeezed with love and protectiveness.

He stood first, his knees protesting, his back aching, then offered his hand. Ilya took it, let Nikolai pull him to his feet.

"Nik?" Ilya said as they headed for the door, his voice small, making him sound years younger.

"Yeah?"

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. Then, so quietly Nikolai almost didn't hear it:

"I love you too."

Nikolai stopped. Turned. Pulled Ilya into another hug - shorter this time, gentler - and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

The words hit him like a wave. After everything – after the pushing away, after the test, after the desperate attempt to make Nikolai prove he didn't care – Ilya had said it back.

Nikolai's throat was too tight to speak for a moment. His eyes burned with fresh tears.

"I know, kid," he finally managed, his voice rough. "I know."

They went inside together. Nikolai got Ilya water, made him drink it all, watched him carefully for signs of shock or dissociation. But Ilya just seemed– tired. Exhausted but present.

They sat at the kitchen table in the pre-dawn darkness. Nikolai's hands were still shaking slightly with residual adrenaline and emotion.

"Sophie's going to smell the cigarette smoke when she wakes up," Ilya said eventually, his voice still hoarse.

"Probably," Nikolai agreed.

"She's going to be disappointed in me."

Ilya made it sound like a sentence worse than death, head hung low staring at the floor, clearly ashamed.

"She'll understand," Nikolai corrected gently, knowing the kid didn’t need any more reasons to beat himself up. "But yeah, you should apologize."

Ilya nodded, staring down at his hands. "I will."

They sat in silence for another moment. Nikolai studied Ilya's face – the exhaustion, the vulnerability, the way he was picking at his thumbnail.

"I think–" Ilya began quietly, not looking up, hesitating for a moment. "I think maybe I need help."

Relief flooded through Nikolai so intensely it made him dizzy. Thank God. 

"Yeah?" he asked, keeping his voice calm even though his heart was racing.

"Yeah," Ilya finally looked up, meeting Nikolai's eyes. "I don't want to feel like this anymore."

Nikolai reached across the table and squeezed Ilya's hand. "Okay. I'll help you set it up. We can call her first thing in the morning."

"Thanks," Ilya whispered.

Nikolai nodded, his chest warm with relief and love and gratitude that Ilya had finally, finally agreed to try.

Chapter End Notes

sorry to keep y'all waiting so long for this one - I was deep in the hell that is midterms season and then AO3 decided to crash for like three days so, anyways hope y'all liked this chapter!!

Chapter 10: chapter ten

Dr. Galina Molchalina's office was in a brownstone in Back Bay, up two flights of narrow stairs. Ilya stood outside the door with the brass nameplate for a full minute before he could make himself knock.

His palms were sweating. His heart was racing. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, go back down the stairs, tell Nikolai he'd changed his mind.

But he'd promised. After breaking down on the porch, after finally admitting he needed help, he'd promised he'd try.

So he knocked.

"Ilya," a woman greeted him, saying his name in flawless Russian, and somehow that made it worse. Another Russian who would see right through him, who would know exactly what kind of person he was. "Please, sit. Would you like some tea?"

Her office was warm, filled with books and comfortable furniture that didn't feel clinical.

It should have felt safe. But it didn't. Nothing felt safe when someone was looking at you that closely.

"No, thank you," Ilya said, perching on the edge of the couch like he might need to run at any moment.

His whole body was tense, every muscle locked tight. He kept his hands folded in his lap to hide the shaking, kept his face carefully neutral. Don't let her see anything. Don't give her ammunition.

"This is your first time in therapy, yes?" Dr. Molchalina asked, settling into the chair across from him.

"Yes." His voice came out flat. Good. Flat was safe. Flat gave nothing away.

"It's normal to be nervous," she said gently, and Ilya hated that she could see it, hated that his carefully maintained control wasn't working. "Many people are, especially the first time. Let me explain how this works. This is your time, your space. You can talk about whatever you want, or we can sit in silence if that's what you need. Nothing you say leaves this room unless you're a danger to yourself or others. This is confidential."

Confidential. That was supposed to be reassuring. It wasn't. It just meant she was going to try to get him to tell her things, to open up, to be vulnerable.

And vulnerability got you hurt.

Ilya nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Why don't we start with why you're here?" Dr. Molchalina suggested, her voice maddeningly patient. "What made you decide to come to therapy?"

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. He thought about the porch, about breaking down in Nikolai's arms, about shouting nobody loves me and meaning it. About how terrifying it had been to say that out loud. About how even more terrifying it was that Nikolai had stayed.

"The people I live with. Nikolai and Sophie." He kept his voice neutral, factual. "They're worried about me."

Dr. Molchalina nodded, making a note. Ilya watched her pen move across the paper and wondered what she was writing. What conclusions she was already drawing.

"And what do you think? Do you think they have reason to be worried?"

It was a trap. Every question was a trap. If he said yes, he was admitting weakness. If he said no, he was lying, and she'd know it.

Ilya shrugged, the gesture deliberately casual. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably. They think I'm– that I'm struggling."

"Are you?"

The question hung in the air. Ilya stared at his hands, at the calluses from holding his stick, at the scar on his knuckle from a fight last season. At the thin white marks on his arm from cigarette burns that he always kept covered.

He thought about not sleeping, about the nightmares, about punishing himself after bad games. About breaking down on the porch because someone said they loved him.

"Everyone struggles," Ilya said finally, his voice carefully neutral. Like his father had taught him. Show nothing. Admit nothing. "That's life."

"That's true," Dr. Molchalina agreed, and Ilya felt himself relax fractionally. At least she wasn't pushing. "But there's a difference between normal struggles and something more. Can you tell me what they're worried about specifically?"

His jaw tightened automatically. This was where it would start – the picking apart, the analyzing, the finding all the broken pieces and putting them on display.

"They think I don't sleep enough. That I train too hard." He paused, searching for words that wouldn't reveal too much. That wouldn’t reveal the truth. "That I'm– I don't know. They worry."

"Do you think you train too hard?"

"No." The answer came immediately, reflexive. Because it was true – there was always someone better, always someone working harder. And if he didn’t train hard, then his father would– would–

"Why not?"

"Because there's always someone better," Ilya answered, and he could hear the echo of Grigori in his own words. "If I'm not pushing myself, I make mistakes."

"And if you make a mistake?" Dr. Molchalina asked gently.

Ilya didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Making mistakes got you punished. Extra drills, at least, if not the belt. Because if he made a mistake, he was worthless. Replaceable. Not good enough. And people who weren't good enough got left behind.

Just like his mother had left him.

They spent the rest of the hour like that – Dr. Molchalina asking gentle questions, Ilya giving short, guarded answers that revealed nothing. He kept his face neutral, his voice flat, his posture controlled. Every response calculated to give her just enough that she'd stop pushing, but not enough that she'd actually see anything real.

It was exhausting. Like playing a chess game where every move mattered, where one wrong step would expose him completely.

When the session ended, Dr. Molchalina walked him to the door.

"This was a good start," she said, and Ilya wanted to laugh. Good? This had been torture. "I know it's not easy, opening up to a stranger. But you came. That counts for something."

Did it? Or had he just wasted an hour trying to prove he was fine?

"Okay," Ilya replied eventually, not knowing what else to say.

"Same time next week?"

Ilya hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to say no, to walk away, to prove he didn't need this. But Nikolai's face flashed in his mind – the way he'd looked holding Ilya on the porch, the way he'd said I love you like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Ilya had promised to try. And he kept his promises.

"Okay," he found himself agreeing.

The Petrov home in Newport was different from the Boston townhouse – sprawling, right on the water, with a huge backyard that led down to a private dock. The girls had been ecstatic when they'd arrived, immediately claiming their rooms and racing down to the beach.

Ilya had his own room here too, on the second floor with a window that overlooked the ocean. It was peaceful in a way that made his chest ache sometimes – too quiet, too calm, like he was waiting for something bad to happen.

But nothing bad happened. The days fell into an easy rhythm: breakfast together, the girls going off to day camp, Ilya and Nikolai hitting the local rink for training, afternoons on the beach, dinners on the back porch watching the sunset.

They spent every summer here, Sophie had told him. All of July and August. It was all the girls had been able to talk about, the last few weeks of the school year. 

He’d never had anything like that as a kid. No annual summer vacation, no family trips. Nothing with that much joy or certainty. 

It was perfect. Almost too perfect.

Ilya still spent part of the week up in Boston with Nikolai. Three days a week, just the two of them in the brownstone. Every Monday morning, they’d make the drive up, and Nikolai would work while Ilya got some ice time and saw Dr. Molchalina - Galina, as she’d told him he could call her – in the afternoon. They stayed through Wednesday afternoon, and left after Ilya had his second weekly appointment. It was a good arrangement. Ilya got in practice time, his therapy sessions continued, and Nikolai got whatever work needed to be done in the office finished. 

Nikolai was in the kitchen making dinner when he heard the front door open and close.

He glanced at the clock. 7:15 PM. Ilya's session with Dr. Molchalina had been at 5:30. He should have been home over an hour ago.

Nikolai waited, listening for footsteps heading toward the kitchen or upstairs to Ilya's room. But there was nothing. Just silence.

He set down the knife he'd been using to chop vegetables and wiped his hands on a dish towel. Something was wrong.

When he walked into the entryway, he found Ilya standing with his back against the closed door, staring at nothing. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, his face blotchy. He looked completely wrung out, exhausted in a way that went bone-deep. Like he'd spent the past hour and forty-five minutes crying and was only barely holding himself together now.

Nikolai's chest tightened. He didn't say anything. Didn't ask questions. Just opened his arms.

Ilya made a sound – something broken and relieved – and practically fell into the embrace. His fingers clutched at Nikolai's shirt, gripping so tight his knuckles went white. His whole body was shaking, trembling with exhaustion or emotion or both.

"I've got you," Nikolai murmured, one hand coming up to cup the back of Ilya's head, the other firm on his back. "I've got you, kid."

Ilya's face was pressed against Nikolai's shoulder, his breathing uneven. He wasn't crying now – it seemed like maybe he'd cried himself out already – but he was trembling hard.

"It's okay," Nikolai said softly, just holding him steady, threading his fingers through soft blonde curls. "You're safe. You're home."

They stood like that for a long moment, Ilya clinging to him like Nikolai was the only solid thing in the world. Nikolai could feel the exhaustion radiating from him, could feel how close he was to falling apart completely.

"Is there anything I can do?" Nikolai asked gently, rubbing slow circles on Ilya's back. "Anything you need?"

Ilya's voice came out so small, so quiet, Nikolai almost didn't hear it. "Can we just– can we just stay like this for a minute?"

The request – so simple, so vulnerable – made Nikolai's throat tight.

"As long as you want, malchik," he promised, pulling Ilya closer. "As long as you want."

So they stayed. Nikolai held Ilya in the entryway, one hand running slowly through his hair, the other firm on his back, anchoring him. Minutes passed. Nikolai didn't move, didn't try to rush him, just stood there being solid and present while Ilya slowly, gradually, came back to himself.

Eventually Ilya's breathing evened out. His death grip on Nikolai's shirt loosened slightly. Some of the trembling eased.

"Hard session?" Nikolai asked quietly.

"Yeah," Ilya whispered, his voice hoarse. "We talked about my– about my mama.”

Nikolai's arms tightened instinctively. God. No wonder Ilya looked destroyed.

Nikolai's heart broke for him. For this kid who'd been through so much, who was brave enough to face it even when it hurt like this.

"I'm proud of you," Nikolai told him firmly, holding him a bit tighter. "For doing that. For being that brave."

Ilya shook his head against Nikolai's shoulder. "I’m not."

"You are," Nikolai insisted, leaving no room for argument. He’d been out-stubborning his kids for years, after all. "You’re brave. Doing all of this, it’s… it’s scary.”

They stood there a while longer. Nikolai could hear traffic outside, the distant sound of someone's TV, normal evening sounds. But here in the entryway, time felt suspended. Just him and Ilya and the weight of grief between them.

"Come on," Nikolai said eventually, carefully. "Let's get you some water. Have you eaten?"

Ilya shook his head.

"Okay. Water and food, then you can rest if you need to."

He kept one arm around Ilya's shoulders as they walked to the kitchen, guiding him to a chair. Ilya moved like he was underwater – slow, heavy, exhausted.

Nikolai poured water, made a simple sandwich, then set both in front of Ilya and sat down across from him.

Ilya ate mechanically, his eyes distant. When he'd finished half the sandwich, he pushed the plate away, eyes flicking guiltily towards Nikolai

"That's okay," Nikolai assured quickly, standing up to clear the plate away. "You did good."

"I'm really tired," Ilya confessed quietly, eyes blinking wearily. 

"I know, kid.”

"Can we just–" Ilya stopped, looking uncertain.

"What do you need?"

Nikolai had learned by now that Ilya would never outright say what he needed, not unless pressed for an answer. And that was okay. Nikolai would just keep asking him. 

"Can we just sit for a while? I don't…" Ilya trailed off, biting his lip a bit, avoiding Nikolai’s gaze.

He could read between the lines. The kid didn’t want to be alone. 

"Sure," Nikolai agreed immediately, knowing there was no way he could ever say no to this kid, his kid, especially not when he was like this. "Come on. We can put on a movie."

They moved to the living room. Ilya curled up on one end of the couch and Nikolai sat on the other, turning on some nature documentary that required zero brain power.

After a few minutes, Ilya shifted closer, until his shoulder was pressed against Nikolai's. Nikolai put his arm around him and Ilya leaned into it, his eyes already starting to close.

Within twenty minutes, he was asleep.

Nikolai stayed perfectly still, watching the documentary without really seeing it, instead thinking about the kid sleeping against his shoulder. About how much courage it took to face trauma like that. About how Ilya kept showing up, kept trying, even when it hurt.

His kid. His brave, broken, healing kid.

Nikolai would sit here all night if that's what Ilya needed.

Ilya sat on Galina's couch, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. They'd been talking about his father for twenty minutes and his whole body was tense, wound tight like a spring. Every muscle was locked, his jaw aching from clenching it. He wanted to leave. Wanted to walk out and never come back.

But he'd promised. He'd promised Nikolai he'd try.

"Tell me about a specific time he punished you," Galina suggested, shutting her notebook to give him her full attention. Her voice was gentle, but Ilya still felt cornered.

His first instinct was to deflect. To say something vague and move on. But Dr. Molchalina waited, patient and steady, and Ilya knew she wouldn't let him dodge this.

He was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. His callused, scarred hands that had learned to grip a hockey stick before they'd learned gentleness. Finally: "I was eight or nine. I was helping set the table for dinner and I dropped a glass. It shattered everywhere."

The memory was sharp-edged. The sound of glass exploding on the floor. The way his whole body had frozen in terror. His mother's quick intake of breath. His father's face going dark.

"What happened?"

Ilya's jaw tightened. His throat felt like it was closing. "He told me to go to my room. Wait for him." His voice was flat, factual. Like he was describing something that had happened to someone else. That's how he had to tell it – removed, distant. If he let himself feel it, he'd fall apart. "He came in with his belt. Told me to take off my shirt."

Galina was very still. "And then?"

The waiting had been the worst part. Sitting on his bed, listening to his father's footsteps in the hall, knowing what was coming. His hands had been shaking so badly. He'd been crying before his father even opened the door.

"He hit me. I don't remember how many times." That was a lie. He remembered exactly. Twelve. He'd counted every single one, biting his lip to keep from crying out. "Told me I was careless, that I needed to learn to pay attention, to stop being so clumsy." Ilya shrugged, the gesture defensive. Practiced. "I deserved it. I was a difficult child. Always breaking things, always making messes."

The words came automatically. He'd told himself this story so many times it felt like truth. You deserved it. You were difficult. You needed to learn.

"You were eight years old," Galina reminded him quietly, as though that somehow made a difference. It didn’t. It never had. At least, not to his father. 

Something in Ilya's chest tightened at the gentleness in her voice. He didn't want gentleness. Gentleness made it harder to keep the walls up.

"So? I was old enough to be careful. I should have been paying more attention."

"Ilya, children drop things. It's normal. It's an accident."

No. No, that couldn't be right. If it was just an accident, just a normal thing, then what his father did—

Ilya couldn't finish that thought.

"I had a lot of accidents," Ilya said, his voice tight. Defensive. "I was always doing something wrong. Breaking things, spilling things, being too loud, not listening well enough. He had to punish me or I wouldn't learn."

His father's voice echoed in his head: How else will you learn? You think the world will be gentle with you? I'm preparing you. Making you strong.

Galina leaned forward slightly. "Let me ask you something. If Nattie was helping set the table and she dropped a glass – because she's five and still learning to be careful – do you think Nikolai would be right to take her to her room and hit her with a belt?"

The question hit Ilya like a punch to the gut. His head snapped up. "What? No. Of course not."

The image of tiny Nattie – sweet, exuberant Nattie with her stuffed rabbit and her bright laugh – standing in front of Nikolai with fear in her eyes, waiting to be hurt. The thought made Ilya feel physically sick.

And Nikolai would never hurt her. Not Nattie, or Nell, or Kira, or Sophie. He’d never hurt any of them. 

"Why not?"

"Because she's– she's just little. She's learning. That's what kids do, they make mistakes."

It was so obvious when it was Nattie. So clear that punishing her like that would be monstrous.

"You were a little kid too," Galina reminded gently, tilting her head a bit. "You were eight."

"That's different."

But even as he said it, doubt crept in. Was it different? Or had he just been told it was different so many times he believed it?

"How?"

Ilya opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried to find the words to explain why it was different when it was him. His mind scrambled for the logic, the justification he'd always relied on. "Because I– I was difficult. I should have known better."

"Eight-year-olds drop things," Galina pointed out. "They spill milk and break dishes and forget instructions. That's not being difficult. That's being a child."

Ilya's hands were starting to shake. He pressed them harder against his thighs, willing them to stop. "But I did it a lot–"

"Because you were a child. And probably because you were nervous, anxious about making mistakes, which made you more likely to make them." She paused. "If Nattie dropped a glass tomorrow, what would Nikolai do?"

Ilya could picture it perfectly. He'd seen Nikolai handle the girls' mistakes a hundred times. Watched the way he responded with patience instead of anger.

"He'd– he'd make sure she didn't step on the glass. Help her clean it up. Tell her it's okay, accidents happen."

The contrast was stark. Painful. Eight-year-old Ilya frozen in terror while his father's face darkened. Eight-year-old Ilya sent to his room to wait, stomach churning with dread. Nattie would get gentle hands and reassurance. Ilya had gotten a belt.

"Would he hit her?"

"No."

"Would he send her to her room to wait in fear?"

"No." The word came out sharp. Almost angry. Because the thought of Nikolai doing that to any of the girls was impossible. Unthinkable.

"Would he take off his belt and—"

"No," Ilya corrected sharply, his voice cracking. "He would never. That would be– that would be–"

He couldn't say it. Couldn't let the word form. Because if he said it, if he named it, everything would change. Every memory would have to be reframed. Every punishment re-examined. The foundation of his childhood would crumble.

"Abuse, Ilya," Galina said quietly, filling in the blank for him. "That'd be abuse."

The word hung in the air between them. Heavy. Undeniable.

Ilya felt like he couldn't breathe. His chest was too tight, his throat closing. The room felt too small. He stared at Dr. Molchalina, his chest tight, unable to breathe properly. His heart was racing like he'd just finished bag skates.

Abuse. Abuse. Abuse.

The word echoed in his head, colliding with years of you deserved it and you were difficult and I was making you strong.

"No," he said, but his voice sounded weak even to his own ears. "He was– he was teaching me. Disciplining me."

He needed it to be discipline. Needed it to have been for a reason, to have meant something. Because if it was just abuse, just cruelty, then he'd suffered for nothing. Been hurt for nothing.

"There's a difference between discipline and abuse. Discipline is setting boundaries, giving consequences that fit the mistake, teaching a child how to do better. Abuse is hurting a child out of anger. Making them afraid. Punishing them with pain for being a normal child."

Each word landed like a blow. Ilya felt them hitting him, felt the careful structure he'd built around his childhood starting to crack.

"I wasn't normal," Ilya insisted, desperate now. "I was difficult. Lazy."

If he wasn't difficult, if he wasn't wrong, then his father was. And he couldn't– he couldn't carry that. Couldn't be angry at his father for all of it.

"You were eight," Galina corrected, her voice gentle but firm. "You were a little boy who dropped a glass. That's not difficult. That's not deserving of violence. That's just being a child."

Ilya's hands were shaking so badly now he couldn't hide it. He pressed them against his thighs, harder, trying to make them stop. His whole body was trembling. "If it was abuse, then– then all of it was. Everything. And I–"

The implications were too big. Too overwhelming. If dropping a glass didn't deserve punishment, what about spilling milk? Forgetting to do something? Talking back? Getting a bad grade? Missing a goal? All of it – years and years of it – all abuse?

"I know," Galina replied softly, as if she could see the turmoil running through his mind. "It's hard to accept. Because if it was abuse, that means it wasn't your fault. That you didn't deserve it. That you were just a child who needed love and patience, not pain."

Ilya's eyes were burning. He blinked hard, tilting his head to the side, trying to keep the tears back. Don't cry. Don't cry. His father's voice: Crying is for weak children. You're not weak.

But his eyes were burning anyway, his vision blurring.

"You keep saying you were difficult," Galina continued. "But I wonder if what you were was scared. Scared of making mistakes because you knew what would happen. And fear makes children anxious, clumsy, more likely to drop things and spill things and forget things."

The observation cut through him like a knife. Because it was true. God, it was so true. He remembered being eight, nine, ten – always terrified. Setting the table with shaking hands, moving slowly and carefully because any mistake could mean pain. Checking his homework three, four, five times because errors meant punishment. Living in constant fear of his father's anger.

And the fear had made everything worse. Made him more likely to fumble, to forget, to mess up. Which led to more punishment. Which led to more fear. An endless cycle.

"I was so scared all the time," he whispered, the admission torn from him.

Saying it out loud made it real. Made it true. He'd been a terrified child, not a difficult one.

It’d been better when his mother was still alive. But after she was gone, Ilya had been alone. No one to protect him, or love him. Just alone with his father and Alexei. 

"I know," Galina said gently, nodding a little. "And you shouldn't have been. You should have felt safe in your home. Safe with your father. That's what children deserve."

Safe. When had he ever felt safe as a child? Not until his mother tucked him in at night, when his father was already asleep. Not until he was at school, away from home. Not until—

Not until Nikolai.

The realization hit him hard. The first time he'd felt truly safe was in the Petrov house. With Nikolai, who had never once raised his voice in anger. Who had never once made him afraid.

"I can't–" Ilya's voice broke. His carefully maintained control was shattering. "I can't think about it like that. As abuse. I can't."

Because if he did, he'd have to grieve. Have to mourn the childhood he should have had. Have to be angry at his father. Have to accept that he'd been hurt, badly, for years, and it hadn't been his fault.

The weight of it was crushing.

"You don't have to accept it all at once," Galina promised him. "We'll take it slow. But I need you to start considering the possibility. That you were just a normal child. That you weren't difficult. Even if you had been, it wouldn’t have mattered. What happened to you wasn't discipline – it was abuse."

Ilya pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Hard. Trying to push everything back in, keep it contained. But it was too late. The cracks were already there.

He thought about eight-year-old Ilya, small for his age, terrified, standing in his room waiting for his father. Thought about how that little boy had believed it was his fault. Had believed he deserved it.

And he thought about Nattie, Nell and Kira. About what he would do if anyone ever hurt them like that.

He'd kill them.

The thought was immediate and visceral. If anyone laid a hand on any of the girls, he’d kill them. Without hesitation.

So why had it been okay when it was him?

"When you dropped that glass," Galia explained slowly, as though knowing he needed time to digest her words, "you were eight years old. You were a little boy. You made a mistake. And your father hurt you for it. That was wrong. It was always wrong, Ilya."

They sat in silence. Ilya couldn't speak. Couldn't process. Couldn't accept it.

His chest felt like it was being crushed. His throat was so tight he could barely breathe. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to leave, to not think about this anymore.

But somewhere, deep down, a part of him whispered: she's right.

And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

Because if she was right, he had to rewrite everything. Every punishment, every time his father had hurt him and he'd told himself he deserved it. All of it had to be examined again, seen through new eyes.

The work felt impossible. Overwhelming.

But Nikolai's voice echoed in his head: I'm proud of you. For being brave enough to try.

So maybe he could try. Even if it hurt. Even if it felt impossible.

Maybe he could try.

Saturday morning dawned bright and warm. Ilya was on the back deck drinking coffee, watching the ocean, when Sophie found him.

"Morning," she said, dropping into the chair next to him. "The girls are still asleep—miracle of miracles. Nik's already gone for his run."

Ilya nodded, taking another sip. The coffee was good. Strong. Sophie always made it the way he liked it without him having to ask.

"I'm heading to the farmers market in a bit," she continued, leaning against the porch railing. "Want to come? I could use the company. And the help carrying things."

"So I'm free labor," Ilya said, but he was smiling. "I see how it is."

"Strong, young, free labor," Sophie corrected. "Very valuable."

Ilya glanced at her. She was in a sundress and sandals, her hair down and blowing slightly in the breeze, looking relaxed and happy.

"Sure," he said. "Yeah, I'll come."

Twenty minutes later they were in the jeep, windows down, driving into town. The radio played softly and Sophie hummed along, her fingers tapping the steering wheel.

It was easy. Comfortable. Like they'd done this a hundred times before instead of never.

The market was already busy when they arrived. Vendors set up in booths along either side of the street, people milling between stalls, the smell of fresh bread and flowers and ripe fruit filling the air.

"Tomatoes first," Sophie decided, heading for a produce stand. "I want to make sauce this week."

Ilya followed, hands in his pockets, watching her examine tomatoes like she was choosing gemstones. She chatted with the vendor for a bit, clearly having met the man before, as she carefully selected her tomatoes.

"You know," Ilya said as they walked away, "you just spent ten minutes picking tomatoes. They all looked the same to me."

"They are not all the same. Some are for sauce, some are for salads, some are—"

"Tomatoes," Ilya finished. "They're all tomatoes."

Sophie swatted his arm. "You have no respect for the art of cooking."

"I have respect for eating. That's close enough."

They wandered through the market, Sophie buying peaches and fresh herbs and a loaf of bread that smelled incredible. At one stall, she found lavender lemonade and insisted Ilya try it.

"Lavender," Ilya said skeptically. "In lemonade."

"Just try it."

He took a cautious sip. It was sweet and floral and strange, but good. "Okay, fine. It's not terrible."

"High praise from the Russian food critic." But Sophie was smiling, buying two large cups.

As they continued on, sipping their drinks, Ilya noticed Sophie eyeing a jewelry stall. "Go look," he said. "I'll hold the bags."

"You sure?"

"I'm very strong, young, free labor. Remember?"

She laughed and went to examine some earrings while Ilya stood there holding four bags and two cups of lemonade, trying not to drop anything. A woman walked past and smiled at him sympathetically.

"She's got you well trained," the woman said.

"I volunteered for this," Ilya said. "Which makes it worse."

When Sophie came back empty-handed, Ilya raised an eyebrow. "You didn't buy anything? I stood here holding all this for nothing?"

"I was just looking!"

"Unbelievable. I'm being exploited."

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm Russian. It's genetic."

At one stall, Sophie bought a basket of strawberries and some fresh greens. When the elderly vendor started to bag everything up, Ilya automatically reached for the bag – he'd been doing it all morning, collecting them like some kind of pack mule.

"I've got it," he told Sophie, batting her hands away before she could take it. Sophie just shook her head at him fondly before pulling out her wallet. 

The old woman behind the stall was watching them with kind eyes, clearly amused by their bickering. "That's a nice boy you've got there," she said to Sophie, nodding at Ilya.

Ilya froze, his heart stuttering. Waiting for Sophie to correct her, to explain he wasn't actually her son, just a kid staying with them.

But Sophie just smiled wider. "I know," she replied warmly, handing the woman some cash. "I'm very lucky."

She said it so easily, like it was simple truth, like there was no question about it.

Ilya's throat felt tight. He focused on holding the bag, on not reacting, on breathing steadily.

They moved on to another stall. Sophie bought peonies – bright pink, cheerful. "For the kitchen table," she said. "They make me happy."

"My mama liked peonies," Ilya found himself saying, before he even thought about it really.

He used to scrape together a few dollars to try and buy some from the shop down the road from them. Ilya hadn't realized at the time, but he was almost certain the old man who ran the store had given him a discount. Even on the days when his mother wouldn't get out of bed, they always made her smile, just a bit.

He'd dropped them when he found her, the delicate pink flowers tumbling to the floor of his parents' bedroom. For a while, he'd thought that maybe if he hadn't stopped that day, if he'd gone straight home from school, then maybe he would've been able to save her.

Ilya knew the truth now. Five minutes wouldn't have mattered. She'd already been gone for too long.

Sophie's expression softened, something painfully gentle in her eyes. "Then these are definitely the right choice."

They found a bench near the harbor and sat, finishing their lemonade, watching boats bob in the water. The morning sun glinted off the waves. Seagulls cried overhead.

Ilya looked down at all the bags surrounding him. "So. Do I get paid for this? Or is the lavender lemonade my compensation?"

"The lemonade and my delightful company."

"The lemonade was better."

Sophie gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "I'm wounded. Truly wounded."

"You'll survive," Ilya said, but he was smiling. "You're not delicate, remember?"

"You're terrible."

"This is nice," Ilya said, more quietly. Not sure what else to say.

"It is," Sophie agreed. "We should do this every Saturday. Make it our thing."

Our thing. Like they were a unit. Like this was something that belonged to both of them.

"Okay," Ilya replied, grinning teasingly. "But next time I'm bringing a wagon or something. My arms are dying."

"Next time don't grab every single bag before I can."

"Next time don't buy the entire market."

Sophie laughed, squeezing his hand briefly. "Deal."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, and Ilya thought about the vendor's words. That's a nice boy you've got there. And Sophie's response. I know. I'm very lucky.

"Come on," Sophie said eventually. "Let's get this all back to the car before you complain about your arms again."

"I wasn't complaining. I was stating facts."

"Uh-huh."

"My brother called last night," Ilya said, staring at his hands.

The conversation was still fresh, still raw. Alexei's voice on the phone, that familiar mix of contempt and casual cruelty. Ilya had spent the whole night after unable to sleep, Alexei's words playing on repeat.

"Alexei?" Galina asked.

"Yeah. He needed money again." Ilya's jaw tightened. The request, demand, really, had been casual, like it always was. Like Ilya was an ATM, not a person. "I sent it."

Of course he'd sent it. He always sent it. Because Alexei was his brother, and you helped family, even when family didn't help you back.

"How did the conversation go?"

Ilya was quiet for a moment, trying to find words that wouldn't reveal how much it had hurt. But this was therapy. The whole point was to reveal the hurt. "He said he needed more money for Father. And for Alina. I told him no, at first. That I’d just sent him money last month and that I couldn’t spend more.” He paused, swallowing tightly. Ilya should’ve been used to the way Alexei’s words hurt by now, and yet, he wasn’t. “He said I should work harder then, make more money, stop being so pathetic.”

The word – pathetic – had hit him like a slap. Casual. Careless. Like it was just an observation, not a knife sliding between his ribs.

Galina’s expression didn't change, but something shifted in her eyes. "What else did he say?"

Ilya's hands curled into fists in his lap. "That I should try harder not to be so lazy. That I've always been lazy, always taking the easy way out." His voice was flat, trying to keep the emotion out of it. "That he’s surprised a man like Nikolai puts up with me.”

The words had burrowed under his skin, made him doubt. Made him wonder if Alexei was right.

"And do you think that's normal? That's just how brothers are?"

"That’s how it's always been," Ilya replied, but the words came out uncertain. "Brothers are hard on each other."

Even as he said it, he could hear how hollow it sounded. Could feel the cognitive dissonance between what he was saying and what he knew to be true.

"Would you ever say those things to Kira? To Nell? To Nattie?"

Ilya's head snapped up, something sharp and protective flaring in his chest. "What? No. Never."

The idea of calling Kira lazy or Nell pathetic or telling Nattie she was a burden – it was unthinkable. He would cut out his own tongue before saying things like that to them.

"Why not?"

"Because I love them. I want them to– to feel good about themselves. To know they're—" He stopped, the words catching in his throat.

"Worthy?" Galina suggested gently. "Loved? Good enough?"

Ilya's throat was tight. He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"But when Alexei says things like that to you, you accept it. You think it's normal."

The words hit like an accusation, even though her voice was gentle. Because she was right. He did accept it. Had accepted it for years.

"He's my brother," Ilya argued, his voice small. "He's just—"

"Just what?"

The question hung in the air. Ilya could feel the weight of what he was about to say, the thing he'd never said out loud to anyone except Nikolai on that terrible night on the porch.

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "He blames me. For our mama."

There it was. The truth he'd been carrying since he was twelve. The weight that had been crushing him for seven years.

Galina went very still. Perhaps stiller than he’d ever seen her. "Tell me about that."

Ilya's hands were shaking. He stared at them, at the way they trembled against his thighs. "He's always blamed me. Since– since she died." His chest was so tight it hurt to breathe. "He said it last night too. Said she'd probably still be alive if I hadn't been such a difficult child. If I hadn't made everything so hard for her."

The words – Alexei's words – felt like they were choking him. You exhausted her. You made everything harder. Maybe if you'd been easier, she would have wanted to stay.

"Ilya—"

"He's right though," Ilya cut her off quickly, desperately. The words came out in a rush, like if he said them fast enough they'd hurt less. "I was difficult. I was always– I made her tired. I made things harder. If I'd been better, less needy, maybe she wouldn't have—"

His voice cracked. He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say killed herself out loud.

"Stop," Galina said, her voice firm but gentle. "Ilya, look at me."

He looked up, his eyes burning with unshed tears. The room felt like it was tilting.

"Your mother's death was not your fault. You were a child. Children are not responsible for their parents' mental health. You did not make her kill herself."

The words should have been comforting. Should have been a relief. Instead they felt like an attack on the story Ilya had been telling himself for years. The story that made sense of the senseless. If it was his fault, at least there was a reason. If he'd caused it, at least he had some control.

If it wasn't his fault, then it was just random. Just cruel. Just his mother choosing to leave him for reasons he'd never understand.

"But–"

"Alexei is wrong," Galina retorted, her voice sharp in a way Ilya had never heard before. It startled him. "And more than that – what he's doing is cruel. Blaming you for your mother's death, calling you pathetic and lazy and a burden – that's not brotherhood. That's emotional abuse."

There was that word again. Abuse. It seemed to follow Ilya everywhere in this office, naming things he didn't want named.

Ilya flinched at the word. His whole body recoiled. "He's just– he's angry. He lost her too."

He needed there to be a reason. Needed Alexei's cruelty to make sense. 

"Yes, he did. And grief can make people cruel. But that doesn't make it acceptable. It doesn't mean you have to keep accepting it."

Ilya thought about the phone calls. About sending money every time Alexei asked. About accepting every insult, every cutting remark, every reminder that he'd killed their mother. About calling him back every time, hoping this time would be different. Hoping Alexei would say something kind.

He never did.

"He's my brother," Ilya said again, helplessly. Like that explained everything. Like that justified everything.

"And you're his brother too," Galina reminded him, eyeing him carefully. "Does he treat you the way a sibling should? With love? With support?"

Ilya thought about the girls. About how Kira read to Nattie when she was sad. About how Nell helped Nattie with her homework. About how they defended each other, built each other up, celebrated each other's wins.

And he thought about Alexei. About seven years of blame. Seven years of being called pathetic, lazy, a burden. Seven years of being reminded that their mother was dead because of him.

"No," he whispered. The admission felt like betrayal. Like he was failing Alexei somehow. But it was true. "No, he doesn't."

"I'm sorry," Galina told him softly, sounding like she really meant it. "I know you love him. I know you want him to love you back the way you deserve. But the way he treats you – blaming you for your mother's death, calling you names, making you feel worthless – that's not love."

The words cracked something open in Ilya's chest. A fissure that had been forming for weeks, maybe months, maybe years. The truth he'd been avoiding.

Alexei didn't love him. Maybe he never had.

Ilya's chest felt like it was cracking open. Like Galina’s words were splitting him apart. "I keep hoping if I'm just– if I'm good enough, if I help him enough, if I–"

If he sent enough money. If he was successful enough. If he proved he wasn't worthless. Then maybe Alexei would love him. Would forgive him. Would stop blaming him.

"You can't fix this by being good enough," Galina explained gently. "Because this isn't about you. It's about him. About his grief, his anger, his cruelty. You've always been good enough, Ilya. His inability to see that is his failure, not yours."

Ilya pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to hold back tears. But they came anyway, hot and bitter. His shoulders shook.

All these years. All the money sent, the insults accepted, the calls returned. And it would never be enough. He would never be enough for Alexei to love him.

"I keep sending him money," he choked out. "I keep answering his calls. Because he's my brother and I– I love him. I hate him, but– but I love him. Even though he makes me feel like shit. Even though he blames me for– for her. I keep hoping—"

The sobs were coming now, harsh and painful, ripping out of his chest. Years of hoping, of trying, of being rejected over and over.

"You keep hoping he'll love you back the way you love him," Galina finished. "I know. That hope– it's not wrong to have it. It's not weak. It's human."

But it hurt. God, it hurt so much. To love someone who used that love as a weapon. To keep offering your heart to someone who only ever crushed it.

Ilya nodded, unable to speak. His whole body was shaking with sobs. He felt twelve again – standing in that flat in Moscow, staring at his mother's body, and watching Alexei's face go cold and hard as he said: This is your fault.

Seven years. He'd carried that for seven years.

"Your mother's death was a tragedy," Galina said quietly. "But it was not your fault. You were twelve years old. You were a child who loved his mother and lost her. You are not responsible for her pain, for her choices, for what happened. Do you understand me?"

Ilya wanted to understand. Wanted to believe her. But the weight of Alexei's blame, of seven years of being told he killed her, was so heavy.

"I—" Ilya's voice broke. "I don't know."

How did you let go of something you'd believed for so long? How did you stop blaming yourself when someone you loved had been blaming you for years?

"We'll keep working on it," Galina promised. "But I need you to hear this: you did not kill your mother. And your brother is wrong to blame you. That blame belongs to no one – not to you, not to anyone. Mental illness is not anyone's fault."

Ilya nodded, tears spilling over despite his best efforts to hold them back. His face was wet, his breathing ragged. He felt raw. Exposed. Like every defense he'd built had been stripped away.

But underneath the pain, underneath the grief, there was something else. Something small but real.

Relief.

Relief that someone finally said it wasn't his fault. That he didn't kill her. That he was just a kid who lost his mom.

"You deserved better," Galina told him. "From your father, from your brother. You deserved to be loved, to be supported, to be told you were enough. I'm sorry you didn't get that."

They sat in silence. Ilya cried quietly, and Galina let him, not rushing, not trying to fix it. Just bearing witness. Just being present with his pain.

It was more than anyone in his family had ever done.

When he finally looked up, eyes red and swollen, his face blotchy, she handed him tissues.

He took them with shaking hands.

"This is going to take time," she said. "Learning to set boundaries. Learning to protect yourself. Learning that you deserve better. But you can do it."

Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice. His throat was too raw, his chest too tight.

Chapter 11: chapter eleven

Chapter Notes

The rink felt different this year.

Ilya laced up his skates in the locker room, his fingers moving through the familiar motions automatically – cross, pull, tighten, knot. Around him, the space hummed with the comfortable chaos of training camp: Murph's booming laugh echoing off the concrete walls, Benny's voice rising in complaint about the new practice schedule, Fitzy already launching into his traditional rookie hazing with the kind of creative chirps that bordered on art form.

Therapy was still hard. Dr. Molchalina still asked questions that made him want to bolt from her office, still pushed him to examine things he'd rather leave buried. But he was sleeping better now. Five, sometimes six hours a night without jerking awake, heart racing, certain his father was standing over his bed. 

He pulled his last lace tight and tested the fit, flexing his ankle. Perfect.

"Rozy!" Murph's voice cut through the din as a roll of tape came flying at his head.

Ilya caught it one-handed without looking up, muscle memory from a season of Murph's casual projectiles. He grinned – the easy, cocky smile that came naturally here, in this space where he got to be confident and unburdened. "Ready to show these kids how it's done?"

The familiar banter settled over him like a warm blanket. This was who he got to be here – loud, sure of himself, the kind of player who talked shit and backed it up. Not the kid who flinched at raised voices. Not the son who'd learned to make himself small and quiet to avoid his father's fists. Just Rozy. Just good.

"Big words from someone who’s still a kid, and spent half of last season in the sin bin," Benny shot back from across the room.

"Penalty minutes build character," Ilya retorted, firing the tape back at Benny's head with enough force to make the older player duck. The familiar rhythm of it felt good. Safe.

The coaches filed in, and the room's energy shifted – still loose, but focused now. Coach LeClaire stood at the front, and Ilya felt something tighten in his chest. New coach. Different voice, different style. O'Reilly had retired over the summer, and LeClaire was still an unknown quantity. Unknown meant unpredictable. Unpredictable meant dangerous.

Ilya forced himself to breathe normally. This was fine. LeClaire wasn't – he wasn't like the coaches in Russia. He had to keep reminding himself of that.

LeClaire clapped his hands, the sound sharp in the suddenly quiet room. "Alright, gentlemen. Welcome back. We've made some moves in the off-season. Want to introduce you to someone."

A guy stepped forward from where he'd been standing against the wall – tall, maybe six-two, broad-shouldered, with brown hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it about a hundred times that morning and an easy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Young. Maybe twenty-one, twenty-two at most.

"This is Cliff Marleau," Coach LeClaire said, gesturing to the new arrival. "Acquired through trade from Calgary. Left wing."

"Hey," Cliff greeted, lifting a hand in a casual wave. His voice was friendly, open, with that slight musical quality that marked him as Québécois. Not strong – he'd probably grown up speaking both English and French, code-switching depending on who he was talking to. Ilya recognized it because he did the same thing, his Russian accent thickening or fading depending on his audience.

"Welcome to Boston!" Murph stood and shook Marleau's hand with enough enthusiasm to make the younger player stumble slightly. "Fair warning, we're a mess."

"A beautiful mess," Benny corrected, grinning.

"A disaster," Fitzy added cheerfully, clearly delighted by this characterization.

Marleau laughed, and the sound was genuine, not forced. "I'll fit right in then."

The tension in Ilya's shoulders eased slightly. Marleau seemed easygoing. Friendly. The kind of guy who didn't take things too seriously, who wouldn't make everything into a test or a challenge or a reason to prove yourself. That was good. The team needed that energy.

After the meeting broke up, players began filtering toward the ice in loose clusters of twos and threes. Ilya found himself paired with Marleau for the first drill, and as they skated warm-up laps, he could feel the other player studying him with curious but friendly eyes.

"So, Rozanov," Marleau said as they glided around the rink, their skates cutting parallel lines in the fresh ice. "Rozy, right? That's what they call you?"

"Yeah." Ilya kept his stride easy, conserving energy. First practice always ran long.

"Cool. I'm Marly. Or Cliff. Whatever works." He grinned, and Ilya noticed he had a small scar above his left eyebrow – probably from a high stick or a puck to the face. Battle scar. "You had a sick season last year. That goal you made against Toronto? Fucking beauty."

The compliment landed warm in Ilya's chest, and he let his smirk show – the cocky one that he knew annoyed some people but that felt right here, earned through hours of practice and games and proving himself over and over. "I know," he said. "I was there."

Marly laughed, loud and delighted. "Cocky. I like it."

"Not cocky. Just good."

"Oh, we're definitely gonna get along."

Ilya felt himself relax another notch. Yeah. This would be fine. Marly would be fine. Maybe this season would be—

The whistle blew, sharp and commanding, and Ilya flinched before he could stop himself. Just a small jerk, barely noticeable. But his heart rate kicked up anyway, adrenaline flooding his system in response to that sound that his body had learned meant danger, meant someone was about to yell, meant he needed to brace himself.

He breathed through it. Reminded himself where he was. Boston. The Bears. Not Russia. Not then.

Murph had been watching Rozy all practice, and something was off.

Not bad, exactly. The kid was skating fine – fast as ever, with that explosive speed that made him one of the most dangerous centers in the league. His stick handling was crisp, his shots accurate. Technically, everything looked good.

But Murph had been playing hockey long enough to read body language, and Rozy's body was screaming tension.

Usually, the kid was all swagger on the ice. Cocky grins, constant chirping, that loose-limbed confidence that came from knowing you were one of the best and not being afraid to show it. Rozy played like the ice belonged to him, like he was doing everyone else a favor by sharing it.

But today he'd been quieter. More careful. His shoulders were hunched slightly, pulled up toward his ears like he was trying to make himself smaller. Like he was bracing for something. And Murph had noticed him flinching at the whistle – small jerks that he tried to hide, but they were there.

Murph had seen this before, last year. The wariness. The way Rozy sometimes looked at coaches like he was calculating escape routes. The way certain tones of voice made him go very still.

LeClaire was running drills harder than O'Reilly used to – different coaching style, more demanding, sharper edges to his voice. Most of the guys were adjusting fine. Fitzy was grumbling about it but following along. Connors seemed to thrive on the intensity. Even the rookies were keeping up.

But Rozy was wound tight as a spring, and Murph was pretty sure he knew why.

New coach. Loud voice. Unpredictable. All the things that would send a kid with Rozy's history into high alert.

The drill called for quick transitions – offense to defense and back again. Rozy ran it, but his angle was slightly off. Not badly – honestly, most people probably wouldn't have noticed. Normal mistake, especially this early in camp when everyone was still shaking off the summer rust.

"Rozanov!" LeClaire's voice cracked across the ice like a whip, sharp and commanding and loud enough to echo off the boards.

Murph saw Rozy's whole body tense. Saw the way his hands tightened on his stick, knuckles going white under his gloves. The kid's face went carefully blank – that look Murph recognized, the one that meant Rozy was trying very hard not to show any reaction at all.

"Again!" LeClaire shouted.

Rozy nodded – just a quick jerk of his head – and skated back to position. His movements were too controlled now, too precise. Like he was operating his body from a distance, each motion deliberate and measured.

"Faster this time. And keep your head up!"

Rozy ran the drill again. Better, but still not quite right. He was in his head now, overthinking instead of letting his instincts take over.

LeClaire skated over, his face showing frustration but not anger. The coach was intense, sure, but he wasn't mean. Just demanding. Wanted his players to be their best.

"What are you doing?" LeClaire's voice was harsh, but Murph could hear the genuine confusion underneath. He didn't understand why Rozy – usually so skilled, so confident – was suddenly struggling with a basic drill. "I said keep your head—"

He reached out to tap Rozy's helmet for emphasis, in a way that Murph knew would just be a light tap. 

And Rozy flinched. Hard.

Murph saw it happen in slow motion – the way the kid's whole body jerked backward, hands coming up defensively like he was protecting himself from a blow. The flash of pure, animal fear in his eyes before he could hide it behind that careful blank mask.

LeClaire froze mid-gesture, his hand still raised in the air. His face shifted from frustration to shock to concern in the space of a heartbeat.

Fuck.

Murph was already moving, his skates eating up the distance between them. He slid smoothly between coach and player, his body language casual but his positioning deliberate – creating space, breaking the moment before it could solidify into something Rozy would replay in his head for days.

"Hey, Coach," Murph cut in, his voice friendly and easy like they were just having a normal conversation. "Mind if I grab Rozy for a sec? Want to talk through that last play."

LeClaire blinked, clearly caught off guard. His eyes darted between Murph and Rozy, concern written all over his face. "Oh. Yeah. Sure."

Murph turned to Rozy, whose face had gone very pale under the flush of exertion. The kid's jaw was clenched tight enough that Murph could see the muscle jumping. "Come on, kid. Take a break. Get some water."

"I'm fine," Rozy replied, but his voice came out thin and tight, nothing like his usual cocky drawl.

"Wasn't a question." Murph kept his tone light, easy, giving Rozy an out without making it feel like failure. "Come on."

He skated toward the bench, not looking back to see if Rozy followed. But he heard the scrape of skates on ice behind him – slower than usual, more hesitant, but following. Good.

At the bench, Rozy grabbed his water bottle with hands that were shaking badly enough that water sloshed over the rim when he tried to drink. He clenched his fingers tighter around the bottle, trying to hide the tremors, but Murph saw them anyway.

"You good?" Murph asked quietly, positioning himself so his body blocked Rozy from the rest of the team's view.

"Yeah. Fine." Rozy's voice was flat, automated. The same tone he probably used when coaches in Russia asked him if he was hurt after they'd hit him.

Murph didn't push. Just stood there, a solid presence, letting Rozy know he wasn't alone.

After a moment, Rozy's breathing started to even out. The death grip on the water bottle loosened slightly.

"Take five," Murph told him gently, trying to make it seem like no big deal. "Get your head right. I'll handle LeClaire."

"You don't have to–" Rozy started, looking up at Murph with wide blue eyes, but the protest died in his throat when Murph gave him his classic captain look, the one that no one ever dared argue with. 

"I know I don't have to. I want to." Murph caught the kid's eyes, made sure he was listening. "It's okay, Rozy. You're okay."

Rozy nodded, still not trusting his voice.

Practice continued without them. Murph stayed at the bench for a minute longer, just in case, but Rozy seemed to be getting himself back under control. The shaking was subsiding. Color was returning to his face.

After about ten minutes, Rozy skated back out onto the ice, his movements more controlled now. More careful. He ran through the rest of practice without incident, but Murph kept one eye on him the whole time.

An hour later, after most of the guys had cleared out – heading to the showers in loud, cheerful groups, already making plans for dinner or drinks – Murph found LeClaire in his office.

The coach was sitting at his desk, staring at his practice notes like they might reveal the secrets of the universe. He looked up when Murph knocked on the doorframe, and the worry on his face was immediate and obvious.

"Coach? Got a minute?"

"Sure. Come in." LeClaire gestured to the chair across from his desk. "What's up?"

Murph closed the door behind him and sat down, taking a moment to choose his words carefully. This wasn't his story to tell, exactly, but the kid needed someone looking out for him, and if that meant breaking confidence a little, well. Sometimes you did what you had to do.

"It's about Ilya. Rozanov."

LeClaire's expression shifted immediately, a mixture of guilt and concern flooding his face. He set down his pen and leaned forward, giving Murph his full attention. "Yeah. I saw what happened out there. I didn't mean to– I wasn't trying to–"

"I know you didn't. You're not doing anything wrong." Murph held up a hand, stopping the apology before it could fully form. "You're coaching the same way you'd coach anyone. But the thing is, Rozy– he's not like everyone else. The kid's got some stuff in his past."

LeClaire's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists on the desk. "How bad?"

"Bad enough that he flinches when someone raises their voice too sharp.” Murph met LeClaire's eyes, let him see the seriousness of the situation. "He's a good kid. Great player. One of the best I've ever played with, honestly. But he's healing from some shit. Stuff that happened in Russia. Bad coaches. Really bad."

The implication hung in the air between them. LeClaire was smart enough to read between the lines, to understand what "bad coaches" might mean for a talented kid in a system that didn't always value players as human beings.

"I didn't know," LeClaire said quietly, and Murph could hear the guilt in his voice.

"He doesn't talk about it. Probably wouldn't want me talking about it either." Murph shrugged, trying to keep it casual even though his chest felt tight. He'd been looking out for Rozy since the kid’s first day of training camp, and seeing him that scared, that shaken – it made Murph want to find whoever had hurt him and return the favor. "But I figured it's better you know. Better you understand why he reacted like that."

"Yeah. Absolutely." LeClaire ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in stressed peaks. "Thanks for telling me. I'll be more careful. With all of them, but especially with him."

"Appreciate it, Coach."

Murph stood to leave, but LeClaire's voice stopped him at the door.

"Murph? How long have you known? About Rozanov?"

"A while. Picked up on it pretty quick." Murph turned back, one hand on the doorframe. "Kid's good at hiding it, but sometimes– sometimes you can see it. The way he watches people. The way he flinches. He's getting better though. Healing. Just needs people to be patient with him while he does."

"I will be. I promise."

"Good. That's all I'm asking."

Ilya was in his room after practice, sprawled on his bed with his phone in his hand, scrolling mindlessly through social media. His body ached in that good way – muscles worked hard but not injured, the kind of soreness that came from honest effort rather than punishment.

His phone buzzed with a text from Nikolai: Dinner in 20. Sophie made stroganoff.

Ilya smiled before he could stop himself, that warm feeling spreading through his chest that he still wasn't entirely used to. Home. Dinner with the family. Normal things that normal people did, not luxuries to be earned through perfect behavior and absolute obedience.

He rolled off the bed and padded downstairs in his socks, following the smell of beef and onions that filled the whole first floor. The kitchen was warm, almost too warm after the chill of the rink, and the windows had fogged up slightly from whatever Sophie was cooking on the stove.

Nattie was at the table, setting out silverware with intense concentration, her tongue poking out between her teeth the way it always did when she was focused on something. Kira sat at the counter with a book propped against her water glass, her eyes scanning the pages even as her hand reached out automatically for a carrot stick from the plate Sophie had set out. Nell was doing homework at the kitchen table, her brow furrowed over what looked like a math worksheet.

This was safe. This was good. This was home.

"Ilya!" Nattie shrieked when she spotted him, abandoning her silverware duties immediately to launch herself at his legs.

He caught her automatically, years of hockey reflexes making the movement smooth and easy. "Hey, malyshka," he greeted, picking her up and spinning her once, twice, until she was giggling and shrieking with delight.

The sound chased away the last lingering shadows from practice – the memory of flinching, of being scared, of Murph having to step in like Ilya was some kind of broken thing that needed protecting.

He wasn't broken. He was getting better.

"How was practice?" Nikolai asked from his position at the stove, stirring something that smelled incredible and made Ilya's stomach growl.

Ilya thought about the flinch. 

But he also thought about Marly's easy friendship. About racing across the ice and winning. About feeling strong and fast and good at something.

"Good," he replied evenly, setting Nattie down and ruffling her hair. "We have a new guy. Cliff Marleau. From Calgary."

"Oh, I remember him," Nikolai said, and Ilya heard the warmth in his voice – genuine interest, not the tired annoyed tone his father had used when Ilya tried to talk about hockey. "Good player. Little rough around the edges but talented."

"He's loud," Ilya supplied, but he was smiling as he said it. Loud, but not in a bad way. Not like his father had been loud – booming voice that meant duck, meant hide, meant make yourself small. Marly was loud the way people were supposed to be loud – enthusiastic, excited, alive. "Thinks he's faster than me."

"Is he?" Kira asked without looking up from her book, but Ilya could see the small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"No," Ilya scoffed confidently, settling into the familiar banter like pulling on a favorite sweater. "No one's faster than me."

"Humble as always," Nikolai noted dryly, but he was smiling too – that small, fond smile that made Ilya's chest feel warm and tight at the same time.

Sophie came in from the backyard, dirt streaked on her knees from the garden she'd been tending all summer. Her hair was escaping from its ponytail, curling around her face in the humidity, and she looked tired but happy. "Dinner ready?"

"Almost," Nikolai confirmed, pulling a dish from the oven. The smell that wafted out made Ilya's mouth water.

They gathered around the table – the six of them, like always now. He sat between Nell and Kira, in the chair that had somehow become his chair, reaching for the bread basket.

"How's therapy going?" Sophie asked gently, passing him the salad bowl. Her voice was careful but not cautious – genuinely curious but not demanding.

A few months ago, the question would have made him tense up, feel exposed like she'd peeled back his skin to see all the broken things underneath. Now he just shrugged, chewing his bite of bread before answering. "Okay. Hard, but okay."

He didn't mention today. Didn't talk about how Dr. Molchalina was working with him on recognizing triggers, on separating past from present, on understanding that a coach raising his voice didn't mean violence was coming. That felt too raw to share at the dinner table, too vulnerable for this warm, normal space.

But the fact that he could say anything at all – that felt like progress.

"That's good," Sophie told him softly, and she meant it. Her voice held no pressure, no expectation. No disappointment that he wasn't healing faster or better or more completely. Just acceptance of where he was, right now, in this moment.

Under the table, Nikolai's foot nudged his – a gentle touch, checking in without words. You okay? You sure?

Ilya nudged back. I'm okay. Promise.

And he was. Not perfect. But okay. 

Ilya sat on his bed, phone in hand, staring at the empty message field like it might bite him. Outside his window, the September evening was cooling into night, that particular quality of light that meant summer was truly ending and fall was coming to claim its territory.

He'd been sitting here for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, words forming and dissolving in his head before he could type them.

Hey - too casual I've been thinking about you - too honest Sorry about the awards show - too heavy

Finally, he just typed: How was your summer?

Simple. Casual. Like they were friends who'd just lost touch for a few months, not whatever they actually were – something undefined and complicated and probably stupid. No mention of the awards show. No apology for disappearing. Just– an opening. A chance to start again.

His heart was racing like he was about to step onto the ice for a playoff game, adrenaline flooding his system in that familiar rush. Which was ridiculous. It was just a text. To someone who probably didn't even think about him when they weren't playing against each other, who probably had a dozen other people he talked to, who probably—

He sent it before he could second-guess himself into deleting the whole thing.

The three dots appeared almost immediately, and Ilya's stomach did something complicated.

Jane: Good. Trained a lot. Stayed up at my parents' cottage. You?

Ilya exhaled, not realizing he'd been holding his breath. No anger in that text. No resentment. No where the fuck have you been? or you're an asshole for ignoring me or any of the things Ilya probably deserved.

Just Shane. Being Shane. Easy and uncomplicated and willing to pretend the summer hadn't been this weird void between them.

Ilya: Newport mostly. Beach. Farmers market. Boring. 

It had been boring, in the best possible way. Safe boring. Healing boring. The kind of boring that came from not having to constantly be on alert, from being able to relax into the rhythm of normal family life.

But he'd thought about Shane more than he wanted to admit. Wondered what he was doing, if he was training, if he ever thought about Ilya during those long summer days. Wondered if Shane had found someone else to meet in hotel rooms, someone who could give him more than secret hookups and careful distance.

Jane: Sounds nice actually

Ilya: Of course you'd think that Mr. Boring

Jane: Hey I'm very exciting

Ilya: Sure you are

There was a pause, and Ilya watched the three dots appear and disappear and appear again, like Shane was typing and deleting and retyping his message.

Finally: Season starts soon

Ilya: Yeah. Ready to kick your ass

Jane: Big talk from someone who didn't make it to the playoffs

The chirp hit exactly right – familiar, easy, the kind of shit-talking that meant things were okay between them. That they could go back to this, whatever this was.

Ilya: That was fluke

Jane: Fluke = skill you don't have

Ilya: You're the worst

Jane: You love it

And the thing was – he did. Ilya smiled at his phone in the darkness of his room, that warm feeling spreading through his chest again. Different from the warmth he felt at the dinner table with the Petrovs. More complicated. More dangerous.

They texted through the night – easy chirping about the upcoming season, about training camp, about Marly and the new guys on their respective teams. Nothing heavy or serious. No mention of the awards show or the summer silence or what exactly they were to each other.

Just– talking. Like friends. Like more than friends. Like something Ilya didn't have words for.

When Ilya finally put his phone down at 2 AM, his face hurt from smiling.

He told himself it didn't mean anything. That he was just glad to have someone to talk to who understood hockey, who got the pressure and the grind and the way the sport could consume your whole life if you let it.

But his chest felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with friendship, and when he closed his eyes, he could remember exactly how Shane's hands felt on his skin, how his laugh sounded in the quiet of hotel rooms, how he looked in that space between sleeping and waking when he thought Ilya wasn't watching.

Ilya rolled over, pulled his pillow over his face, and tried very hard not to think about what that meant.

Boston won 4-2 against Montreal, and Ilya felt electric.

Two assists – both beautiful passes that threaded through Montreal's defense like needles through fabric. He'd battled hard all night, his body moving on pure instinct, every muscle memory from thousands of hours of practice firing perfectly. He'd chirped Shane just to watch him lose focus, had laughed when Shane hooked his stick away right before what would have been a guaranteed goal, had felt that particular rush of playing against someone who made you better just by being on the ice.

Being on the ice against Shane always felt different. Sharper. More alive. Like every play mattered more than it should, like the air was thinner and his senses were heightened and everything was just– more.

After the game, Ilya was in the locker room, still riding the high of the win, when his phone buzzed.

Jane: Room 412. One hour.

Ilya's pulse kicked up immediately, adrenaline that had been fading suddenly flooding back in a different form. Want. Need. That ache in his chest that had been building all night, skating against Shane, being so close but not close enough.

He showered faster than he ever had in his life, the locker room chaos around him fading into white noise. Marly said something – probably chirping him about one of his assists – and Ilya responded automatically, his brain already three steps ahead, already in that hotel room.

"Meeting up with someone," he told Marly casually, pulling his clothes on over still-damp skin. "Don't wait up."

Marly grinned, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Have fun, Rozy."

The taxi ride felt endless. Ilya's leg bounced the entire time, nervous energy making it impossible to sit still. His mind was a mess of anticipation and want and that particular anxiety that came from wanting something this much, from caring about someone in a way that made you vulnerable.

The driver kept trying to make small talk – something about the game, about the win – and Ilya gave monosyllabic answers until the guy gave up and turned up the radio instead.

Finally – finally – they pulled up to the hotel. Ilya was out of the car before it fully stopped, taking the elevator up to the fourth floor with his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.

Room 412. He knocked once.

Shane answered immediately, like he'd been waiting by the door. He was in sweats and a t-shirt, hair still damp from his own shower, and the sight of him made Ilya's chest do something complicated and wonderful and terrifying.

"Hey," Shane greeted, and his voice was warm, pleased, a little rough at the edges.

"Hey."

Shane pulled him inside and kissed him before the door even closed, and it was– god, it was everything Ilya had been missing without fully realizing it. Hungry, urgent, months of want compressed into one moment. Shane's hands in his hair, his body solid and warm against Ilya's, his mouth moving against Ilya's like he was trying to make up for lost time.

Ilya kissed back just as hard, his hands fisting in Shane's shirt, pulling him closer. This was what he'd missed – not just the physical contact but the way Shane made everything else disappear. The way the rest of the world faded away until it was just them, just this, just the heat between them and the want and the feeling of being seen and wanted in return.

The way Shane touched him like he mattered. Like this mattered. Even though they both pretended it was casual, meaningless, just physical.

They stumbled toward the bed, Ilya's back hitting the mattress as Shane climbed over him. Shane's hands pulled at Ilya's shirt and Ilya helped him, lifted his arms so Shane could drag it over his head, and then they were skin to skin and it felt like coming home.

"Fuck, I missed this," Shane muttered against Ilya's neck, his breath hot, his lips pressing kisses that would probably leave marks Ilya would have to hide tomorrow.

"Shut up and keep going," Ilya told him, because talking felt dangerous right now. Talking might make him say things he couldn't take back, might make him admit how much he'd thought about this, about Shane, about them.

Shane laughed, low and rough, and Ilya felt it vibrate through his whole body.

Later – much later – they lay tangled in the sheets, their breathing slowly returning to normal. The room smelled like sex and sweat and hotel air conditioning, and outside the window, Boston hummed with late-night life.

Shane's arm was draped over Ilya's chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Ilya's ribs – light enough to be soothing, purposeful enough that Ilya knew Shane was awake, thinking. The touch made Ilya's skin feel electric, every nerve ending hyperaware of Shane's proximity.

Ilya felt peaceful in a way he rarely did. Safe. Like he could just exist here without performing or pretending or protecting himself. In the dark of this hotel room, he didn't have to be Rozy the cocky forward. Didn't have to be Ilya the good son, the grateful billet kid. Could just be – himself. Whatever that meant.

"You play tomorrow?" Shane asked eventually, his voice quiet in the darkness.

"Yeah. Against Philly."

"Gonna watch the highlights. See if you're as good as you think you are."

"I'm better," Ilya replied automatically, and Shane laughed, pressing a kiss to his shoulder that felt too tender, too affectionate for what this was supposed to be.

They were quiet for a while. Ilya stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of Shane's arm across his chest, the warmth of his body pressed against Ilya's side, the steady rhythm of his breathing. This should feel casual. Easy. Uncomplicated.

It didn't.

Every time they did this, it felt more significant. More like something that mattered. Less like just sex and more like – something Ilya didn't have words for. Something that scared him because it meant wanting things he couldn't have, couldn't ask for.

"This is good, right?" Shane asked eventually, and Ilya could hear the careful neutrality in his voice. The way he was trying to sound casual when the question was anything but. "Like, this works for you?"

"Yeah," Ilya forced out, and hated how his voice sounded – flat, distant. "This works."

It had to work. Because Ilya couldn’t give Hollander anything for than this and Hollander, well… he probably didn’t want to give Ilya anything more either. 

"Good," Shane replied, and if there was something else in his voice – something like disappointment or resignation, or worse, satisfaction – Ilya chose not to hear it. 

They stayed like that for another hour, dozing on and off. Shane's alarm went off at 6 AM, harsh in the quiet room.

"Shit," Shane muttered, reaching for his phone and squinting at the screen. "Early flight."

Ilya stretched, felt every muscle pleasantly sore in a completely different way than after a game. His body ached with satisfaction, with the ghost of Shane's touch. "Yeah, I should go anyway."

They dressed in comfortable silence – not awkward, just quiet. Ilya pulled on his clothes while Shane watched from the bed, his expression unreadable in the dim light from the bathroom.

At the door, Shane caught Ilya's hand, pulled him in for one more kiss. This one was different – slower, softer. Less urgent but somehow more intimate. Like Shane was trying to say something he couldn't put into words.

When they pulled apart, Shane's hand lingered in Ilya's, his thumb brushing over Ilya's knuckles.

"See you next time?" Shane asked, tilting his head a little, brown eyes staring straight into Ilya’s.

"Yeah. Next month."

"I'll text you."

"Okay."

The taxi back through quiet Boston streets felt longer than the ride there. Ilya let himself into the Petrov house as quietly as possible, creeping up to his room like he was seventeen and sneaking in after curfew instead of nineteen and allowed to come and go as he pleased.

"Rozy, you're slow today!" Marly's voice rang across the ice, cheerful and challenging in equal measure. "What's wrong, staying up past bedtime?"

Ilya looked up from where he'd been catching his breath after the last drill, found Marly grinning at him from across the rink. The trash talk felt good—normal, easy, the kind of friendly competition that made practice fun instead of something to survive. 

"I'm faster than you in my sleep," Ilya shot back, pushing off from the boards and skating toward Marly with that cocky grin firmly in place.

"Prove it." Marly gestured to the far end of the rink, his eyes bright with the kind of competitive energy that Ilya recognized in himself. "Race. Right now."

"We're supposed to be running drills–" Ilya started, but he was already calculating the distance, already feeling that familiar itch to prove himself.

"Scared?" Marly taunted, skating backward in lazy circles. "Little Rozy scared of losing?"

Ilya's eyes narrowed. Oh, Marly wanted to play? Fine. They could play. "You're going to regret this."

"Big talk!"

"On your marks!" Murph's voice boomed from seemingly nowhere, and Ilya looked over to find him skating toward them with that shit-eating grin that meant he was about to encourage chaos. Always ready to instigate, always down for making practice more interesting. "Get set. Go!"

They took off.

Ilya's legs burned immediately, muscles screaming as he pushed harder, faster, digging his edges in and propelling himself forward with everything he had. This was what he was good at– speed, power, pure athletic ability. This was where his body worked the way it was supposed to, where all those hours of training paid off in explosive bursts of movement.

Marly was right beside him– bigger, longer stride, more raw power. But Ilya had speed. Had that extra gear that not everyone possessed, that thing coaches couldn't teach, that separated good players from great ones.

He felt the exact moment Marly started to fall behind – just a fraction of a second, just a tiny gap that Ilya immediately exploited. He pushed harder, legs pumping, lungs burning, ice flying up behind his skates.

He crossed the far blue line a full second before Marly and immediately spun around, skating backward with his arms spread wide in victory.

"What was that about being scared?" Ilya called out, unable to keep the triumph out of his voice. This felt good. This felt right. Being fast, being good, being able to back up his talk.

Marly was bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. When he looked up, his face was flushed and sweating but he was grinning. "Okay. You're fast. Jesus Christ."

"I warn you." Ilya circled him, cocky grin firmly in place, drinking in the victory. Small thing, stupid thing, but it mattered. Proof that he was good at something. Proof that he belonged here. "Don't challenge best if you can't handle losing."

"I'm gonna make you eat those words," Marly shot back, but he was grinning too, clearly not actually upset. Just competitive in that healthy way, the way teammates were supposed to be.

"You can try!"

Coach LeClaire's whistle cut through their banter, sharp but not as harsh as it had been those first few practices. "Marleau! Rozanov! Less racing, more skating drills!"

"Yes, Coach!" they chorused in unison, not even trying to sound sorry. Ilya caught Murph's eye and they shared a grin – the look of people who'd just gotten away with something.

Ilya noticed LeClaire's tone had been lighter than usual. Less sharp, less cutting. Whatever Murph had said to him after that first practice seemed to have worked. The coach still pushed them hard, still demanded their best, but there was less of that edge that made Ilya's shoulders tense up, that made his body prepare for danger even when his brain knew it wasn't coming.

Marly skated up beside Ilya as they got back in line for the next drill. "You're kind of an asshole, you know that?"

"You're just mad because I'm better," Ilya retorted cheerfully, bumping his shoulder against Marly's.

"I hate that you're right."

They'd become friends quickly – faster than Ilya usually made friends, if he was honest. But Marly's easy humor matched Ilya's on-ice confidence perfectly. They pushed each other without it feeling like competition for status, chirped each other without it feeling like actual cruelty. It was – nice. Normal. The kind of friendship Ilya had seen other people have but never quite managed himself, with anyone other than Sveta. 

Chapter End Notes

heyyyyy y'all - sorry I've been MIA, finals season was actually killing me but i'm done now so yayyyyyyy

Hope y'all liked this chapter!