Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Alexei Rozanov's Daughter, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Parenthood, Adoption, Grief/Mourning, Found Family, Domestic Fluff, POV Alternating, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-10 Completed: 2026-02-26 Words: 34,154 Chapters: 9/9

I'd Share A Life (And You'd Share A Life)

Summary

“Olesya.”
“Oh-lee-syah,” Shane repeated slowly, making sure he pronounced it right. “What… what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Ilya said, resting his head in his hand. “I don’t fucking know.”
Shane’s voice was steady. “What can I do?”
How long had it been since someone offered to help Ilya? He took care of his family, carried his brother’s financial burdens, tended his own injuries, paid his way through life without aid. The question, softly spoken and rich with genuine intent, was enough to bring tears to his eyes. Could he really trust it? Could he ask someone for help?
For once, he wanted to try.

OR: Ilya is left with sudden custody of Alexei's daughter and calls Shane to help.

(Set just before the cottage.)

Chapter 1

Ilya

He was going to the cottage tomorrow.

The flight from Boston to Montreal was booked, a ride to the airport scheduled, and his bags were packed, awaiting his departure. In roughly twenty-four hours, he’d be sitting in the passenger seat of Shane’s car. The thought occurred to him as he stumbled through his penthouse in the early hours of a balmy summer morning that he’d never been in a car with Shane, which would have been a ridiculous concept to anyone else who had been sleeping with someone for approximately eight years. To Ilya, though, it was a revelation. It was far from the only first they’d be experiencing, and he wasn’t sure if that excited or terrified him.

With sleep still clinging to the edges of his crowded mind, Ilya began brewing a pot of coffee. As the slow drip from the machine filled the apartment with noise, he crossed the room and retrieved his phone from the charger. He expected texts from Shane, probably another series of photos from the cottage, as if he were afraid that if he didn’t keep reminding Ilya of its beauty, he might back out. Of course, he wouldn’t. He’d dreamt of it last night, and not because of the scenery.

His brows pulled together as he scrolled past Shane’s messages and saw four missed calls from two unfamiliar numbers. Both were Russian. Two from Botkin Hospital, the same hospital where his father had taken his final breath. The other two were from the Russian Embassy.

What the fuck had his brother done this time?

The phone rang again in his hand, and he put it on speaker, setting it on the counter beside the coffee machine. “Hello?”

The woman’s voice was soft and measured, like someone who delivered bad news on a daily rotation. “Hello. Is this Ilya Rosanov?”

At the sound of her accent, he switched to Russian without thinking. “Yes.”

“Mr. Rosanov, we have been attempting to reach you. Have you been contacted by Botkin Hospital?”

“I live in Boston. America,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “The time difference is…no. I was asleep. What is this about?”

There was the sound of papers being shifted. “I’m very sorry to inform you that your brother, Alexei Rosanov, and his wife were involved in a car accident late last night. Neither survived.”

The room tilted.

She kept speaking, her voice steady, listing the next steps, words like death certificates, consular notifications, funeral arrangements, but everything blurred together, drowned out by the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

One sentence cut through the haze:  “…and we are calling regarding their daughter, Olesya.”

Ilya’s breath caught in his throat.

“She is currently in the care of child protective services,” the woman continued. “You are listed as her only immediate next of kin.”

His knees weakened and he gripped the counter. 

“She cannot remain in long-term state care,” the woman said. “Given her age and the circumstances, placement with family is strongly preferred. We are coordinating with the Russian Embassy and U.S. authorities to determine whether you are willing and able to assume temporary guardianship.”

“Temporary,” he echoed, his own voice sounding a thousand miles away.

“Only at first,” she confirmed. “There would be a welfare assessment once she arrives, and immigration paperwork would need to be processed. But yes, if approved, she would ultimately be placed with you.”

The mug slipped from his hand and shattered on the tile.

“You’re saying…” His voice broke. “You’re saying she would come here?”

“If you consent,” the woman said gently. “We are preparing emergency travel documents and an expedited visa request. A consular escort would accompany her. This will take some time, but we need your answer now to proceed.”

Ilya stared at the floor, at the shattered glass. At the pieces of a life that had already grown too complicated. 

“When?” he asked hoarsely.

“If all approvals are granted,” she said, “she could arrive within the next two days.”

The call continued in a blur of confirmations, ensuring they had his address, his legality in America, and soon after, gaining his verbal consent to become Olesya’s temporary guardian. What else could he say but yes? The child hardly knew who Ilya was, but that didn’t matter. There was no one else. 

“And you are prepared to provide housing, supervision, and day-to-day care for a minor child?”

He almost laughed, but the sound came out dry, choking past the lump caught in his throat. Ilya was hardly fit to provide day-to-day care for himself most days. He’d always loved children, making them laugh, the way they brought out a side of him that he’d never really gotten to know. But that was for short bursts of time, and never with an infant who he had a real obligation toward. But once again, he was met with the same question: what was the alternative? 

“Yes,” he finally responded, though his hesitancy rang true. If the woman on the other end of the line noticed his delay, she didn’t speak on it. 

The call continued in much the same way, until Ilya was rubble on the ground, back pressed against the counter, his thighs to his chest and his head resting on his knees. 

A part of him had always wondered when this call would come. Alexei wasn’t only an addict, but a reckless one. There was no doubt in his mind who was at fault for the collision, and he hated that he’d taken his wife with him…but Olesya was safe. Unharmed. A miracle that they’d left her alone in his apartment, regardless of how terrible that sounded. Alone and hungry was still better than dead.

When the women finally left him alone with his thoughts, they all returned to Shane. That was no surprise; his mind ran on a steady diet of Hollander and cigarettes.

He couldn’t let himself linger on the disappointment he knew to expect. Couldn’t let his own settle too deeply, either. Without thinking about the inevitable fallout, he clicked on Shane’s name, set the phone on the floor between his knees.

He answered on the first ring. “Hey.”

Did he have to sound so soft? So eager to hear Ilya’s voice, despite his attempts to hide it? It only deepened the crack in his chest, tearing him apart from the inside out.

When his lips parted, no sound came out.

“Ilya?” Shane prompted, a wobble in the way he said his name. “What’s up?”

It was obvious where his assumptions had gone, and Ilya hated that he was forced to prove him right. That his fears of their plans falling through were coming to fruition through no fault of his own. Another thing Alexei had taken from him, and he wasn’t even alive to chastise him for it. The fantasy of the cottage slipped through his fingers as he struggled to find the courage to say it aloud.

“No,” Shane said on a weak exhale, and Ilya pressed his palm to his mouth. “Ilya, don’t do this. You… you already packed! I promise, you’ll see once we get there. Just give it a chance, okay?”

“Alexei is dead,” He blurted, because there was nothing else he could think to say. “His wife, too. Car accident.”

“Oh. Oh my god, Ilya. I’m so sorry. Did you just find out?”

“Yes,” Ilya said plainly, and maybe he should’ve been crying, or grieving. He’d lost his mother, his father, and now his brother. It was objectively heartbreaking, and he knew that, but he wasn’t the last Rosanov, and that reminder soaked up his focus like a sponge. “But there is something else.”

“Are you okay?” Shane cursed. “Fuck, sorry. That’s a stupid question.”

“Shane, listen—”

“Of course you’re not okay,” Shane continued, speaking too fast. “Obviously. I’m so sorry, Ilya. When are you going back to Russia? Are you leaving right now?”

“No, Shane.” Ilya swallowed a sharp inhale, and the severity of his tone must have startled Shane into silence, because they spent a long moment listening to each other breathe. Finally, he added, “I am not going back to Russia. Never again.”

Now, he wasn’t sure how true that was. Regardless, he’d do everything he could to make it so. There was no doubt in his mind that Alexei wouldn’t have attended Ilya’s funeral if their roles were reversed, so he’d stay here until there was no choice but to leave, and he refused to feel guilty for that. After all, he was doing a lot more for Alexei than attending a funeral. 

“But you want to stay in Boston,” Shane said, like it was fact, like he was forcing himself to be okay with their reality.

“I do not want to stay here,” Ilya forced out through clenched teeth. “But… Alexei has a daughter, Shane.”

“You never mentioned—” Shane stopped, then, much quieter, “Did she… was she in the car, too?”

Ilya readied himself for the final blow. “No. She is alive. She is coming here, to stay with me. She is young, maybe… three. I do not know entirely, it is hard to remember. There is no one else to take her. No one but me.”

For the first time, Shane was speechless. He’d never been short on questions before. Sometimes he’d asked Ilya things no one else had, breaking down walls he hadn’t realized he’d built.

“Two days,” Ilya supplied, because maybe Shane didn’t know where to start. “I will have to be here for her arrival. I know you were excited for the cottage—”

“Fuck the cottage,” Shane cut him off. “Ilya, this isn’t your fault. Don’t you dare think that I’m upset about that. I’m upset because your brother is a reckless—sorry. Not the time.”

“He is,” Ilya said, smiling faintly. It was nice to have someone on his side.

Shane let out a long breath. “What’s her name?”

“Olesya.”

“Oh-lee-syah,” Shane repeated slowly, making sure he pronounced it right. “What… what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya said, resting his head in his hand. “I don’t fucking know.”

Shane’s voice was steady. “What can I do?”

How long had it been since someone offered to help Ilya? He took care of his family, carried his brother’s financial burdens, tended his own injuries, paid his way through life without aid. The question, softly spoken and rich with genuine intent, was enough to bring tears to his eyes. Could he really trust it? Could he ask someone for help?

For once, he wanted to try. 

“I want you here. In Boston.” He forced it out, already tempted to take it back. It was too much to ask, and he knew that. “I don’t… I don’t know if I can do this alone.”

There was no hesitation when Shane replied. “I’m on my way.”

Shane

He’d called Hayden first.

What does a three-year-old need? The question was vague and confusing, and Hayden had asked everything Shane had rushed to prepare for. Why do you need to know this? He had a younger cousin coming to visit. Why doesn’t she have her own things? It would be too much to pack, and his uncle drove a sports car. What does she like? He had no idea. That was why he’d called Hayden.

By the end of the conversation, Shane had added thirty-six items to an Amazon cart. He entered Ilya’s address and clicked purchase.

“Thanks, man,” Shane said, already switching tabs to the flight booking site. “Uh, I’ll be off the grid for the next couple weeks. Silent retreat thing in Boston that I saw in a documentary. Supposed to help de-stress.”

“God, two weeks in silence?” Hayden sounded genuinely jealous. “Remind me what that feels like.”

As if on cue, a baby started crying on the other end of the line. Then a child, begging for attention. Lastly, Jackie, yelling at Hayden to get off the phone and clock in to his much less fun but much more rewarding second job as a parent.

“You should probably go,” Shane said, and Hayden groaned in agreement.

The moment the call ended, Shane booked the next flight to Boston. It was an easy decision, despite the attention he tended to draw in airports, despite the online speculation that would inevitably follow about why he was in Boston at the end of the season. Because Ilya, who had been there for him at his worst, who gave selflessly to everyone but himself, had asked for help. How could he say no?

How could he leave Ilya alone with a child he barely knew, especially after losing his brother the same day? It didn’t matter how badly the blood had soured between them, how selfish or loathing Alexei had been. Shane knew it hurt, even if Ilya never spoke his grief out loud.

It was bittersweet that his bags were already packed. It gave Shane a few extra minutes to call his parents, to tell them he needed a relaxing retreat and, for some reason, had chosen Boston. He fully expected his mom to call back any minute to triple-check that he hadn’t lost his mind. He was a terrible liar, and she’d always known it. He’d think of an explanation eventually. Figure out how to talk his way out of this.

Later, though. First, he needed to get to Ilya.

Chapter 2

Shane

He researched in the cab, in the waiting room, on the plane. How to take care of a three-year-old. If this was all he could do to help, then he’d do it the way he did everything else: with a plan, and strict adherence to the rules.

There was a warm breeze rustling through the elm trees lining the lavish Boston street, and Shane pulled his hood lower, adjusting a pair of tinted sunglasses as he made his way into the lobby of a high-rise condo on the corner.

He raised his fist to knock, but Ilya pulled the door open before he could make contact. Shane hadn’t even stepped inside before Ilya hissed, “What is all this shit?”

When Ilya turned to gesture down the hallway, Shane saw it. Six boxes of varying sizes, sealed with blue tape.

Shane shrugged. “Same-day delivery?”

“Something you are not telling me, Hollander?” Ilya lifted one of the boxes and gave it a shake. “Are you moving in?”

For some reason, the prospect rolled too easily off Ilya’s tongue. Shane didn’t hate it, either. He crouched down, using the pointed end of his house key to slice through the tape. From inside, he pulled out what he vaguely remembered ordering as a childcare kit. Princess-themed. A toothbrush. Toothpaste. A comb. He waved it in the air. “I figured with everything going on, you didn’t really have a chance to shop. And I had some time to kill.”

Ilya frowned. “It is all for Olesya?”

“Obviously.” Shane stood, the pink toiletry bag still in one hand, and used the other to pull Ilya’s face to his. It had been too long since they’d done this. Kissed. He found himself missing the smaller affections almost as much as the sex lately, though he wasn’t sure how Ilya would react if he admitted that out loud. If he told him that his body went loose under his touch, like he’d taken a shot of morphine, every ache and worry dissolving.

When he pulled back, he caught the sheen in Ilya’s hazel eyes. “Ilya. What is it? Was this too much?”

“No, rodnoy.” Ilya shook his head, jaw tight with the effort of holding himself together. “I mean, yes. It is too much that I ask of you, and then you do this.”

Shane winced. “Is it a bad time to tell you this isn’t even half of it?”

Ilya buried his face in Shane’s neck, pressing needy kisses to his pulse point. Shane knew what that meant, and what he wanted. At that moment, he would’ve given him anything just to know he’d eased the weight for a few blessed minutes. But they had a day before Olesya arrived, and though Shane had been speechless on the phone, he had questions now. A lot of them. Enough that he was confident Ilya would be begging him to leave by the end of the afternoon.

“Hold on,” Shane said, squeezing Ilya’s hand before turning back to the packages. He shook each box until he heard the rustle of paper. “Here.”

Ilya watched as Shane opened another box and pulled out a book. It was written in Russian and would be useless to him, but he’d ordered a copy in English too, just in case Ilya didn’t want to read it alone.

A book in Ilya’s hands almost made Shane laugh. While his rival was sharp in his own way, sharper than most hockey players Shane had ever met, he wasn’t much of a reader. Ilya cast a wary look at the cover. “Is baby book?”

“Not for babies,” Shane said. “For kids. The ones who can talk and walk. What age does that happen, anyway? I haven’t really spent much time around children. No siblings, and my cousins were all older. Don’t tell Hayden I said that.”

“You think I need book to take care of child?” Ilya asked, and Shane bristled. Maybe he’d overstepped. He’d seen Ilya with kids before, and he couldn’t pretend it hadn’t done something dangerous to his heart. Maybe he hadn’t needed help after all.

An apology hovered on his tongue until Ilya’s arm slid around his waist, pulling him close. “That is nice.”

Ilya didn’t say that often. Actually, he wasn’t sure he’d ever said it. Shane melted into him without meaning to, muscle memory taking over where intention failed. When warm fingers slipped beneath his shirt, he nearly forgot his resolve altogether.

“Need you,” Ilya murmured into his skin, and Shane might have found it romantic if he hadn’t followed it with, “Touch my dick, please.”

A nagging voice told Shane to focus on the matter at hand, but his mind went fuzzy when Ilya spoke like that. He slipped his hands up Ilya’s shirt, running them along the smooth edges of his muscle. “I’ve been on a plane. I need to shower.”

“Shower is good,” Ilya murmured, undeterred. He stepped away only long enough to peel his own shirt off, then came back to strip Shane’s sweater over his head. He kissed him again, guiding him backward until Shane’s back was flush with the wall, his heart racing with the promise of his favorite thing. “Packages have Shane Hollander all over them, also. You better hope mailman thinks you are playing prank.”

A tremor of panic crept up his spine, only to be immediately balmed by Ilya’s greedy hands fumbling with his zipper. He leaned his head back, slightly breathless. “That’s good. If anyone says anything, we’ll say I was messing with you.”

“Yes, Shane Hollander. Known jokester.” Ilya finally released the button, dropping to his knees.

His fingers wove through brown curls without hesitation, his pulse picking up speed when Ilya’s lips kissed his length through the thin fabric of his boxers. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” Ilya murmured, kissing his length again as it hardened beneath his praise.

“Shower,” Shane insisted, refusing to do anything before he’d been washed of the airport.

Ilya groaned, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing Shane’s hand. They were in the kitchen when Shane looked down at the broken glass, the spilled coffee, the cigarette butt on the marble tile.

“Wait.” He stopped, and for once, when Ilya tugged him forward, he resisted. “Stop. I want to… touch you, but we need to talk first.

“Talk later,” Ilya said, refusing to look down at the mess he’d left, like it would break him just to reflect on it.

Shane relented, because he knew how Ilya processed things. Knew that he needed a release, and Shane was here, and willing, and able. The glass crunched beneath his foot when he took a step forward. “Ow. Fuck.”

“Shane,” Ilya hissed, finally looking down. To Shane’s foot, lifted over the glass. To the remnants of what Shane assumed was finding out his brother had died and that there was a child on her way to America. “Shit. Go sit. Now.”

“It’s fine,” Shane brushed him off, reaching down to peel his sock free. It was caught in the fabric and hadn’t broken his skin, but he found Ilya wide-eyed and trembling, staring at him like he’d lost a limb. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m alright.”

“I have not been able to…” Ilya’s voice grew smaller. “Please sit.”

This time, Shane obeyed.

The kitchen stool squeaked as he dragged it from beneath the island, settling onto it while Ilya clumsily fumbled through a narrow closet, pulling out a broom. When the glass was dealt with, he sprayed soap onto a cloth and wiped the floor. It was almost robotic, the way he moved, like he’d had to disconnect his mind from the task.

But then he kept wiping. The same spot, over and over, until Shane wasn’t sure what had short-circuited.

He slipped from the stool onto his knees, placing his hands on either side of Ilya’s face and lifting his gaze. He found it empty. He should’ve known what to say, had words ready to comfort him, to pull him out of this trance, but nothing surfaced. Instead, he gently guided Ilya on the floor and crawled into his lap.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, offering a soft kiss.

When Ilya gave no reaction, he kissed him again, adding pressure. Again and again, until Ilya finally responded with one of his own. A low rumble rose from his chest, and then Ilya was standing with Shane in his arms, thighs wrapped around him, hands locked behind his neck. Ilya’s fingers clung to his backside with such strength that Shane was certain there would be marks to admire in the mirror tomorrow.

He gave in to Ilya’s hunger with an equal craving, grinding against him as he carried him through the penthouse, to the bathroom, where he set him on the countertop but made no effort to put distance between them.

“I can’t talk about it,” Ilya said between fierce kisses, his tongue tracing patterns, his breath coming out short. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” Shane said against his lips, reaching down to palm Ilya’s hard length, rolling his fingers over him without leaving space for anything slow.

They were fast and messy and clumsy when Ilya turned the dial and they fell into the stream, hands sliding anywhere they could beneath the hot water.

When Shane moved to kneel on the tile, Ilya’s hands slipped beneath his arms, holding him upright. Confusion tugged at his expression when he looked at him through wet lashes. Didn’t he want this? Hadn’t he asked for it?

Before he could say it out loud, Ilya was dropping. He didn’t bother with teasing or restraint. His lips came around him, taking Shane in one smooth motion, damp curls brushing his stomach when Shane groaned.

“Slower,” he managed, but Ilya wasn’t listening.

He was dizzy with pleasure within seconds, his stomach coiling as he braced against the fogged glass. Low whimpers slipped from his throat, an involuntary response to the pace Ilya set, making no attempt to slow down. He couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t help himself when he thrust forward and Ilya took it eagerly, wrapping a hand around the base and nodding for more.

Shane couldn’t stop his release, and Ilya didn’t want him to.

“Fuck,” he cursed when Ilya’s lips popped free, the water washing away what he hadn’t cleaned up himself.

It took Shane only a few minutes to return the favor, and he loved Ilya like this. So greedy he was blinded, acting purely on instinct. Fingers tugging his hair, knees pressing into the tile, every sense overwhelmed as pain and pleasure collided into something addictive. The way Ilya held himself there, the tip brushing the back of Shane’s throat, Shane looking up at him through wet lashes with a reverence he’d never felt for anything or anyone else. Hockey came close, maybe, but it wasn’t the same.

Steam fogged the room when they stepped out of the shower, both of them momentarily at a loss for words.

“Let me see foot,” Ilya said, nodding toward the counter.

Shane obeyed, caught in the easy rhythm of following his lead. Ilya lifted his foot, checked it carefully, then ran his tongue up the center. “Is fine.”

“I told you,” Shane smiled, because he was always smiling around Ilya, even when he knew it wasn’t the right time.

But Ilya cupped his face like he’d been waiting to see it. “I was looking forward to the cottage.”

“Next summer.”

“Yes,” Ilya replied, sounding unconvinced. Shane didn’t have to ask why. He knew there was a chance that Ilya’s life would look very different in a year’s time, and he wouldn’t make him feel guilty for that, but God, it stung. After so many years of cramming time together into stolen hours, the thought of his schedule growing even less forgiving made his chest ache. “What else is in boxes?”

Shane smiled. “How good are you at assembling furniture?”

Ilya

They’d pushed the coffee table to the side and were halfway through building a plastic castle. Shane was reading the instructions, considering himself an expert at following steps, while Ilya cursed at a piece that refused to fit properly into another. They’d left this box for last and realized their mistake as soon as they opened the package and found fifty-two pieces and a twelve-page manual.

Still, they’d managed the high chair, the bed frame, and the dollhouse, so it was only a matter of time before they figured this out too.

“You’re putting it in wrong,” Shane laughed, taking the piece from his hands and flipping it over. “There. Now try.”

Ilya leveled him with a glare that no longer scared Shane the way it had when they were rookies. He’d lost the advantage, but he didn’t mind so much when the payoff had been so good. “Mister builder.”

“Whatever,” Shane grinned, checking the clock for the third time in the past hour. Ilya noticed and glanced at it too. There were only a few hours left before Olesya’s plane was scheduled to land, and they still hadn’t talked about it.

Despite the grim reason for Shane’s extended visit, Ilya had been soaking in every moment. Waking up beside him, sheets tangled, a pink sunrise streaming through the open window. Sharing a pot of coffee and learning that Shane liked his with an alarming amount of sugar. Reading together, sneaking a picture of Shane with his glasses on and his legs kicked up on the coffee table. It had been… nice, even with the future hanging overhead like a storm cloud.

“If you do not want to stay,” Ilya said, more bluntly than he’d intended, deciding the ice would have to break sooner than he’d hoped. “Then I do not expect you to. It will be a lot. A child. An inspection.”

Shane’s eyes snapped to him. “I want to,” he said quickly. “To be here, I mean. Or close by. I could get a hotel room if you didn’t want me to meet her. But…” He ran a hand over his chin, his jaw ticking. “Do you want me to stay?”

The knot in Ilya’s chest loosened all at once. He couldn’t force the word out, so he nodded instead.

“Then I’ll stay,” Shane said definitively. “For a week or two, anyway. That’s about as long as I’ll get before my mom starts telling people I’ve been kidnapped.”

Ilya didn’t know how to say thank you. It had never been his strength, growing up somewhere that valued material repayment over words, but he knew he should. Shane deserved that much. Instead, he nodded toward the plastic window. “That next, I think.”

Shane’s cheeks pinked as he handed it over, their fingers brushing, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The afternoon had faded into evening when his phone rang, catching them in the middle of moving the toy house into the corner of the room. His finger hovered over the screen. “Is intercom. She is here.”

Shane covered Ilya’s hands with his own. “That’s good, Ilya. She’s here, and she’s safe.”

Ilya couldn’t do it, so Shane pressed the button for him. Another thank you stayed lodged in his throat, unsaid while his limbs remained frozen in place.

“Ilya Rosanov?” a woman’s voice came through the speaker. “I’m here with Olesya.”

“Yes,” Ilya replied flatly, punching in the entry code. “Door is open.”

“See you soon,” she said, and they both heard the faint cry of a little girl before the line went dead.

It was real. She was real, here, and his responsibility. The world tipped beneath him, and he sank onto the couch if only to spare Shane the effort of catching him, his knees unsteady. His father’s voice surfaced immediately when his nerves failed him. You are weak. Control yourself. Be a man.

“Hey,” Shane said, squeezing his shoulder hard enough to pull him free of it. “Remember the playoffs? The feeling before game seven?”

“Another reminder that you have won the Cup?” Ilya lifted a brow. “We get it, Hollander. You are best.”

“Asshole,” Shane laughed, the couch dipping as he leaned closer. “It was fucking terrifying. I puked twice before we even hit the ice. But once you’re out there, it’s so natural you forget why you were scared in the first place.”

“This is not hockey,” Ilya said, his tone sharp.

“Doesn’t matter,” Shane replied, rubbing the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, a grounding pressure while they waited for the elevator to reach their floor. “You’ll see.”

“You know me so well?”

Shane smirked. “I’d like to think so, yeah.”

The knock came without warning, three firm strikes, and Ilya moved before he could think. He adjusted the linen button-down he’d chosen to make a good impression, not for Olesya, but for the woman tasked with deciding whether he was fit. He brushed his hair back and went to the door. 

Maybe Shane had been right.

But then his gaze dropped to knee-height, and he saw her, hazel eyes just like his own, only hers were rimmed red and gleaming with tears, cheeks flushed, cupid-bow lips pulled into a stubborn pout. Two uneven pigtails framed her face, curls slipping loose from their rubber bands, and in her hand she clutched a teddy bear he recognized instantly, because he’d sent it to her last Christmas, half-convinced Alexei wouldn’t even bother opening the box.

Game seven had been way easier.

Chapter 3

Ilya

The grief hit him all at once, heavy enough to knock the air from his lungs, but he couldn’t lose it here. Not now. Maybe not ever again. 

“Mr. Rosanov,” the woman beside her said, dressed in a fitted black suit with her hair pulled into a severe bun, eyeliner sharp enough to underline the authority in her posture. “My name is Heather Page. I’m a consular escort working with Russian social services, in coordination with the U.S. embassy, and I’ll be completing your welfare check today.”

He registered her outstretched hand only vaguely, his attention caught on Olesya as she stared up at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, as if searching for a sense of familiarity. He crouched to bring himself level with her, keeping his voice soft, speaking in Russian. “Hello, niece. Do you remember me?”

She tightened her grip on the bear and retreated into Heather’s legs, and Ilya understood at once that whatever memories he’d hoped she might have were already gone, lost to time and distance and an angry man that had kept them apart for too long.

“Hi,” Shane said from behind him, stepping closer. “I’m Shane Hollander. Ilya’s friend.” The light brush of his shoulder was enough to steady Ilya’s racing heart. “How was the flight?”

“Long,” Heather replied, adjusting the strap of her briefcase. “Especially for a three-year-old. Would you mind if we sit?”

“Yes, of course,” Ilya said, clearing his throat as he stood and gestured them inside. “Please. You drink coffee?”

“Water is fine,” she answered, already scanning the apartment with a practiced eye as she moved into the living room, setting her briefcase neatly on the table. “As you know, this isn’t an ideal situation, but given the circumstances, and the coordination between both governments, we determined it was preferable to place Olesya with family rather than in temporary state care. Her emergency entry documentation is still pending final approval, but she is lawfully present and authorized to remain here for the time being.”

“Yes,” Ilya murmured, repeating what she’d said in his mind, the words sounding far too formal to apply to someone so small. Olesya clung to Heather’s leg, watching him with an intensity that reminded him painfully of Alexei as a boy, before anger and addiction had hollowed him into something he no longer recognized. “I understand.”

Shane poured water into three glasses and filled a sippy cup with diluted apple juice, setting it within reach before retreating to the kitchen counter, close enough to be there without intruding. Still, it was more than enough. Heather didn’t look like someone who followed hockey, and she was almost certainly bound by confidentiality, and that was a relief because it was hard to miss the way Ilya’s gaze softened when he found Shane across the room.

As the conversation shifted to timelines and conditions, Olesya began to grow restless, her attention drifting to the dollhouse, the plastic fort, and the basket of toys they’d placed near the gated electric fireplace. She toddled away from Heather, testing the new space with hesitant curiosity, and Ilya felt his chest tighten as he wondered, not for the first time, what he would have done if Shane hadn’t come. If there had been no toys for her to find. If they hadn’t baby-proofed the fireplace or the cupboards or the balcony door. 

Her tiny legs veered toward the kitchen, and he heard the scrape of Shane’s stool as he slid down from it.

“Hello,” Shane murmured, then again, softer, privet—hello.

When had he learned that?

Ilya barely registered what Heather was saying now, his focus locked on the sight of Shane kneeling to Olesya’s level, smiling as she held out the teddy bear. “Ilya,” she said, pressing it into his hands.

“She’s very attached to that bear,” Heather noted, following his gaze. “It came with her from Russia. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to ship most of her belongings on short notice. The suitcase she arrived with contains her clothing, but I see you’ve already prepared for everything else.”

“Yes,” Ilya replied. “Is fine. We will buy her whatever else she needs.”

“We?” Heather’s brow creased slightly. “I have you listed as the sole temporary guardian. Has that changed?”

Heat crept up his neck, and he fixed his expression into something neutral. “My English is sometimes not precise.”

It was only semi-true, as he’d made long strides in English and knew the difference between we and I, but it was an easy excuse, and she accepted it without further comment.

“As you’re aware,” she continued, “Olesya speaks only Russian, and it’s important she maintains that, especially right now. You’ll need to arrange childcare or a nanny in the short term, and eventually a school environment that can accommodate her language needs. This transition is already a significant disruption, and we want to minimize further stress where possible.”

Ilya answered in Russian, carefully and deliberately reassuring her that it wouldn't be a problem.

When he glanced back, he found Olesya sitting cross-legged on the floor, a Russian children’s book spread open between her and Shane, and something warm and sharp pricked behind his eyes at the sight of it. He’d thought of everything. He’d planned where Ilya had floundered. 

“We’ll schedule a follow-up visit once the remaining immigration paperwork is finalized,” Heather said, closing her folder. “But for now, Mr. Rosanov, there are no immediate welfare concerns, and I’ll be signing off on this temporary guardianship.”

He nodded, forcing a smile, and this time he remembered to shake her hand. It was a strange, conflicting feeling, wanting to be alone so he could begin to understand what this new reality looked like, while also wanting the consular to stay just a little longer, so the weight of responsibility did not yet lie solely on him. But regardless of what he wanted, she left, and he stood at the door for a long moment after it closed, listening to the elevator chime fade down the hall.

“Ilya?” Shane called from the kitchen.

When he turned and found Shane standing at the other end of the hallway, Ilya finally found the courage to say the words he’d been holding onto. “Thank you.”

Shane’s lips quirked downward. “For what?”

“For everything,” Ilya said without hesitation, the gratitude coming easier once he’d opened the floodgate. “For this,” he gestured toward the empty boxes by the door, “and for being here. I am…” His father would have rolled in his grave, but the confession slipped free anyway, “fucking terrified. But it is less scary when I am not alone.”

They stood in the quiet, searching each other’s eyes for some explanation as to why, after eight years of something that had remained, for the most part, purely physical, Shane had been the one Ilya had called when he finally needed help.

Then Olesya began to cry, and Ilya sprang into action.

The evening continued in an exhausting series of attempts: convincing Olesya they were worth her trust, figuring out which foods she wouldn’t fling across the room, and trying, without much success, to understand what on earth might make her stop crying.

They’d both read to avoid long stretches of television at this age, but they’d run out of ideas. Eventually, they decided the books didn’t really matter (what did they know?) and flipped through YouTube instead, settling on a Russian cartoon Ilya remembered from his own childhood. They set her in the center of the couch, clinging to her teddy bear, Ilya, like a lifeline. Ilya took the far end with a wary gaze, Shane tidied the kitchen, and Olesya, finally, miraculously, stopped fussing.

By the time her eyes flitted closed, it was nearly ten. Ilya knew that was not a proper bedtime for a three-year-old, but he could deal with that tomorrow, or any other day but this one. This one had felt like a week crammed into twenty-four hours, and he could hear his pulse thrumming in his ears, and the exhaustion settling into his limbs like he’d played into overtime. 

Something tapped his shoulder, and he looked up to find Shane holding a glass of wine. Barely a mouthful, enough to take the edge off. Still, he hesitated.

“Is irresponsible, no?”

“I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say that,” Shane murmured, a smile tugging at his lips, his voice low so as not to wake Olesya. “You need it. You’ve got that look war vets get. All wide eyed.”

“And you?”

“I was going to step out on the balcony for a minute. Call my mom.” Shane rubbed the back of his neck. “But I really suck at lying.”

Ilya took the glass, raising an eyebrow. “Is good news for me.”

Shane

The cool summer breeze wrapped around Shane as he quietly slid the glass door closed, stealing one last glance at Ilya, sipping wine and watching Olesya as if she might jump up and run away at any moment. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her all night, which would have been sweet if he couldn’t see the panic Ilya was trying to mask with a calm facade. He had no idea how to do this; why would he? They were so far out of their depths it wasn’t even the same pond anymore.

As expected, there were three missed calls from his parents, another from Hayden, and one from Rose, asking if he was at the cottage with his secret lover. He’d given her enough to know he’d been seeing someone, but he wouldn’t dare tell her who. Even with the best intentions, people let secrets slip. He trusted no one but himself and Ilya to keep this quiet.

The phone rang once before Yuna’s sharp voice cut through. “Spill, Shane.”

“You do remember I’m an adult, right?” Shane’s voice pitched ironically childlike, the grovel unmistakable. “I can go places and do things without your express permission.”

“But you don’t,” she shot back. “So forgive me if I’m confused. You love going up to your cottage at the start of summer, and I know you like playing Boston, but this seems…extreme.”

All day he’d rehearsed a story, but now, hearing her skepticism, he knew that she wouldn’t buy a word of it. He leaned against the bannister, back to the skyline, and caught Ilya’s soft gaze through the glass, noting the faint smile, the tilt of his glass.

“I’m with Ilya Rosanov,” Shane blurted, the words rushing out before he could think. Loud and shocking, even to his own ears. What did he just do, and why did it feel so good?

“Sorry? I think I heard you say you’re with Ilya Rosanov,” Yuna laughed. “Phone cut out, obviously.”

“No,” Shane’s tone tightened. His fingertips were tingling, tongue swelling strangely, but he forced the words out, holding Ilya’s gaze the whole time. “It’s true. I’m with Ilya. We’re…friends.”

A moment of silence stretched before Yuna started yelling at David in the background.

“Mom,” Shane hissed, “can you just calm down? It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” He could picture her face, the same shock he’d gotten at sixteen when he’d stolen her car to see a girlfriend. A laughable venture, in hindsight. A younger version of himself, trying desperately to fit a role that never suited him. “He’s your…rival, Shane! And you might think that sounds dumb, but it’s important! To the game, your team. It’s sacred.”

Maybe he’d thought the same way once. On the ice, flashes of it still came. But Ilya hadn’t been his rival in a long time, and saying it out loud didn’t bother him as much as he’d expected it to.

“The media doesn’t need to know. No one needs to know. I just couldn’t lie to you. You’ll keep it quiet, right?”

“Oh Shane,” his mom sighed, long and slow, disappointment radiating through the line. “Friends? Really?”

“Yeah,” Shane murmured around the half-truth. “But, and please, don’t make me regret telling you this, his niece from Russia is here. Like, permanently. He had two days notice. And she’s so tiny, Mom.”

She digested this information quickly. “For how long?”

“Forever, I think.” Shane didn’t know why, but he couldn’t imagine them separating. Not when she had his hazel eyes, and he looked at her like she was something to protect. “It’ll probably hit the news next season, but for now, he wants to keep it quiet. I wanted to help.”

“But you’re terrible with kids,” she said, disbelief creeping into her breathless voice. “Shane, what are you doing?”

“I’m helping,” he said, slightly defensive. “I think, anyway.”

“You said she’s three?”

He hummed in confirmation, tilting his head to watch Ilya swirl the last sip of wine around the bottom of the glass, a calm gesture in contrast to the evening they'd had.

“With you two?” The doubt in her voice stung more than Shane had expected. “This seems like a disaster, Shane. I mean, what does he know about children?”

“What does anyone know? When you and dad had me, it's not like you knew what you were doing, but you made it work. He’ll figure it out, mom.” Shane turned to look out over the city lights, sucking in a deep breath. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“And every day after,” Yuna said, leaving no room for argument. “Doesn’t he have any other family? Anyone else that could take her?”

The reminder put a thick lump in Shane’s throat, and he was glad Ilya wasn’t there to witness his sympathy, because he knew with certainty that he didn’t want it. They hadn’t broached the topic of his brother yet, and he wasn’t sure Ilya wanted to, but he’d been guarding his grief like a hawk and it couldn’t be easy when his niece was sleeping a foot away. 

Shane had been fortunate to grow up with two parents, supportive, loving, and he took it for granted. He knew that. But Ilya had done it all by himself, not because of his father but in spite of. 

“None,” he finally answered, and it settled deep in his gut. 

“Okay. I see. Well, if you need anything, just call us.” Yuna’s tone softened. “What’s he like? Rosanov?”

“What you see is what you get,” Shane laughed, adding, “well, most of the time. But he’s dedicated, too. Smart. Way smarter than me. Funny, in a way that most people would probably find rude.”

He couldn’t seem to stop himself. 

“He’s been good with her, even though this whole thing is a fucking mess,” Shane leaned on the banister, letting the cool breeze swallow the heat on his cheeks. 

“And you’re friends.” Yuna said, as if she needed to hear it again, just to be sure. In telling the truth, Shane had inadvertently given her the hardest explanation to believe. 

“Yeah. Friends,” he confirmed, though the echo of Ilya’s lips was still etched on his skin.

“Be safe,” she said by way of goodbye. “If I don’t hear back tomorrow, I’m calling the cops.”

“Please don’t do that.”

“Then don’t forget to call.”

The line went dead, and Shane gazed out at the view. The first person to know that he and Ilya were more than competitors was his mom, an unexpected twist when he'd half-expected to take the secret to his grave, but in some way, it felt right. Terrifying, sure, but easier than it would have been to tell Hayden or his coach. A small step in a direction they’d never planned to go. He wasn’t sure why he’d taken it, but his blood was buzzing with adrenaline, his head dizzy with a cocktail of emotion, so deciphering the why would have to wait.

The sound of the door startled him, his fingers tightening around his phone to keep it from plummeting to the ground.

“She is in crib now,” Ilya said with a soft sigh as he stepped out into the night air. Shane noticed the wine glass had been refilled. Ilya stretched it out toward him in offering. “Your turn, Hollander.”

Shane stared blanky at the glass. “I told her.”

Ilya stilled. “About us?”

“Not everything, but…” Shane closed his eyes, squeezing them shut. “She knows I’m here. With you. And about Olesya. I’m sorry, Ilya. I should’ve asked you first, but I promise she won’t talk to anyone and—”

“Shane.” The tone was the same one he used when telling him to turn over, to get on all fours. It threaded through his nervous system with immediate effect. “Look at me, yes?”

Reluctantly, Shane opened his eyes, bracing for what he might find. He couldn’t handle adding another weight to Ilya’s shoulders, but the truth had slipped out like it had been pressing against the surface for far too long.

Ilya set the wine down on the side table and cupped Shane’s cheeks, mirroring the way Shane had held him only hours earlier. “It is fine. It is not like you sent an email to whole world.”

Shane’s heart rate slowed, soothed by the familiar touch. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Ilya ran a hand through Shane’s hair, closing the distance to press a soft kiss to his eyebrow. Then another to his temple. The affection burrowed deep, and Shane melted into it, arms slipping around Ilya’s neck as he whispered, “What do I do now?”

Had Ilya ever asked him for advice before? Had he ever asked anyone? On and off the ice, Ilya was so assured, so unshakably confident. Shane, by contrast, spent most of his life following rules. Showing up where he was scheduled, wearing what he was paid to wear, playing the systems his coach drew on a whiteboard. The only thing he’d ever chosen for himself was… Ilya.

“What we always do,” Shane said, and maybe it was terrible advice, but it was the only thing that felt sure. “Keep going. Even when it seems impossible, we always found a way, didn’t we?”

“You made it easy,” Ilya murmured. He sounded so, so tired. Maybe that was why the usual brashness had slipped, Shane reasoned, quickly acclimating to a version of Ilya he’d only just begun to know.

Shane’s chest rumbled with a dry laugh. “I did not.”

Ilya didn’t argue. He stepped back and leaned against the balcony railing. Moonlight and distant city glow illuminated the shadows beneath his hazel eyes, the weariness in his posture. His shoulders lacked their usual bravado, his lips tugging into a faint frown. Instinct guided Shane’s hands to the space between his shoulder blades, thumbs pressing in, rolling slow circles into the tight muscle there.

He wanted to say a dozen things at once. That he was sorry Ilya’s brother was gone. That his brother had left him with a responsibility he’d never had time to prepare for. That he hated they’d been forced to hide for nearly a decade, and that lately he’d found himself imagining a future where they didn’t have to.

But Ilya’s eyelids were growing heavy as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, flicking the lighter with practiced ease. So Shane settled on the words that felt like they might hold everything else, at least for now.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Ilya turned, a plume of smoke slipping from between his lips. He studied Shane with the same sharp attentiveness Shane still hadn't grown used to, the kind that left him feeling stripped bare. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why not?” Ilya gestured toward the penthouse. “You do not have to deal with all of this. You could go home. Forget about me, and her, and all the other shit that comes with…” He waved a hand between them. “Us.”

Shane’s brows pulled together. “You think I could forget about you?”

Ilya took a long drag, shrugging. “You are good-looking. Rich. An okay skater, most nights. It would not be hard to find someone simpler.”

But Shane didn’t want simple. Despite the thousand reasons he shouldn’t, he wanted Ilya. Exactly as he was. A little arrogant, balanced by moments of unexpected tenderness. Patient with Shane in ways most people never were.

“So are you,” Shane said, plucking the cigarette from Ilya’s fingers and setting it in the ashtray on the ledge. “Looks like we’re both stubborn assholes, huh?”

He’d meant it lightly, a way to cut through the tension, but Ilya stared at him as though he’d confessed something much larger, exposed another secret. His sharp cheekbones lifted as his jaw tightened, eyes narrowing beneath a loose curl.

Then he was moving before Shane could react, kissing him breathless on the balcony. Fingers grasping, clutching, digging in with the urgency of someone who was hanging off the edge. They broke apart only when the kiss grew too heated to continue and it became clear they couldn’t go any further. Not tonight. Ilya rested his forehead against Shane’s for a moment, breathing deeply, before glancing back toward the hall.

“She may wake,” he said reluctantly.

“Yeah,” Shane replied, forcing himself to step back.

They checked on Olesya together. She was sprawled sideways in the oversized crib, one sock kicked halfway off, pigtails fanned across the pillow and her teddy bear under an arm. It was a strange sight to witness with Ilya at his side, so far from anything they’d ever experienced together. But when Ilya stepped into the room lit only by a nightlight, lifting the soft blanket over her and brushing a strand of hair from her face, Shane was sure that there was nowhere else in the world she would have been safer.

As they’d done in countless hotel hallways, they stepped quietly out of the room. Ilya hesitated.

“My bedroom is very far,” he said, offering no further explanation.

Shane tugged his phone from his pocket, checking the status of the remaining packages. “The baby monitor will be here tomorrow.”

When he looked back, Ilya’s hand was still resting on the doorknob.

“Hold on,” Shane whispered, creeping back into the living room. He plucked two pillows and a large, knit blanket from the couch before returning to the hallway. Ilya watched in silence as Shane set one of the pillows on the floor. He nodded wordlessly, his eyes flickering with what Shane thought might be gratitude, before slipping down the wall to sit. He rested his head against the pillow, long legs stretched across the corridor.

Without invitation, Shane settled onto the cool, hard floor, laying his head in Ilya’s lap. When languid fingers wove through his hair, massaging gently, his eyes closed on their own.

“You don’t have to stay here. My bed is more comfortable,” Ilya murmured.

Shane smiled into the dark. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Ilya

In retrospect, they’d been kidding themselves by thinking Olesya would sleep through the night. At four in the morning, Ilya vaguely remembered noting that she’d been asleep for forty-six minutes, the record holder of the night, and Shane had responded with a sleepy 'big news for the little Rosanov', stifling a yawn. When the sun rose over the Boston skyline and bathed the penthouse in a warm glow, his niece awoke with a high-pitched cry, and Ilya finally gave up on trying to put her back to bed.

If there’d been one benefit to her restless night, it was that it gave him the chance to sit with her. She’d been resistant at first, and he couldn’t blame her for it. She’d been torn away from the only life she’d known and saddled with an uncle she couldn’t quite remember, in a country she’d never been to; she deserved to throw as many fits as she needed, no matter how helpless it made him feel. Eventually, she quieted, and while they sat on opposite sides of the tiny bed, she listened as he read a book, pretending she wasn’t looking at the pictures while very clearly trying to hide her reluctant interest. Around the fourth wake-up call, she relented when he scooped her into his arms and rocked her back and forth, and when she finally rested her head on his shoulder, Ilya’s relief felt like something he could almost touch.

“And ‘milk’?” Shane asked, reaching into the fridge. He’d been asking for Russian translations all morning, and Ilya found himself wondering how much of it he’d actually remember.

“Moloko.” Ilya adjusted the high chair again. He’d already fixed it three times, ensuring there was no possible way Olesya could sneak out when he wasn’t looking, but she was a wriggly child, and he couldn’t be too careful.

In response, Olesya slapped her tiny fists against the plastic tray, crushing a small piece of banana in the process. “Moloko, moloko.”

“Da, Olya.” Ilya turned to take the cup from Shane, offering him a sleepy smile when their fingers brushed around it. Throughout every wake-up, Shane had been awake too, somewhere nearby, waiting for Ilya to ask for help. When he hadn’t, Shane found other ways to be useful, organizing cupboards and slotting plastic dishware alongside the glass sets Ilya had bought when he first purchased the penthouse, securing nearly every surface with baby-proofing tools, covering sharp corners and locking doors.

“How is coffee?”

“Better than it’s ever tasted,” Shane replied, bringing a mug to his lips. “I read about this. Sleep regression. It’s common around her age, especially when there are changes to their environment. It could sort itself out in a couple of weeks, if we stick to a routine.”

We.

He kept using that word, despite the fact that he couldn’t stay here for the entire summer. They both had personalized programs from their coaches to adhere to in only a few short weeks, and it wasn’t as though they could attend the gym together, book the ice, or share any of the tasks they’d be expected to complete in advance of next season. Ilya would be alone again soon enough, forced to relearn everything on his own.

Perhaps it made him a coward, or weak, or any other adjective his father had once thrown his way, but he shoved that sour thought to the back of his mind with the rest of the mess he’d left there. The car accident. His brother’s death. The child he’d left behind for Ilya to care for. Further back, his father, the shitshow of a funeral, the last words he’d spoken to Alexei. Russia, and the few things he’d loved about it, and how much it had hated him in return. His career, and what it had offered him, and what it had stolen from him.

The dark clouds swirled like a hurricane, but at the center of it all was Shane, and Ilya clung to that comfort like a lifeline for as long as it would keep him afloat.

“This routine,” Ilya said quietly, reaching across the counter, “does it suggest a nap?”

Shane didn’t miss the insinuation, his lips curving upward. “It might. After lunch.”

Ilya turned to Olesya, his expression playfully stern as he spoke in Russian. “Did you hear that, Olya?”

Tiny, banana-covered fingers reached for his hair, and for the first time since she’d waddled into his apartment, Olesya smiled.

“You think this is funny?” He tickled her neck, relishing the high-pitched giggle that burst from her.

She squealed, “Mishka!”

“Mishka?” Shane asked from where he’d been watching, smiling.

“Teddy bear,” Ilya clarified through a laugh. “But the plushy gets my name?”

“Hard to be offended when it’s that cute,” Shane said, turning to the sink to wash the few dishes they’d accumulated.

Watching him perform such a simple task shouldn’t have done what it did to Ilya’s core, coiling tight like a spring, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was the first time the place had felt like a home.

He checked the high chair one last time for malfunctions before slipping across the room and sliding in behind Shane. “You are sexy playing maid.”

Shane’s hands paused in the soapy water, instinctively settling into Ilya’s embrace. “Does it count as playing when I’m actually doing it?”

Ilya’s hands traveled lower, fingers curling beneath his waistband. “Will you wash floor next? On your knees, maybe?”

Beneath his roaming hands, he felt Shane’s length twitch in response. It only encouraged him, grazing his neck with his teeth as he pressed closer from behind. “Are you sure nap cannot be right now?”

“Ilya,” Shane chided, though the smile was clear in his voice, his body relaxed when Ilya tugged him back, sending soapy water sloshing onto the counter. “Should I order a tiny black apron too, you freak?”

“Oh God. Yes,” Ilya purred into his skin. “Same-day delivery.”

He’d worked himself into a frenzy and groaned when Shane shook his head, returning his focus to the dishes. “You need a cold shower. Get your head out of the gutter.”

“Out of what?”

“The gutter,” Shane laughed, flicking a bit of soap over his shoulder. “It means your mind is in a dirty place.”

“Almost always when you are around,” Ilya admitted, not mentioning that it had become almost never around anyone else in recent months. For a reason he wasn’t yet willing to name, he couldn’t find the same pleasure when it wasn’t Shane on the receiving end. He’d tried once, months ago, just to prove to himself that he wasn’t a lost cause. It had been lackluster and unsatisfying, and he’d texted Shane minutes after, feeling strangely wrong about it. So he’d stopped, like an addict quitting cold turkey, and now the object of his obsession was at his sink, doing dishes. How was he supposed to resist?

“Seriously though.” Shane wiped his hands on the cloth, turning to find Ilya and looking pleasantly surprised by how close he’d been standing. “Why don’t you go take a shower?”

Ilya glanced over his shoulder at Olesya. He hadn’t been more than a few feet away from her all morning, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to start now.

“I’ve got her,” Shane assured him, as if crawling straight into his thoughts. “Go, Ilya. Don’t fucking jack off in there or anything, but I’m sure I can handle her for a couple of minutes.”

The worst part was that he believed him. He would’ve trusted Shane with her for far longer than the length of a shower, and that terrified him, because really, how was he supposed to keep doing this alone?

He turned away before he said something stupid and didn’t dare look back when Olesya babbled loudly in protest. It would be fine, he told himself, knocking over a lamp on his way to the bathroom and slapping the wall instead of the light switch, half-blinded by a rush of unwelcome emotion.

Beneath the cold water, eyes shut and palms pressed to the cool tile, he tried desperately to return to the mood he’d been in only minutes ago, when he'd been glad to ignore the hard truths the way he skated around the defenseman on the ice. It had always been like this with him, a high that felt like a mountain peak, followed by a valley low in the span of seconds.

He needed a nanny, he rationalized as he spun the tap to the left and stepped into the frigid air. He needed a safety net, so that when Shane inevitably left, his world wouldn’t collapse around him. They’d be far less pleasant to look at while they busied themselves in his penthouse, but it was for Olesya’s sake as much as his own.

Olesya.

Would she grow attached to Shane, just as Ilya had? Would she have to stomach the loss of another caretaker so soon after her parents had vanished from her reality? Was she still waiting for them to come back?

His legs were moving before he could tell them to stop. Dressing quickly, his thoughts tunneling straight into the center of the storm, Ilya stormed for the bedroom, bracing himself to tell Shane he had to leave.

He had to go home.

He needed to leave, because if this went on for another two weeks, Ilya would be lost.

“Ilya, you have to see this,” Shane said, and Ilya could hear the smile in his voice, see the laugh in the shake of his shoulders as he leaned over the high chair.

Ilya forced himself to ignore the affection climbing up his throat, keeping a careful distance as he bit out, “We need to talk.”

“In a minute,” Shane said, blissfully unaware of Ilya’s resolve. Then he stepped aside, and Ilya understood why. Olesya had smeared banana into her messy curls and was giggling wildly, presumably because she’d doomed them to wash it out. “I swear I only looked away for like two seconds.”

Ilya froze, the words he’d rehearsed superglued to his tongue.

Shane’s expression fell. “Is it that bad? It’s just banana.”

“Is fine,” Ilya forced out, reminding himself that he’d had a plan. That it needed to happen before he lost his nerve. “But—”

Olesya chose that moment to grab a banana-slicked hand and press it into Shane’s freckled cheek, shrieking with delight when he spun, wide-eyed, to face her. Shane had always hated messes. He was the kind of man who folded his clothes before a hook-up, organized hotel closets, fretted over dirty sheets even with a post-sex glow still clinging to his skin. Ilya expected him to rush to the sink.

Instead, Shane laughed. Loud and genuine, surprise and warmth folding together into something so endearing Ilya wished he could bottle it for the bad days.

Shane swiped another piece from the tray and stood, smiling as he crossed the space between them. Ilya didn’t move. Didn’t retreat or advance or do anything at all.

Shane cupped Ilya’s face with his banana-smeared palm and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “There. Now we’re all a mess.”

Olesya squealed in delight. “Yeshcho!”

Shane murmured against Ilya’s mouth, “Yeshcho?”

Ilya’s resolve collapsed completely, and he buried his face in Shane’s shoulder. “More.”

Shane

Ilya was right. His bed was more comfortable than the hallway.

On a layer of soft cotton sheets, Shane lay back and watched Ilya peel off his shirt in one smooth tug. “You always look so good at the end of the season.”

Ilya smirked, tugging at the strings of his slacks. “Only at end of season?”

“Is Ilya Rosanov fishing for a compliment?” Shane grinned, his gaze greedily roaming over the breadth of his toned arms, the sharp planes of his chest, the deep cut between his abs. A season of relentless time in the gym and on the ice had carved him into something almost godlike, and Shane couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Sometimes it felt like only yesterday that they’d crawled into bed for the very first time, and Shane figured that was because his stomach still tightened with the same nervous excitement whenever he watched Ilya undress, hunger written plainly across his face. But there was something else there, too. He’d noticed it in fleeting moments before, never quite able to name it, the warmth in Ilya’s gaze taking on a darker edge beneath the gold-flecked familiarity.

Ilya’s hands closed around Shane’s ankles and tugged, bunching the blankets as he pulled him closer to the edge of the bed. Then he was moving upward, pressing a kiss to Shane’s ankle, another to his knee, until he hovered over him.

“I do not need to fish,” he murmured against Shane’s lips. Without warning, he gripped Shane’s hips and flipped them in one smooth motion, the bed wide enough to carry them easily to the other side. “Have you seen comments online? They hate me as much as they want me.”

Shane nearly whimpered at the brief brush of Ilya beneath him as he settled onto his lap. “What about you? Do you…” The position was far too intimate for the question, but he couldn’t stop himself. The last two days had driven the nail into the coffin, but the doubt had been there long before that, ever since the All-Star Game, when Shane had told Ilya this wasn’t casual for him anymore, and Ilya hadn’t outright disagreed. “Do you still want them, too?”

“Fans?” Ilya slid a hand around the back of Shane’s neck, thrusting upward and pulling a low groan from his lips. “Too clingy.”

Shane pressed a palm to Ilya’s chest, holding him there. “You know what I mean.”

Ilya tugged him down and Shane gave in without a fight, melting into the kiss. When he pulled back, Ilya murmured, “You will make me say it out loud?”

Shane didn’t know why the hesitation caught him off guard. Ilya had never struggled to say it before. Not that he flaunted it, but Shane had never been under any illusions about his lack of monogamy. And yet, now, Ilya had reached for the small bottle on the nightstand without grabbing the familiar gold packet beside it.

Shane’s breath caught. “Say what, Ilya?”

Ilya wrapped his hand around Shane’s length, drawing a helpless groan from him. “I do not want them. Or anyone else. Just you.”

Shane’s eyes widened. “You’re serious?”

Ilya tightened his grip. “Now who is fishing?”

Something in Shane’s chest cracked open, relief flooding in alongside an overwhelming, staggering contentment, like the final piece of a puzzle slipping into place. All he could do was smile, fall into Ilya, and grind against him until patience became impossible. He nudged him with his forehead, his need anything but subtle. “Please, Ilya.”

Ilya didn’t ask for further permission. He ran a slick palm over himself before pressing forward, bottom lip dragging over Shane’s shoulder as Shane lifted his hips, their bitten groans echoing through the room. Shane wouldn’t have been able to put words to it if he tried, the feeling so bare and new, pulling something loose inside him that he hadn’t known existed.

The rhythm was anything but steady, and Shane felt dizzy with it, his thoughts stripped down to nothing but Ilya, the ache to stretch the moment out forever, and the competing need to rush headlong toward the end.

“Only you,” Ilya said again, finding Shane’s gaze, glassy-eyed and open, and Shane thought he might never have looked more beautiful. “Fuck, Shane. What are you doing to me?”

Shane held onto those words as the height of sensation split him open, and when he finally collapsed forward, all his weight settling into Ilya’s lap, they tipped over together. Their breathing came staggered and uneven, chests pressed flush as they clung to each other, trying to find their footing again.

When Shane searched for him in the hazy aftermath, his stomach twisted. Ilya was staring at the wall, or maybe at nothing at all, trapped somewhere deep within himself.

“Ilya?” Shane whispered, trying to catch his eye.

His chest cracked further open when Ilya resisted the attempt, and Shane slipped from his lap, shifting slowly into the space beside him. “Did I… do something wrong?”

Ilya’s voice was hoarse, distant. “I think probably, yes. Nothing I did not ask for, but I am…” He finally looked at Shane, and he almost wished he hadn’t. There was tension carved into every line of his handsome face, his eyes shadowed beneath mussed brown curls. “I think you coming here was a mistake.”

His instinct was to run. To grab his luggage and book the first flight home. The tear hadn’t fallen yet, but he could feel it, hot and sudden, clinging to his lower lash.

“You have made everything so, so much better,” Ilya continued in a tone more tender than Shane had prepared himself for, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, “and when pre-season practice starts, and you leave, things will be… not better. Like touching the cup when it is not really yours.”

Something shifted in Shane’s chest. Just like he’d wanted to run at the first sign of dismissal, it seemed like Ilya was doing it now, pushing him away because Shane’s company the past couple days had given him something he’d had so little of, or maybe, he’d never had it to begin with. A partner, someone to take on the hard parts with him. 

“Then I won’t leave.”

“Don’t,” Ilya choked.

“No.” Shane shook his head, his voice wet. “For once, don’t fucking argue with me. I want to be here, Ilya. If you want me here too, then I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay the whole summer, if you’ll let me.”

Ilya looked at him like he didn’t believe a word of it. “This is impossible.”

“Just… give me a minute to think.” Shane buried his face in his hands, refusing to let Ilya slip away. Not when, despite the third guest in the penthouse, or perhaps because of her, he’d been happier these past two days than he could remember ever being. When their time together hadn’t been stolen by schedules or flights. When he’d watched Ilya’s guard lower, inch by inch, and felt his own follow suit.

It couldn’t be over. Not yet.

A sharp cry cut through the room from the monitor on the nightstand, alerting them to the fact that Olesya had woken from her nap.

“It works,” Ilya muttered, sounding anything but pleased with the discovery.

The universe had put a timer on their conversation, and it had just gone off. There would be no rewinding it now. Shane knew with sudden certainty that if he went home, if he fell back into the relentless cycle of their careers and left Ilya here with Olesya and the pressing demands of caring for a three-year-old, it would be months before they found their way back to this conversation. Maybe longer. Or, with a dagger lodged somewhere between his ribs, he realized: maybe never.

He rolled back into Ilya’s lap and pressed a desperate, messy kiss to his swollen mouth. He needed to hear it, needed Ilya to be the one to say it before acceptance would settle into his bones. Shane had given up on very little in his life, and he was reluctant to start now. Still, the words burned on the way out.

“If you tell me to leave again,” he said, voice rough, “I’ll go.”

Ilya didn’t answer, and they stared at one another to a soundtrack of insistent cries from the monitor.

“Tell me to leave,” Shane whispered, and the tear he’d been fighting finally slipped free, tracking down his cheek.

Ilya’s gaze followed it, his thumb brushing it away with a gentleness that only made it worse. “It will never work, Shane.”

The lump in Shane’s throat thickened, panic pressing close to the surface, but he refused to let guilt force Ilya into something he didn’t want. This wasn’t how it should happen. He wanted Ilya to choose him because he believed in him, in them, in whatever impossible future they might somehow build together. For the first time, he saw it: walking down a street together, fingers intertwined, rings on their hands. A blurry image, plucked from the depths of his fantasies, but real enough that he wanted Ilya to see it, too.

Seconds stretched, each one a lifetime, and Shane waited, breath held, but the words he hoped to hear never came.

So Shane slid from his lap and tugged on a pair of sweatpants, dimly aware they weren’t his. “I’ll check on her before I go.”

“Shane,” Ilya said, broken and low.

He didn’t look back as he shut off the monitor and left the room.

Chapter End Notes

if you're still reading thank you so much for being here!! this will be a happy ending i promiseee

Chapter 5

Shane

They were somewhere along Bennington Street when the cab crawled to a stop in bumper to bumper traffic, and Shane quickly plucked a twenty from his wallet, told the driver he had taken him far enough, and stumbled into an unfamiliar café with his luggage dragging behind him.

“You’ve got to buy something,” called a bored looking barista, eyeing him the second he tried to slide into a table.

Shane dropped his luggage onto the opposite seat and, still dazed, ordered the first thing he saw on the menu. When the whipped cream topped, caramel drizzled frappuccino with his name scrawled on the side appeared on the counter, he glared at it like it had personally wronged him.

Once he set it down on the crowded table, he called the only person he knew who would have happily ordered such a ridiculous drink.

“Shane!” Rose filled the screen, smiling wide despite the painted wounds on her cheeks and forehead. “How do I look?”

“Terrifying,” Shane replied, tilting his head. “What’s the role?”

“You’ll see it around October thirty first, if that’s any hint.” She settled behind the desk of what looked like a film set trailer, propping her phone up before adding, “That doesn’t look like your cottage.”

“It’s not,” Shane said, fishing a pair of headphones from his bag. There were too many people around, and it wouldn't be long before someone realized who was sitting among them. In minutes, there would be requests for photos, autographs, proof that they'd met him. He needed to keep this quick and quiet, because if he didn't do it now, he might never. “Do you have a couple minutes?”

She leaned in, eyes widening. “Sounds juicy.”

“I’m in Boston,” he clarified, and when she narrowed her eyes, he added, “I was visiting someone.”

“The same someone you were going to hide away in Northern Ontario with for two weeks of hot sex?”

“Mhm.” Shane took a sip of the frappuccino, definitely not because he needed the caffeine, but because the nerves were already clawing their way up his throat and he needed something else to focus on. The cold slush worked its way down before he continued. “The plans got a little messed up.”

“Looks like it.” Rose began pulling pins from her hair. “It also looks like it didn’t end so well. What happened?”

Shane lowered his voice, bringing the screen closer. “I’m going to tell you something, and I’m going to keep it way shorter than you want it. And I know you, and you're going to ask for a million details, and one day I really hope I can give them to you. Well, most of them. But you've had a lot more experience with this than I have-”

“Ouch.”

“No offense.” Shane rubbed at his jaw. “But I need your help.”

She pursed her lips. “I’ll let it slide.”

“I was at his place, and everything was going fine between us. Good, actually. Better than it has been in the last eight years.”

“Eight years?” Rose screeched, and Shane was immediately grateful he had already tucked his headphones in.

“Details later, Rose.” He forced himself to keep going. “But I think it got a little too good? Like he didn’t know what to do with all of the good, and he told me to leave. And I did, because what else was I supposed to do?”

“Shane, I physically cannot continue this conversation if you do not tell me who we are talking about. What do you mean, eight years?”

He glanced around the café before briefly closing FaceTime to type Ilya Rosanov into a text, followed immediately by Can you delete that from your phone? That was the second person who knew, now, of his relationship with his rival, and with each confession, a weight lifted off of his chest a little further. It was hard to know if it would always be that way, or if this was just the calm before the storm.

When he reopened the camera, Rose had a hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes somehow wider than before. “Sorry.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Continue.”

“It’s not what you think, with him. Or maybe it is. Mostly it's been hookups, or whatever you want to call it. The cottage was supposed to be something new for us, and I thought maybe…” Shane pressed his lips together. What had he thought, really? That two weeks alone with Ilya would feel like a lifetime. That he wanted to talk to him, not just about hockey and sex, but about everything else, the normal things they had never had time for before. Favorite movies. Best memories. What Ilya had said that one day on the phone when he had spoken only in Russian.

Then Olesya had arrived, and while it was not what he had pictured, Shane found that he hadn't minded the shift in schedule. That in its own way, it had been just as special.

“As in slept with a girl in every city Ilya Rosanov?” Rose failed to hide her surprise. “He’s gay?”

“Bi,” Shane corrected. “And yeah. That one.”

She blinked hard. “And he kicked you out?”

“Pretty much.” Shane swallowed around the lump in his throat, which had only thickened since he left the penthouse.

All he could do was replay the final moment and wonder what he could have done differently. Hadn't they been here before, running from each other the second things got hard? He had once lost Ilya for six months. He had later dated Rose for half of that time, trying to convince himself that what he felt could not be love, because if it was, then he was completely fucked.

It was. Of course it was. What else could it be? 

“I mean,” Rose quieted, fidgeting with a hairpin. “From what I know about him, it seems like maybe he doesn't have much experience with this either. I mean, has he ever actually dated anyone?”

Shane shook his head, unable to find his voice. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling and tried not to think about what Ilya might be doing. Tried not to picture the way Olesya had wrapped her fingers around his thumb when he said a rushed goodbye, thanking her quietly for showing him a softer side of Ilya. He definitely did not think about the way Ilya had watched him pack, lips parted, brows drawn together, like there was something he had forgotten to say.

“And if you've been doing this since you were, what, eighteen? And our relationship was a certified disaster, so you don’t get much credit in that department either. No offense." She winked. "But maybe both of you are running away. And maybe, I don’t know, he might not think he deserves it?"

Was that true? Ilya was brash, cocky, confident. There was very little he didn't seem to think he deserved. But when Shane pressed his fingers to his eyes, holding a headache at bay, he realized that maybe it wasn't entirely true. After all, how well did he really know Ilya? By touch, he knew him as well as the lines of his own palm. By breath, as intimately as the air he drew into his lungs. But what had Ilya ever told him that he had not also given to the media, to interviewers, to strangers with microphones and recorders? A few crumbs, between months and years. 

The realization threatened to tip him over the edge of panic. Why had he never asked?

“Every time we're together, I'm basically preparing myself for the possibility that it could be the last time,” Shane confessed, his voice hoarse, thinning as he spoke. “Like any moment, he could decide that all this hiding and running around is not worth it.”

“Oh Shane.” Rose’s voice cracked. “What if he has been doing the same?”

Why had they never talked about this before? Why was it so hard to just ask him?

The phone screen went blurry. “I don't know, I think it’s over.”

“I think,” Rose said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, “that if all he's had since he was a budding little Russian hockey star is a string of great sex, then it might be hard for him to remember that he is worth anything else. I mean, don't get me wrong, he is hot,” she tilted her head, “but maybe he needs to hear that he is more than just a sex god?”

He scoffed at the label. Ilya would brag endlessly if he'd known Rose Landry had called him a sex god. Not that Shane would ever, ever tell him.

Did Ilya not know that he was smart, and funny, and that he made people feel safe, and seen? That he was the first person Shane had ever felt entirely himself around, outside of his parents? That despite the fact that they had only ever shown affection behind closed doors, Ilya made him feel freer in those brief moments than he had anywhere else?

But no. Shane had never told him. 

“I should…”

“Go?” Rose finished. “Yeah. Obviously.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, finally noticing a couple murmuring and pointing in his direction, and a table of girls giggling as if they were psyching themselves up to approach. “Really.”

She beamed. “What are ex-girlfriends for?”

He murmured a goodbye before slipping out of the booth and making a straight line for the door, leaving before anyone had the chance to catch up.

Ilya

If it weren’t for Olesya, Ilya might’ve gone numb. He was self-aware enough to know that the empty feeling of nothing rotting inside his chest would’ve pushed him to do one of three things: find a club and drink his body weight in expensive vodka, find someone with dark hair and freckled cheeks close enough to pass for the man he’d fallen in love with and take them home, or crawl into bed and stay there until his limbs threatened to meld with the mattress. Because there was a three-year-old in his care, Ilya could partake in none of the above. It was either a curse or a blessing, but hadn’t decided which,

Instead, he pushed a stack of large plastic blocks around on the living room rug, trying to encourage Olesya to play with something other than that damned teddy bear.

“Voht tahk.” He placed a block on top of the other, raising his eyebrows at his fussy niece. “Vidish?”

Like this, see?

In response, she swung a tiny arm and sent the stack flying. Ilya sighed, wincing as a sharp pain drummed against his temples, the ache for a cigarette taking a physical toll. When he leveled her with a tired glare, she whined louder.

Shane would have known what to do, because he would have already read it in a book. But Shane was probably far above Boston by now, and Ilya was desperately trying to figure out what he was missing: she’d eaten lunch (a few berries and a couple of bites of sweet potato-was that enough food?), had a sippy cup of juice (was he diluting it the same way Shane had?), and he’d bathed the banana from her hair, dressing her in one of the outfits Shane had delivered to his apartment. It was a onesie, patterned in some sort of duck or bird. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen it before, but Shane did few things without reason, and it stuck with him that he’d probably never learn why.

A small hand clutched his wrist, tugging him from the shadows in his mind. “Moloko?”

Relieved to have an achievable goal, Ilya pushed himself up from the ground, scooping Olesya into his arms and heading toward the kitchen. The highchair still had remnants of banana on it, and he touched his cheek without thinking, where Shane had smeared it on his face. He’d looked so content in that moment, the same expression he wore when his team found their stride and all he had to do was do what he did best. Well, one of the things he did best. He leaned against the fridge for a brief moment, closing his eyes and trying to picture it, but the memory had been smothered by the crumpled expression Shane had worn when Ilya had told him this had been a mistake.

He just had to focus on Olesya. It would be easier to ignore if he kept his mind busy, and she was more than willing to oblige.

But she shook her head the moment he plucked the carton from the fridge. “Nyet!”

Hadn’t she just asked for milk? Ilya poured a serving into a sippy cup anyway, holding her squirming form all the while.

“Nyet,” she pushed the cup away, and Ilya set it down, panic starting to bubble, until she added, “Kuda moloko?”

Where did milk go?

“Vot, Olya,” Ilya said, pointing to the jug.

His insistence only deepened her frustration as she squirmed, craning to look over his shoulder at the empty kitchen.

Ilya realized a minute later, as he tried and failed to corral her back to the toys, that she hadn’t been asking for milk. She’d been asking for Shane. They just hadn’t had enough time together for her to remember his name. 

The numbness that had settled deep in his bones was the only thing protecting him, but as his skin prickled with the awareness that he’d made a massive mistake, and with his usual ways of detaching from his emotions out of reach, Ilya’s heart began to race.

He’d had good reasons, hadn’t he?  So why did they seemed so pathetic now? He hadn’t wanted to be alone, so he’d sped up the timeline. It had definitely sounded better the first time. Now it just felt like something his father would have done, so intent on getting ahead of a problem that he’d created one instead. He’d ensured that Ilya knew everything he wasn’t allowed to become: a failure, a disappointment. He’d never given Ilya the chance to be anything else.

He’d never given Shane the chance to be anything else.

The living room felt smaller as he paced from edge to edge, faintly aware of Olesya trailing behind him on unsteady legs. By the third turn, he pulled his phone from his pocket and called Shane. Jane, as he’d been saved in his contacts since their rookie year.

Ilya tapped his foot against the floor, muttering curses Olesya wasn’t yet old enough to understand and, hopefully, not observant enough to repeat. 

“Hi, you’ve reached Shane Holl—”

Why would he answer? Not only had he told him to leave, he’d done it before they’d even dressed. Ilya wouldn’t have answered either.

A foolish part of Ilya considered racing to the airport, like they did in bad romance movies. Begging for a second chance, when he knew he hadn't even deserved the first. What could he offer Shane, really, other than the occasional good time? But good wasn't the right word for it. Together, they transcended good. Even great failed to do it justice. It made sleeping with anyone else feel like a chore, even when it dulled the edge the way he had intended.

Beneath everything Ilya knew he was good at, beneath what he was capable of, there was a mountain of unknowns. Whether he could be a good man, and not just a good lay. Whether he could treat Shane the way he deserved to be treated, even on his worst days. Whether he was worthy of what Shane would give him in return, which Ilya feared would never be in equal measure.

He was moving before he fully understood why. Grabbing the stroller, the car seat, shoving items into a bag without thinking. Drinks, snacks, toys. He had no idea what one packed for a short drive to the airport, so he packed everything.

If he wasn't going to answer his phone, then Ilya would talk to him in person. He had no plan for what he would say, and there would be no poetic speech like the ones they always delivered at the end of the movie. He just needed to hear Shane’s voice. To take back what he had said before, because what the hell did he know?

His vision narrowed into a tunnel as he strapped Olesya into the stroller, tucked the teddy bear into her lap, then slung the bag over his shoulder and stepped out of the penthouse.

The door shut with a soft click, and Ilya’s heart stopped in the same moment, because when he lifted his gaze down the corridor, Shane was standing at the other end.

It was a good thing the hallway was private, because Ilya left Olesya behind as he started toward Shane, a pressure building beneath his ribs that threatened to break him open.

“Ilya, I…”

But Ilya was already there, hands framing Shane’s face as he pulled him into a kiss that tasted as sweet as their first. It was clumsy and raw, and he couldn't stop himself from walking Shane backward until his shoulders hit the wall. He was greedy, desperate, and painfully selfish, because Shane had come back and Ilya hadn't even said thank you yet.

Those weren't the words that escaped him.

“I want this,” he whispered between hungry, fumbling kisses. “Whatever it looks like. For as long as you will have me.”

Shane pressed a trembling palm to his chest. “And what if I wanted more?”

“Then I will give it to you,” Ilya said, his throat thick, his eyes burning. He wasn’t sure he could give Shane everything he deserved, but he wanted to try more than he had ever wanted anything before. More than the NHL. More than the Cup. More than any award. “We,” he glanced back at Olesya, who was tugging at the ear of her teddy bear, “will be there."

Shane squeezed his eyes shut and pressed one last kiss to Ilya’s swollen lips. “You know I think you are smart, right? And funny. And so fucking strong. You make the people around you excited. That is why you are such a good captain, Ilya. You make people believe in something. And maybe that’s why I am here. Because you make me feel like it will work out.”

Ilya shook his head. “Do not be nice to me right now.”

“You need to hear it. And I should’ve said it a long time ago.” Shane placed a palm on each of Ilya’s cheeks, forcing him to meet his dangerous gaze. “You're worth it, Ilya."

He couldn’t handle it, turning away as the words plummeted into a wall, but the foundation was already cracking.

Shane didn't let up, relentless in a way that sounded like he might burst if he didn't say everything burning on his tongue. “You are home to me. I don’t care if that is the cottage, or here, or Montreal, or some fucking hotel. Or maybe one day, somewhere we build ourselves. Wherever you are is where I want to be.”

Ilya wanted to argue, to tell him that confessions like that weren’t meant for someone like him. But Shane was looking at him with a reverence Ilya couldn’t deny if he tried.

There were three words lodged in his chest, a sentiment he had given to so few people that it felt almost felonious to speak out loud. They rattled the bars, locked inside, unused for so long that he was no longer sure they knew how to escape.

Shane nodded toward the door, the question sitting quietly in his expectant gaze.

And Ilya would say it soon. He knew he would, because he would combust if he didn’t. But there were no words in English, Russian, or any other language that could condense what he felt at that moment. Instead, he reached for Shane’s hand and led him home.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

we're doing rapid POV switches in this one , brace yourselves !!

Shane

It was not the peaceful morning he had imagined for them at the cottage, no quiet coffee on the dock with only the sound of loons waking over a crystal clear lake. Instead, cartoons played too loudly on the television, Ilya had dragged the high chair up beside the counter while he made pancakes, or what he had informed Shane were called blini, which were apparently far superior to anything made in America, and Olesya babbled “Pochemu?” after every instruction he gave her. Shane had been told it meant “why,” which, according to Ilya’s very serious research, was a perfectly normal question for a three year old to ask no fewer than fourteen times.

“Potomu chto tak.” Ilya wagged the spatula, making exaggerated faces as Olesya squirmed, determined to get closer. Then he turned toward where Shane was folded over the island, his head in his arms. “Are you paying attention, solnyshko?”

“Mhm,” Shane mumbled into the counter, very obviously not paying attention.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he’d regret not soaking up every second of this. He already did, a little. But the idea of calling his agent and his general manager to say he wouldn’t be in Montreal for most of the offseason was making his chest tighten. Veteran players did it all the time, training outside of their team's city, working with private coaches and  focusing on different routines. But Shane Hollander’s entire career had been built on consistency, on being easy and reliable, showing up exactly where people expected him to be. Their reputations were already fragile in this industry, and it felt like he was balancing it on a wobbly tray.

“I know many good personal coaches in area,” Ilya said quietly. “Already approved by league. Easy to set up.”

That wasn’t what scared him. It wasn’t the logistics, it was the phone call. That he had to say it out loud and let someone else decide what it meant, or worse, ask him questions he wasn't able to answer. He’d been clutching his phone for the past hour, finger hovering over his contacts, trying to find the nerve to see his promise through.

He almost missed the days when his mother managed his schedule. At least then, this wouldn’t be so damn hard.

Of course, Ilya couldn’t relate. He spent most of his previous offseasons in Russia, and anyone who tried to keep him stateside would’ve been laughed out of the room. He didn’t ask permission, and he didn’t have to. The world adjusted around him regardless.

So why did Shane feel like his heart was seconds from jumping out of his chest?

“I’m gonna…” He slid off the stool, a little unsteady. “I’m gonna go outside. On the balcony.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’ll call Brisson first, then Theriault. And, fuck, I should probably loop Hayden in, too. We usually train together.” He let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh. “Shit. Do you think he’ll know something’s up?”

His breathing had grown shallow and quick, like he’d just returned from a ten-kilometer run. 

Ilya ruffled Olesya’s hair, set the spatula aside, and crossed the room ina few long strides. Pressing his palm flat to Shane’s chest, right over his racing heart, he whispered, “I am not forcing you to stay, Hollander.”

“Fuck off,” Shane snapped, gripping the front of Ilya’s shirt. “I’m staying until camp starts. I’ll make it work.”

“You are sure?” Ilya slid his fingers into Shane’s hair, tipping his chin up until their eyes met. “Because you do not seem sure.”

“I’m sure,” Shane said quickly, but the conviction wavered, and so did his balance. He tightened his grip, craving the warmth and needing the steadying force.. “I’m just…” He searched Ilya’s face, so calm that it was nearly contagious. “Why am I freaking out?”

Ilya’s thumb brushed slow circles at the base of his neck. “Because you do not like being bad.”

“But is it?” Shane’s eyes were wide now. “Is this bad?”

“Only to you,” Ilya murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Ilya

There was little that Ilya revealed when he didn’t want to. It was a skill he owed to Russia, he supposed, that he’d learned early how to keep his emotions buried far from the surface. Keeping his expression flat and free of give-aways when his surroundings were anything but calm. He’d lost his grip on it only a handful of times, his father’s funeral most recently, when his anger had turned animalistic and uncontainable. But anger was easier to escape.

What he felt now, watching Shane wrestle with revising his off-season schedule, was harder to name.

He’d always known Shane preferred to live by routine, to thrive on knowing exactly where he needed to be and when. Structure suited him, Ilya thought, admiring a trait that he’d never had himself. And yet he’d been breaking those boundaries for years, bending them in ways Ilya knew was only for him. 

Ilya watched Shane pace the balcony, phone pressed to his ear, and felt himself split in two. Half of him wanted to rip Shane’s clothes off, to drag him back inside and reward him. The other half wanted to tell him to stop. To tell him that Ilya wasn’t worth the stress. That one day, if something went wrong, Shane would look back on this choice and resent him for it.

He couldn’t decide which had been harder. Telling Shane to leave, or asking him to stay.

But the door slid open minutes later, and Ilya slipped back into a soft smile. On top of everything, he wouldn’t put his unease on Shane’s shoulders. Just like he’d told him the day before, he’d believe in him. He’d be there. He’d take whatever Shane was willing to give.

“I talked to my agent,” Shane said, voice low as he stepped in from the balmy air. “They’ll let me finish my offseason training in Boston, as long as I’m in Montreal a few days before camp starts and there for the first physicals.”

Ilya’s facade cracked an inch. “Do you feel bad?”

To his immediate relief, Shane broke into a wide smile. “I feel fucking amazing. Holy shit. Ilya. I did it.”

To any other player, it would’ve been an afterthought. Something not even worth a call, maybe a short email instead. It was a lot more than a courtesy to Shane, and Ilya knew that.

He didn’t get the chance to respond before Shane was grabbing him, and Ilya was hoisting him up onto the counter’s ledge, sliding easily between his thighs. “It’s real, then? I get you all summer?”

“I mean, I’ll probably fly back for my dad’s birthday in August, but…” Shane nodded into his neck. “Yeah. Don’t get sick of me, alright?”

That was impossible. Ilya had spent every day for months wishing for five more minutes, and now he had almost two months. It wouldn’t be easy, sure, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He ran his hands over Shane’s thighs, beneath the thin fabric of his shorts, pressed a greedy kiss to his lips, moved closer until he could feel Shane’s growing length against his lower stomach. The bedroom was only a short walk away, but here was as good as any...

Olesya’s cheerful voice cut in. “Ploshchadku?”

They stared at each other, wide-eyed, surprise written clearly across both their faces.

Shane blurted, “You forgot.”

“I did not,” Ilya said, shaking his head.

“You totally fucking did,” Shane laughed, reaching around to squeeze Ilya’s backside. “Oh my god.”

“Give me break,” Ilya rolled his eyes. “You made me forget.”

Shane was still laughing, the remnants of their interrupted lust keeping them pressed together, reluctant to let go. “What is plo-shad-koo?”

“Park,” Ilya said, tilting his head as he considered it. “Playground. Translation is tricky.”

“Oh,” Shane breathed, the humor vanishing between them in a second flat. Another layer of complexity that they hadn’t verbally considered; they couldn’t go outside. At the very least, not together. Not where fans roamed around every corner, and the sight of the MLH’s biggest rivals strolling the street, no less with a stroller at their toes, would set the rumors alight. “You should go.”

Ilya looked back at Olesya, to Shane, and back. “I have to?” 

“I think so,” Shane smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Let me know how the stroller works. I got the best one.” 

Shane

The penthouse was quieter than he’d prepared himself for. For the most part, he’d never minded being alone. The opportunities didn’t arise all that often, but in those rare weeks he spent at his cottage, he filled the time easily. He’d be outdoors, doing yoga, swimming, running. His parents would visit for dinner, or he’d drive to theirs for cards, but it was never constant, and he cherished the moments with his family just as much as the time he spent decompressing from a long season, from the constant media, from ad campaigns and training camps.

It’d been thirty minutes since Ilya had left him alone, and he was struggling to find that version of himself again. He turned on the TV, mostly for background noise. He called both his parents, and Hayden too, all of whom expressed equal parts hesitation and understanding about his decision.

The panic set in shortly after.

He paced the balcony once the walls of the penthouse began to close in. There was a faint sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the summer sun or the hysteria threading its way through his nervous system.

When the balcony wasn’t enough to relieve the pressure, he tugged on a pair of sneakers and a baseball cap, tucked the keys Ilya had given him into his pocket, and left the condo tower behind. He didn’t have a destination in mind, only the need to remind himself that he wasn’t stuck.

Ilya didn’t make him feel stuck. When they were together, he could hardly remember what anything but absolute contentment felt like. This must have been what coming down from a high felt like, he rationalized, realizations pouring in one after another, parading on him like a bad hangover.

As he turned the corner and tucked his chin down amid the sparse foot traffic along the sidewalk, Shane felt the weight of everything he’d be missing out on. It wasn’t just the park. It was every part of Olesya’s life. It would be Ilya who dropped her off on her first day of school. Ilya who took her shopping, who brought her out to dinner. Ilya who tied her laces when she tried skating for the first time.

He kept walking, his thoughts twisting tighter with every step. He turned the problem over again and again, tracing every possibility, every future, but each path led to the same conclusion: there was no way for Olesya to remain untouched. There was no way to be with Ilya without burdening her with the pressure they had only ever shouldered themselves. The secrecy would haunt her whether they wanted it to or not. In a year or two, when she could speak in full sentences and understand exactly what mess she had been dropped into, she’d have rules. Rules about Shane, about Ilya, about what she could say and to whom. One wrong person, and the veil they’d carefully woven for years would be ripped away. 

He slipped onto a walkway bench, his limbs surrendering to the dread as he stared out over the Charles River, feeling like he was drowning in it.

He needed to talk to Ilya.

His phone was buzzing before he’d even pulled it from his pocket.

“Ilya?”

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice was like balm on a wound, grounding him. “You are not home.”

“I had to get out. Just needed some air.” Shane ran a hand through his hair, catching Ilya’s heavy exhale with a pinch of guilt. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I wished you were here,” Ilya confessed, and Shane wondered if the same rope was wrapped around his lungs, if the same thoughts were plaguing his mind. “When I put her on swing, she asked for her mom. She—”

The sharp intake of breath told Shane everything that Ilya couldn’t. He shouldn’t have left the penthouse. He should be there, wrapping his arms around Ilya, who was undoubtedly carrying the grief for two. His own mother. Olesya’s mother. The same ache they’d share for a lifetime. If he hadn’t yet been ready to face his brother’s death, he was surely doing it now. Swallowing the reality of what Olesya had lost, and what he had lost.

He jumped to his feet, ready to jog the few blocks back to the penthouse, when two younger guys appeared out of nowhere.

“I told you,” the one holding a phone up in his face said to the other. “It’s Shane fucking Hollander, dude.”

“Holy shit,” the other said. “Can we get a picture, man?”

“Sorry,” Shane brushed past them, still holding the phone to his ear. “Not right now.”

“Please, man.” They stepped into his path, and Shane felt the sudden urge to check them against a hard wall of boards. “It’ll just take a second.”

“I said no,” Shane snapped, and when they tried to take one anyway, he lost it. “Fuck off. Jesus Christ.”

“Whoa,” the blond one raised his hands. “What’s the big deal?”

He was acutely aware that he was being filmed, but it was too late now. He’d already sworn at a pair of eighteen-year-olds, all because the only place he wanted to be was home. He heard Ilya in his ear, muttering something about rude fucking Americans, and while he usually gave fans the benefit of the doubt, he was inclined to agree. 

“Get that out of my face or I’ll throw it in the fucking river,” Shane snapped, and even Ilya went silent on the other end of the line.

The boys muttered something to each other before turning away, already speaking to the camera, likely recapping the brief interaction. That would be on Twitter before the day was over, but Shane was too angry, too panicked in the moment to care where it ended up.

“Ilya, Fuck. I’m sorry,” Shane said into the phone, his voice dropping. “I shouldn't have left. Give her a hug for me, alright? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

"Those stupid kids—”

“Don’t worry about them,” Shane cut in, walking faster now, threading through the people moving against him along the path. “Is Olesya alright?”

“Is now, yes.” The soft rattle of her noise maker filtered through the line, and Shane pictured Ilya in the dim light of her bedroom, tucking her in for a nap. “It was only a matter of time before she started to remember, I think.”

Shane swallowed and nodded, even though Ilya couldn’t see it.

“I hate him,” Ilya said, the word lacking it’s usual vitriol. Shane’s chest caved in at his broken silence. “It is terrible, to hate someone in a grave. But how can I bother to grieve him when he has done this to her? She needs her—”

The line went quiet for a second too long. 

“She needs her mom.”

Shane pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, fighting the ache that resonated from his teeth to his ribs. There was nothing he could say that would fix how he felt, nothing he could say that would bring either of them back. So he kept his lips pressed tight, listening.

Ilya continued, softer. “When I lost my mother, I probably lost a little piece of me, too. I was twelve, though. Old enough to understand what happened, enough to learn how to figure things out myself. But she is so young, Shane.”

“She’s not figuring it out on her own,” Shane said, the words scraping their way out of his throat. “She has you.”

“And you,” Ilya said without hesitation, barely above a whisper. Shane could hear the smile in his voice, could picture the way it crept over his expression like the first crack of sunrise. “The better influence, I think.”

Shane couldn’t find it in himself to smile back. “I was thinking,” he said slowly, carefully trying to articulate his thoughts, “after this summer, I probably shouldn’t see Olesya much after that. With us having to stay hidden, and her going to preschool, what, next September? We can’t ask her not to say anything. We’ll still meet up, you know, when she’s at school, or daycare. Or with a nanny. But if she starts telling people she’s got two dads or something, the league is going to get wind of it eventually.”

Ilya didn’t answer. Shane listened instead to the soft creak of a door, followed by light steps as Ilya moved from one room to another.

Shane was already climbing the steps to the lobby when he asked, his voice barely audible, “Ilya?”

“I am here,” Ilya said, but it didn’t sound like him at all. Through the speaker, Shane heard the creak of a window frame, then the flick of a lighter. “You are right. Is not fair to her, to keep our secret.”

He was agreeing, so why did Shane feel like he’d missed something? He stepped into the elevator. “Almost home.”

“Home,” Ilya repeated, but the connection had lost service.

Ilya

Shane opened the bedroom door a minute later. “Are you smoking in here?”

“Yes,” Ilya answered matter-of-factly, nodding toward the monitor. “Connection doesn’t stretch outside.”

“It stinks,” Shane commented, wrinkling his nose, but that didn’t stop him from sliding into the small space left on the window ledge, pressing himself against Ilya’s side. “I’m sorry. About the park, about everything. You want to talk about it?”

Ilya shook his head. He wasn’t sure he could. Losing his mother had been the catalyst for a childhood spent making terrible decisions and fending off the demons in his mind. It had taught him that sometimes the shadows won, no matter how strong you were. It had worsened the man his father had once been and replaced him with something even colder. In his wallet was still a picture of her, smiling back at him, and the ache in his chest whenever he looked at it hadn’t softened like so many had promised it would. And then Olesya had called out for her mom, and it had all come rushing back over him like a tidal wave.

Shane settled against the wall. “I’ll go first.”

Ilya turned to the side, tracing the soft edges of Shane’s nose, the deep curve of his lips. He wasn’t looking at him, a rare thing, and Ilya braced himself for whatever that meant.

“It’s going to sound crazy, because it’s been less than a week,” Shane said, closing his eyes and leaning back. “I was so fucking jealous that you got to take Olesya to the park today. Jealous of her, of you. I don’t even know. I just wanted to be there, and then I realized—I want to be everywhere. I’m not even good with kids. But she’s…”

“Special,” Ilya finished, and Shane nodded. He resisted the urge to stroke Shane’s cheek or pull him closer. They both knew hard conversations weren’t their strength. Fuck, maybe three in the last near-decade? As badly as he wanted the distraction, he wouldn’t risk sabotaging it. “I know.”

“Like, I want to hold her other hand at the kids’ museum,” Shane laughed, though it was tainted with a bitter edge. “And I want to be there when you cry on her first day of school.”

“I will not cry,” Ilya said automatically. When Shane rolled his eyes, he added, “It’s… hard to talk about these things before her paperwork has been approved. I keep thinking, what if embassy rejects her status?”

Shane shook his head. “No way.”

His confidence was almost inspiring, though much more challenging to grasp when it was shadowed by a dozen unknowns and as many impossibilities. Or, maybe it wasn’t impossible, per se, but it was definetly life-altering. To come out to the public for Olesya’s sake. To risk their reputations by announcing their relationship, when they hadn’t even defined it in private. They’d stay employed, he knew that much, with the league on high alert after Scott Hunter’s recent debacle. But things would never be quiet for Shane and Ilya, no matter how casual they planned it to be. The industry would react to a rival’s affair like moths to a flame. The effects would ripple down to their teams, to their coaches, to Shane's family and friends, to Ilya's home country.

Shane’s fingers slipped between his and he squeezed in return, his relief audible. Taking it as permission, he pulled Shane closer, shifting him onto his lap. Afternoon light spilled in, catching on Shane’s sun-kissed skin, the dazed look on his face almost leaving Ilya speechless. He leaned in, just shy of a kiss, murmuring, “Can’t believe you told those children to fuck off.”

Shane’s cheeks warmed. “How much trouble am I going to get in for that?”

“Less trouble that I want to get in right now,” Ilya murmured, chasing his lips and dissolving into a verifiable puddle when Shane’s arms wrapped around his neck, melting against him. There was no urgency, no where to rush to, no where to go, and the reality of that reminded Ilya that he could take his time. 

He lifted Shane just enough to guide him to the floor, tugging his shorts free with slow, teasing fingers. He kissed him through the thin fabric of his boxers, ran his tongue along the inside of his thigh, his core growing tight when Shane squirmed beneath the attention, lifting his hips in search of friction.

“Stay still,” Ilya pressed his stomach down, “Don’t move until I say so.”

Shane’s eyes widened, and Ilya recognized the look. He’d learned quickly that Shane loved letting go of control, and in that moment, he suspected it was exactly what he needed, a small refuge amidst all the variables that had clumsily fallen out of their hands.

“Good,” Ilya purred, pressing a thumb and finger lightly into Shane’s cheeks, gliding along his throat with feather-light pressure. He used his other to slowly guide Shane’s movements, teasing and deliberately infuriating, eventually stroking him with long, languid caresses. When Shane’s eyelids fluttered and his lips parted, Ilya slowed even further, lingering, exploring more than anything else. “Take your shirt off.”

Shane sat up, eagerly reaching down to strip off his clothes.

“Slow,” Ilya commanded, his voice low, leaning back on his heels to watch as Shane’s chest emerged with painstaking care. “You are so pretty, solnyshko.”

“Shut up.” Shane’s cheeks flushed beneath his freckles as he watched Ilya stand and move to the edge of the bed across the room, settling there with expectation gleaming in his half-lidded gaze.

The moment Shane looked ready to follow, Ilya shook his head. “Crawl.”

A shiver trailed over Shane’s skin, and Ilya grew harder when he obeyed, shifting onto his hands and knees, never breaking his stare. He dragged Ilya’s attention with every inch he crossed the floor, the arch of his back an intoxicating slope that Ilya’s gaze roamed over as he waited for Shane to press his face between his knees. Ilya shed his clothes while he moved closer, relishing in the way his partner’s lips parted further with every discarded piece.

“I’d have shoved both those kids into the river for trying to keep me from you,” Shane admitted, nuzzling his face against Ilya’s thigh, his cheek brushing against his length. “I’d- God, I’d do anything for you.” 

“Anything?” Ilya asked, and while he’d meant for it to come off suggestive, the genuine hope in his voice leaked through, betraying his intention.

Shane didn't seem to mind. 

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” Shane said, before he ran his warm tongue up the underside of Ilya’s length, pulling a groan from his lips. “You’re up for trade next year. You could move closer, maybe to Ottawa.” He cupped his lips around the tip, sucking, and Ilya couldn’t support his core anymore, falling back into the mattress as Shane crawled upward, adjusting his angle. “We could, I don’t know,” he continued, wrapping his fingers around Ilya’s shaft, “start as friends. Let the fans adjust to that first. Then I could be around you, and it wouldn’t make headlines.” His lips moved over Ilya’s length like it tasted sweet, savoring every inch. “Ilya?”

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya’s fingers tangled in his hair. “I do not know how, but you make talking and sucking at same time much hotter than it should be.”

A small grin tugged at Shane’s lips when he crawled onto the bed, settling his thighs on either side of Ilya’s hips and grinding against him until Ilya was breathless, his vision going fuzzy at the edges. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” Ilya groaned, gripping Shane’s hips and thrusting up against him, desperate for more. “Fuck, yes.”

Even as Shane rolled himself against him, teasing relentlessly, Ilya could picture it. A life that didn’t revolve around game schedules or exist behind closed doors. When Shane’s slick hand ran over Ilya’s length twice before guiding him into place, Ilya’s groan was rough enough to rattle the walls.

Shane fell forward, kissing him recklessly, careless of how sloppy it was, of how desperate their rhythm became as Ilya’s mind clouded with raw lust and an overwhelming, intoxicating emotion he could no longer leave unnamed.

“I love you,” Ilya murmured against Shane’s lips. Shane stilled beneath him, caught in the sudden delivery of the words he'd likely never prepared himself to hear, and panic flooded Ilya's veins. “Shit.”

Shane could have run. He should have, if he knew any better. But the surprise quickly melted instead into a quiet, eye-watering rapture. “I fucking love you, Ilya.”

They fell back into a rhythm with a newfound fervor. Every thrust, every breath, every heartbeat was amplified by something more powerful than Ilya had ever known to exist. He couldn’t think, could hardly see. He only knew that Shane loved him back, and that together they were going to figure it out, and—

“I’m going to—” Shane cried out, and Ilya wrapped his fist around Shane’s length, guiding him to the same peak he’d been riding for minutes. The room echoed with low sounds of pleasure as they collapsed against one another, breathless. Ilya cupped his palm over Shane’s cheek, tilting his face up to meet his.

“For how long?” Shane whispered.

It was hard to pinpoint when the feeling had arrived uninvited, but Ilya remembered the day the word had first lodged in his throat. “Probably first time you came to penthouse.”

A flicker of regret crossed Shane’s expression, and Ilya understood why. That day had been their worst, the irony cutting sharper when he realized how far he’d fallen while Shane walked out the door for what he’d worried was the last time. The months that followed, seeing Shane plastered all over the internet with someone else, had been almost unbearable.

Ilya smoothed the tension from the corners of Shane’s eyes with a gentle thumb. “You?”

Shane searched Ilya’s gaze as if trying to see every memory written there. “Before that, I think.”

“Is not a competition, Hollander,” Ilya chided softly.

“Asshole,” Shane tucked his face into the crook of Ilya’s shoulder. “I don’t know. Might’ve been there the whole time.”

Ilya wanted to argue, because it felt like a cop-out answer, but a part of him knew it could just as easily have been the truth for him, too. Shane had been on his mind from the day they’d met, standing outside the arena in Saskatchewan while he smoked a cigarette and sized up the rookie who was supposed to be his greatest competition. Since then, Shane had remained a constant, woven into the fabric of his mind no matter where he was or who he was with, whether it was the middle of a game or the middle of the night.

They'd been lying in bed for minutes, the silence anything but uncomfortable, when the faint echo of a memory waiting to be overwritten urged Ilya to break through the quiet.

“I am hungry,” Ilya said, pressing a kiss to Shane's temple.

Shane lifted his head, brushing his lips against Ilya's before he asked, “Can you heat up the blini?”

“When you admit they’re better than American pancakes."

“Sure,” Shane laughed. “Just wait until I take you to Denny’s.”

Chapter End Notes

thank you for reading! <3

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Content Warning -- brief depiction of a child (Olesya) with a mild viral infection including fever and discomfort

Shane

It had taken three weeks for the video of Shane cursing at some kids to reach the screens of every hockey fan in the western hemisphere. The golden boy finally loses his cool. A smaller subset of those viewers had begun asking a different question: why was Hollander in Boston?

If Shane had thought it would be hard to camouflage himself before, it was practically impossible now. Fans were on the lookout, and a baseball cap and sunglasses weren’t cutting it anymore. He’d been approached in the grocery store, minion-themed yogurt cups sitting conspicuously in his cart. It was a small miracle they hadn’t noticed. On his way to meet his new personal trainer, he’d caught a fan taking pictures from a distance, and he’d bit his tongue so hard he tasted iron. Even driving Ilya’s car wasn’t safe. If he stopped too long at a red light, people started pointing.

So he’d mostly stayed inside, and Ilya hadn’t minded one bit.

They’d fallen into a routine that felt easier than Shane would have expected, despite the exhausting schedule of a three-year-old. Breakfast made by Ilya. A trip to the park while Shane tidied the kitchen. Lunch from the place around the corner, which Ilya picked up on his way home. An afternoon nap for Olesya, lasting one hour most days, two if they were lucky. They made the most of that time. Then it was a steady stream of keeping Olesya fed and entertained until she fell asleep. Craft tables, where Ilya and Shane made matching beaded bracelets for one another, wearing them every day since. Playing with the dolls in the plastic house they’d built together. Stacking blocks until Olesya got bored and knocked them all down.

The mistake had been getting too comfortable.

The first thing they noticed was that Olesya couldn’t seem to stay awake. They’d enjoyed roughly ten minutes of extra peace that morning before Shane was hit with the strange certainty that something was wrong.

Small arms wrapped around Shane’s neck as he bounced her in his arms an hour later, his frown deepening when it didn’t help calm her crying like it usually did.

With one hand on Shane’s back and the other on Olesya’s, Ilya murmured in a honeyed tone, “Kak ty, malyshka?”

And Shane had seen that look before. The one in Ilya’s hazel eyes, the tension pulling at his mouth. He’d seen it looking up from the cold ice. “You’re worried.”

Which meant Shane should be worried.

It took all of three seconds to shift from mild unease to full-blown alarm when Ilya didn’t correct him.

“Feel her skin,” Ilya said roughly, like he was holding something back. “She is warm.”

Shane reached up and pressed his fingers to her forehead. Was that warm? He couldn’t remember what normal felt like anymore. “What does that mean? Warm, like a fever?”

The crease on Ilya’s forehead deepened. “I think, yes.”

“What—” Shane looked at her swollen eyes, flushed cheeks, the moisture beneath her button nose. “What do we do?”

If anxiety was contagious, Ilya was starting to catch it, running a hand through his already disheveled curls. “I am not fucking doctor, Hollander.” He sucked in an unsteady breath. “Sorry. I don’t… I don’t know.”

Shane didn’t have the bandwidth to be offended when he felt his own outburst cresting just over the horizon. He held Olesya a little tighter before glancing at the counter. “Grab my phone.”

Ilya didn’t hesitate, moving to unplug it with urgent speed. “And now what?”

“One-two-two-one,” Shane said, nodding at the screen. “It’s my password. Call my mom. Her number is in my recents.”

Something close to grief flashed across Ilya’s face before he tucked it away, his thumbs moving rapidly over the screen. By the time he returned to where Olesya was still clinging to Shane and crying in the center of the living room, the dial tone was ringing on speaker.

The familiar voice brought a wave of relief. “Hello?”

“Mom. Hey.”

“You should know that video is up to thirteen thousand—”

“I don’t care,” Shane cut in. “Ilya’s here too. Listen, Olya’s been crying since she woke up. She slept in, and she won’t eat breakfast. She’s sniffling, too, and now she’s warm, Mom. She’s warm.”

“Okay,” Yuna said calmly. “You said Ilya is there?”

Ilya cleared his throat. “Hello, Yuna.”

Her reply carried equal parts hesitation and disbelief. “Right. Hi. God, that’s still weird.”

“Mom,” Shane hissed.

“Sorry,” she murmured, thinking for longer than Shane had patience for. When he met Ilya’s eyes over the phone hovering between them, he found the same dread reflected back at him. “Is there an emergency room near your place, Ilya?”

“I think probably,” Ilya said, his English fraying as his thoughts scattered. “This is emergency?”

Instinctively, Shane shifted Olesya to one arm and used the other to rub small circles into Ilya’s back, the motion as much for himself as for Ilya’s, a repetitive motion that he could funnel his focus into.

“No. I’m not saying this is an emergency,” Yuna continued, and to Shane’s relief, she didn’t sound worried. He knew that tone well. “Kids get sick all the time. Shane couldn’t go three games without bringing home a new germ. But,” her voice softened, “maybe you’d feel better getting a second opinion?”

A lump lodged in Shane’s throat, and he had to force the words past it. “Like… a doctor?”

“A doctor,” Ilya repeated, a resolve hardening his features. “Yes. I think yes. I should go.” 

“Right,” Shane nodded, “Thanks, mom. Call you later.” 

“The video, Shane—”

Ilya hung up the phone. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I'll call her back later.” Shane turned to pass Olesya to Ilya, but it only made her wail louder, an ear-splitting cry that had them both wincing. He tried to remember the few words he’d learned in Russian, the ones Ilya had taught him just days before. “Hey, Olya. Everything’s okay. Vsyo… kha…rasho.”

Ilya tried instead, reaching out with open arms and a soft smile meant only for Olesya. The one that made Shane melt a little more every time he saw it. “Idi syudá, malýshka.”

Olesya shook her head back and forth, tucking her face into the crook of Shane’s shoulder, and the small gesture clamped around his heart like a vice. Swallowing the shake in his voice, Shane looked at Ilya, determination settling over his indecision. “Grab Olya’s papers. I’ll put together a bag for the wait.”

Ilya stared at him like a puzzle he couldn’t solve, speaking slowly, the same way he might explain a new concept to Olesya. “You will bring her to car?”

“You’re driving. I’ll sit with her in the back.” Ilya’s eyes narrowed like Shane had spoken french, so he clarified, “I’m coming with, Ilya.” 

Maybe he needed to hear it out loud to understand it himself, because now there was no other option. Like hell would he sit here alone while Ilya held a crying Olesya by himself in the emergency room. The first thing Shane was doing when they got home was calling every doctor in Boston until he found Olesya a permanent fit, but for now, this was it. And if Ilya was there, then Shane would be too. Not to mention, her tiny fingers were practically glued to his skin, and he had no intention of peeling them off. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

“Shane…” Ilya looked at him with something Shane could only diagnose as pity, and it only made his frustration spike. “There is no special waiting room for pretty hockey boys. It will be public. And busy.”

“Fuck off,” Shane hissed, already moving.

His pulse was racing twice as fast as normal, and somewhere in the back of his mind he understood that this trip to the emergency room could change their lives in irreversible ways, but Olesya was crying breathless, broken sobs into his ear. He could feel it now, too. Her temperature had climbed enough that his own skin was going clammy. With one free hand, Shane shoved keys into a bag, along with a couple juice boxes, a bag of fish-shaped crackers, and their matching Nike water bottles. When he paused at the door and looked over his shoulder, Ilya still hadn’t moved.

There was a sheen of moisture in his hazel eyes that dropped a pit straight into Shane’s stomach. It was killing him to have to tell Shane he didn’t want him to come.

Shane steadied the wobble threatening his voice. “What if… what if something happens? And I’m not there?”

Ilya winced, like he was picturing it too. To Shane’s surprise, he didn’t tell him to hand Olesya over. Instead, he asked in a low, careful tone, “You are sure?”

Despite everything that should have stopped him from walking out the door, Shane nodded, firm and unmistakable. “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together.”

Something cracked in Ilya’s throat. Then he was moving, doing what Shane had asked. With Olesya’s folder tucked under his arm, he met Shane at the door, on the threshold between everything they’d always known and something entirely new. He brushed a gentle caress along Olesya’s cheek first, murmuring something soft in Russian, before dragging his hand over Shane’s jaw. His lips trembled when their eyes met, and Shane’s fluttered closed on instinct, leaning into the familiar touch.

“Okay. Together,” Ilya whispered at last. “I love you, solnyshko.”

Shane’s small smile came without permission. “You keep calling me that. What does it mean?”

“Sunshine.”

Ilya

It was typically a moment for celebration when Olesya fell asleep, but this time, it only made him more nervous. What had Yuna said? That this wasn’t an emergency? He clung to the small comfort a mother had given him, absently wishing that he could have called his own.

Someone honked at him, and Ilya honked back, waving his hand at the driver who he’d cut off. 

“Hey,” Shane said, his fingers gripping Ilya’s shoulder as he leaned forward from the back seat. “We’re almost there. Don’t worry.”

“Maybe you should wake her up,” Ilya said with a healthy dose of hesitation, because he had no idea what he was doing. It had never been this clear how little he knew about taking care of a child. If anything happened to her, there would be no one else to blame, and that truth sat on his chest like an anchor. Had she caught something contagious at the park? The equipment was as dirty as the other children zipping around the space, and he hadn’t washed her hands until they’d come home. He should have brought more wet wipes. He should have—

“Ilya.” Shane’s voice cut through the spiral, and Ilya refocused on the road. “It’s going to be okay, alright? You heard my mom. I got sick all the time when I was a kid. It’s normal. Let’s just wait for the doctor to tell us the same thing, okay?”

He hummed in noncommittal agreement. A desperate part of him wanted to believe Shane was right, but what had history shown Ilya? Things didn’t work out for his family. The Rozanov's had a terrible track record.

The flashing arrow that led them into the emergency room parking lot was a temporary balm to his panic, and he pulled in quickly, finding a spot closest to the entrance.

The distant sound of sirens greeted them as they both jumped out of the car. Together. God, he couldn’t believe Shane was here. He didn’t know how to properly thank him. How to ask him if he was thinking straight, because what were they doing? This was insane. They would never get away with this, and they both knew it. Still, Shane reached into the back seat and gently lifted Ilya's niece out of the car seat, pressing her against his chest.

“She is so sleepy,” Ilya said, brushing a curl off her forehead. “It is a good thing? Maybe she needs the rest.”

“Maybe,” Shane echoed, but he wasn’t looking at Olesya. He was looking at Ilya. Not with concern, but with the same expression he wore during faceoffs. The one that told Ilya he was ready, and that he wouldn’t go down without a fight. His voice dropped as he moved closer.

“Last chance, Hollander.”

“Don’t need it.” Shane reached forward and slid his hand into Ilya’s, squeezing his fingers just long enough to ground him. “Do you need it?”

The answer came instantly. “No.”

“Okay.” Shane exhaled, and Ilya knew that if they weren’t standing in a parking lot, he would have kissed him. Most things could be explained away as a rivalry-turned-friendship. Harder under these circumstances, but until they came out officially, it would all remain speculation. An unspoken agreement passed between them. “Let’s go.”

The waiting room was busy, as predicted. Not packed to the brim, but crowded enough that the murmurs started as soon as the sliding doors opened and they made their way toward the front desk. In any other city, there might have been one or two fans in a room of fifty. But this was Boston. Ilya’s city. Shane’s, too, as the internet had recently discovered. Heads turned as they crossed the room.

“Hi,” the woman behind the glass said, already reaching for a clipboard. “Who are we checking in today?”

“Olesya Rozanov,” Ilya said clearly, doing his best to soften his Russian accent. “She is three. She has fever and is very tired.”

The nurse glanced up at that, attention sharpening immediately. “Okay. Is she awake right now?”

“No,” Ilya said. “She fell asleep in the car.”

“Alright.” She nodded, peering past them at the toddler in Shane’s arms. “You’re her…?”

“I am her uncle,” Ilya said. “Temporary guardian.”

“Okay.” The nurse slid a form through the opening. “I’m going to get some basic information and then we’ll have triage take a look at her vitals. Does she have any trouble breathing? Vomiting? Seizures?”

“No,” Ilya said quickly. “Just fever. She was okay last night. Then not.”

“That’s helpful,” the nurse said, already typing. “Do you have her insurance card, or travel insurance?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, relief loosening something tight in his chest. He passed everything through the slot carefully. “Passport. Visa. Travel health insurance.”

She glanced through the documents, efficient in a way he appreciated given his urgency to know that Olesya was okay. When she was finished, she passed a paper bracelet back through the slot. “Thank you. We’ll make copies. Have a seat right over there in those blue chairs, and triage will call her name soon. If you’re able, put the bracelet on her while you wait, okay?”

Ilya nodded, unable to trust his voice yet, and followed Shane toward the row of plastic chairs. They worked together to loop the bracelet around her wrist, careful not to wake her up. When it was firmly in place, Shane slid her onto Ilya’s lap. 

“There are people looking at us,” Shane whispered a minute later, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “They wouldn’t try to get a photo in an ER, right? There are signs everywhere that say no cameras.”

“Americans do not read signs,” Ilya muttered, eyes fixed on Olesya’s face. “I give it two minutes. Maximum.”

“Two minutes?” Shane’s features scrunched. “Two minutes until what?”

Ilya didn’t answer, because a shadow was already drifting into his peripheral vision. He sighed. “Good thing we did not put money on it.”

When he lifted his gaze, it landed on a middle-aged woman with gray threading through her roots, a child tucked close at her side. The kid looked a few years older than Olesya, wide-eyed and half-hidden behind his mother’s leg. Breathless and stumbling over her words, she blurted, “Hi. I couldn’t be sure from over there, but oh my god. You’re Ilya Rozanov, aren’t you? My son,” she pulled the boy closer, “Georgie, is your biggest fan. Honestly, our whole family loves you.”

Ilya forced a smile. “Great.”

“We didn’t know—” Her gaze flicked to Olesya, and Ilya felt a strange, visceral urge to shield her, to tuck her beneath his sweater and block out the world. He knew how cruel it could be, in any country, and he wanted to delay that cruelty for her as long as possible. When he looked back up to ask the woman to leave, she was no longer staring at Olesya.

She was staring at Shane.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. “You’re Hollander.”

Shane didn’t even try to look polite, so Ilya jumped in before this could spiral into a second viral incident. “Yes. Surprise. You cannot believe everything on TV. We are friends.”

“Ronnie is not going to believe this,” the woman said, already fishing her phone out of her pocket. “Do you think I could get a picture?”

“Are you serious?” Shane snapped, and Ilya nearly choked. “Do you know where we are right now?”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“Rozanov is holding his sick niece, and you want to, what? Set her on the floor so you can get a fucking picture?”

Ilya almost smiled. 

“Sorry,” he said smoothly. “Hollander is tired. Maybe another time, yes?”

At the very least, Shane had ensured that no one else would be approaching them while they were here. The woman mumbled a barely intelligible apology before retreating to a chair as far away as possible from Shane and Ilya, tugging her reluctant son along the entire way.

“I have never seen you this terrible with fans before, and now you have threatened two children and an old lady,” Ilya murmured under his breath, and why did that make him feel so giddy? Sure, Shane threw out the occasional chirp on the ice, knew how to dish it back to Ilya almost as well as he took it, but he’d never been anything but cordial with the media and fans. Not especially warm, because it was Shane and he wasn’t Scott Hunter, and he didn’t much care to charm his way into anything. But this was different. It felt protective.

Shane blew out a shaky breath. “Why haven’t they called Olya yet?”

At the sound of her name, her eyes fluttered open, tired and unfocused, barely registering the unfamiliar room before she began to whine. If only Ilya knew what hurt, or how to make it stop, then maybe it wouldn’t feel so unbearable. He ran a hand over her back, murmuring comfort in Russian while she slowly surfaced into consciousness.

“Moloko,” she mumbled, peering at Shane through a curtain of messy curls.

With a tired cry, she slid off Ilya’s lap and tried to climb into Shane’s. Panic fractured around the edges of Shane’s gaze. They were sitting in a room full of people watching them, and anyone who hadn’t been paying attention before definitely was now, after his outburst. Ilya glanced at him, a silent question in his eyes.

Shane’s expression softened, like he’d remembered something, and then he scooped Olesya up and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Ilya had to look away. If he didn’t, he would tell Shane he loved him again. He’d grab his hand. Because watching Shane hold Olesya like she was his own, like loving Ilya and loving Olesya were one and the same thing, was enough to loosen the knot of worry in his chest. Of course they would be okay. They were here, almost a decade later, weren’t they?

“Olesya Rozanov?” a friendly voice called from the double doors at the back of the room, and Shane was on his feet just as quickly as Ilya was.

The nurse waved them forward, gesturing to a small room just beyond the desk. Shane moved first, holding Olesya, while Ilya followed close behind, his nerves tightening with each step.

“Hi,” the nurse said warmly, scanning her clipboard. “I’m Nurse Patel. Let’s get some vitals first. Can I put her down on the scale?”

Shane glanced at Ilya, a clear disagreement pressed behind his lips.

“It seems she does not want to let go today,” Ilya said, trying to conjure a twinkle in his eye, the one that typically allowed him to get away with just about anything he wanted. “She can stay with him?”

“Of course,” Patel said. “We’ll make it quick, then. Just temperature, pulse, and oxygen, and we’re done.”

Olesya buried her face in Shane’s shoulder as the nurse placed the thermometer under her arm and clipped a tiny plastic clip to her finger. Ilya held his breath, watching the little lights blink. He didn’t know what any of it meant, lost briefly in a memory of Shane in a hospital bed, bruised and broken, and his fingers itched to reach out, just to make sure he was okay.

“Looks like a mild fever. 102.2,” Patel murmured, her tone calm, which gave Ilya some reassurance. “Her oxygen is perfect. Heart rate is a elevated, but that’s normal with a little fever.”

Ilya ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. 

The doctor arrived moments later, a short woman in a white coat with kind blue eyes. “Hi, Olesya. I’m Dr. Harris. Can you tell me how she’s been today?”

Ilya began listing her symptoms: fever, sniffling, fussiness. Shane filled in details on how long she’d been crying, her lack of appetite. The doctor nodded, scribbling notes, listening intently.

“Sounds like a viral infection,” Dr. Harris said when they’d finished. “Nothing serious, but she’ll need rest and hydration. You can give her acetaminophen if her temperature spikes or she’s uncomfortable.”

Relief swept over Shane, and he allowed himself a small, shaky smile at Ilya. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Dr. Harris confirmed, tucking her pen into the pocket of her coat. “If she develops new symptoms, a rash, trouble breathing, or vomiting, you should bring her back immediately. Otherwise, you can safely monitor her at home.”

Ilya reached forward and pressed a noisy kiss to Olesya’s head. She was safe. She was healthy. It felt like a miracle, and he noticed Shane holding her a little tighter, too. He glimpsed up at him. “Yuna was right.”

“It’s annoying how often she is,” Shane said with a laugh. It had only been a few hours, but Ilya had missed that sound. He laughed too, simply because it felt good, because they could, now that they knew Olesya was going to be okay.

-

By the time they made it to the parking lot and tucked Olesya into her car seat, Shane fell against Ilya’s chest, a shaky breath escaping him as Ilya’s arms wrapped around his back.

“Holy shit. That was so fucking scary.” Ilya had thought he meant the strangers asking to take a picture, being in public together, until Shane pulled back an inch and added, “I’m so glad she’s okay.”

His chest swelled with an emotion that had been mostly unfamiliar for most of his life, a strange certainty that he wasn’t alone, and he wouldn’t be alone ever again. “Get in the car, Hollander, before I kiss you right here.”

They slipped into their respective seats. Ilya scanned the parking lot briefly before leaning over the console, pressing his mouth to Shane’s. A soft moan escaped Shane as Ilya’s hand cradled the back of his neck, guiding him closer. The world shrank to that moment, to the heat of Shane against him, the rapid beat of their hearts. Until they were breathless, lips brushing, and the fear he’d been carrying, not just for Olesya, but the terrifying prospect of publicizing their relationship, in whatever form it was interpreted, faded away.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Ilya

It was exactly what he’d hoped wouldn’t happen. The world had latched onto Olesya, gossip blooming online into theories and speculation that couldn’t be solved by simply ignoring it. In response, both Shane and Ilya had been contacted by their respective media departments, gently but firmly reminding them that while their personal lives were their own, they still had reputations to uphold for the sake of the league. As if they’d done anything wrong.

So Ilya had taken matters into his own hands, or at least as much as he could without getting into too much trouble.

It was a photo of Shane with Olesya perched on his lap, tucked comfortably against his chest. A wide sunhat obscured most of her face, a deliberate choice he’d made to keep his niece as anonymous as possible without pretending she didn’t exist. Shane, on the other hand, wasn’t hidden at all. They sat at a small café table in a quiet neighborhood, sunlight spilling across the pavement, catching on the rim of Shane’s sunglasses and the easy curve of his soft smile.

Ilya had captioned it:

Today marks one month since my brother’s passing.
I am grateful to be able to give his daughter a safe place to call home after his tragic accident. Becoming guardian to my niece has not been an easy chapter to face, but it is one I take seriously.
I am thankful to have friends in my life, like Shane Hollander, who remind me that accepting help is not weakness.
Looking ahead to next season.
— ROZANOV

Shane had proofread it, of course. So when Sports News called Ilya a class act amid personal loss, the credit wasn’t entirely his alone. But the response hadn’t stopped there, and they’d prepared for that, too. At least, some of it. The official accounts praised the mutual respect between them, and handed Shane accolades for stepping up for his friend during a difficult offseason. Those were the placards that made the headlines, anyway.

Ilya loosened his grip on the steering wheel as the city lights flashed red, glancing over at Shane in the passenger seat. “Why so much sighing, lyubov?”

“These comments are ridiculous,” Shane groaned, slouching lower. There was a smaller subset of accounts, ones that didn't have blue checkmarks or needed to keep their content clean, that were just as eager to contribute to the narrative. “Like, this one just says: Just say you’re in love and go.”

“Maybe next post, yes?” Ilya grinned, eyes flicking back to the road. “Ignore it. They do not know what they do not know. Even if many things they say are true.”

“Shut up.” Shane huffed, but Ilya caught the reluctant smile that threatened to break through anyway.

Olesya’s restless voice called from the backseat. “Domoy!”

“Soon, solnyshko,” Ilya called over his shoulder, as Shane reached back and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. The familiar nerves snuck up again uninvited at the reminder of their destination, six minutes away according to the GPS. He drummed his fingers against the wheel.

Shane’s hand covered his. “You nervous?”

“No, I am fine,” Ilya said, nearly choking on the lie. “Unless I puke. Maybe we pull over.”

“You’re not going to puke,” Shane replied quickly, running his thumb over Ilya’s hand. “This is…just formality, right?”

God, he hoped so. He didn’t know what he’d do if Olesya were sent back to Russia, or what that would mean for Ilya. Of course, he’d go with her. They would never be separated again. But there was so much waiting for him in his home country that he didn’t want to face: the backlash for missing Alexei’s funeral, the empty apartment he’d left in his brother’s name, and everything he’d have to leave behind: his career, secondary to the first worry, which was abandoning Shane.

The thought made him sick.

“You do look a little pale,” Shane said, abandoning the hellish comment section to squeeze Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya tried to lean into it, to focus on the grounding pressure of Shane’s hand, but they were minutes from the USCIS Boston Field Office and he couldn’t stop picturing the worst-case scenario. This was their final check-in. If everything went well, they’d approve her permanent residency. Ilya would graduate from temporary to permanent guardianship. But his life had been a series of worst cases, with the occasional exception. Getting drafted. Meeting Shane. Three miracles in a single lifetime felt like stretching his luck thin.

“It’ll be quick,” Shane assured him as they pulled up to the curb outside a gray-sided government building, certainty etched into every line of him. It was a look Ilya desperately tried to imitate, ironic that the roles had reversed so suddenly, when he was so used to carrying enough false confidence for the both of them. 

Like they’d been doing this forever, they fell into their new roles. Ilya grabbed the stack of Olesya’s paperwork from one side of the car, while Shane scooped his niece out of the car seat, holding her hand as her wide gaze took in their new surroundings. She was dressed in a baby-yellow sundress and white sneakers, curls tucked into two uneven pigtails. One was the result of Shane’s meticulous hands, the other of Ilya’s impatient fingers. Ilya was confident no one could say no to her when she looked so cute. 

Enticed by the grassy lawn out front, Olesya broke free from Shane’s hand and bolted toward a cluster of pigeons pecking at the sod.

Ilya kept an eye on her but made no effort to reel her back in, content to stretch the waiting period just a little longer. Whatever answer waited inside would change both their lives, for better or worse, and he wasn’t exactly vying to hear it.

He turned and found Shane watching her too. There was something suddenly distant in his gaze. Far away.

“Shane,” Ilya prompted, stepping closer. Not close enough to fuel the rumor mill if someone happened to be watching from a tinted window or a parked car, but enough that he could lower his voice. “Have I said thank you today?”

“Hm?” Shane murmured. Ilya caught the sudden dryness in his throat as he glanced over.

“You will not trick me into saying it twice,” Ilya teased, but the attempt went unheard.

Maybe it was better to get this over with, to rid them both of the anxiety he clearly wasn’t alone in. Brief enough not to get them into trouble, he let his hand skim over Shane’s. A light caress, barely a brush, but more than enough to snap him back.

That was the thing about hiding for years. Anything in public felt like a shock to the nervous system.

“Ah,” Ilya said softly. “There you are.”

Not even a smile. Ilya frowned and lifted a hand to shade his eyes from the sun. “You are going to tell me what is on your mind? Or I will have to start guessing.”

Shane only stared at him, his expression fracturing further with every passing second.

“Okay,” Ilya continued slowly. “You are thinking about how I left the cap off the toothpaste this morning. No? You are worried we will not make it home in time for the new episode of Game of Thrones, then?”

Shane sighed. “Ilya…”

“I am only a little offended that you clearly have a crush on the Snow guy,” Ilya said with a shrug, trying anything to keep him engaged. “Do I have to grow my hair out to get you to talk to me? Buy an ugly fur coat?”

Shane’s lips twitched, a brief splinter of humor cutting through the panic before it came roaring back tenfold. He turned, wobbling slightly as he leaned into a stone column. His chest rose and fell too quickly, fingers shaking enough that Ilya had to bite down hard on the urge to lace their hands together.

“I don’t…” Shane choked out as Ilya’s shadow fell over him. “I’m freaking out. And I shouldn’t be, because this is about you and Olesya, and you’re already nervous, and I’m making it worse—”

Olesya chose that moment to sprint back from the lawn, tugging insistently at Ilya’s hand. “Poydyom igrat!”

Let’s go play!

Ilya flashed her a grin and knelt to scoop her against his side. Then he nudged Shane’s shin with his shoe, fixing him with a gentle look. “Is it terrible that you panicking makes me feel a little better?”

Shane lifted his chin, frowning. “Kind of.”

Ilya shrugged. “It is just nice, to not be alone.”

The truth of it stretched farther than words he could ever say out loud. When he’d first been drafted, leaving Russia behind for the season, the loneliness in America had nearly hollowed him out, a void he’d tried to fill with cheap sex, vodka, parties, and hockey. A childhood without his mother had paved the way, and a father colder than the northern edge of the country had sharpened it. A brother who wanted to be anything but that was the final blade. Isolation had walked beside him for as long as he could remember.

But then he'd met Shane.

It wasn’t a guarantee, their entire relationship always a step away from crumbling under the weight of expectation, but they’d managed it. The long gaps of time between seeing his rival had always echoed with those old memories, threatening to drag him back into the dark. He’d clung to the thought of seeing him again like a lifeline, sustaining him through months when schedules kept them apart. When stress took hold, there had been no one else to see it. No one he would have allowed to see it.

But he was still here. His friend, Shane. No longer just a hook-up, Shane. In his life in a way that felt like it could be permanent, constant: Shane. The reality of that still felt new, and in this moment it settled warmly in his chest, pulling a soft smile to his lips.

“It will be okay,” Ilya murmured, leaning forward. What else could he say?

“It’s not just this,” Shane said, forcing the words out. “It’s everything. Like, what happens when the season starts? I don’t want to disappear from her life. I want to visit. And I want you to visit. And, God, I want my parents to meet her. Is that insane? Can we…” He faltered, looking desperate, frantic, like he was about to confess to a crime under the eyes of the law. “Would you want to—I mean—”

Ilya stepped closer and ran a free hand through Shane’s hair. The realization that anyone could see them snapped Shane’s gaze upward in an instant, but he didn’t pull away. Not even when Ilya’s palm cupped his cheek, two fingers slipping beneath his chin.

“I do not care if she goes to school and tells her friends about her two dads.”

Shane blinked. Hard. Twice.

“You probably should not have said that to me,” Ilya whispered through a small smile, drawing his hand back. It was a risk he’d knowingly taken, but it was better not to press their luck. Not all at once, anyway. “Turns out I have gotten very attached to the idea.”

Olesya squirmed in Ilya’s arms, and he set her down, watching as she wobbled over to Shane and wrapped a lazy arm around his leg. “Poydyom domoy?”

“Skoro, Olya,” Shane answered, repeating what he’d heard Ilya say. Soon. The sound of broken, unpracticed Russian on his tongue was nearly enough to bring Ilya to his knees, because he was trying. He’d spent a lifetime trying to perfect his English to please the masses, but had anyone made the effort to learn Russian for him? When Shane looked up at him through dark lashes, his gaze brimming with hope, he almost folded. Shane added, “What about hockey?”

“What about it?” Ilya countered as Olesya climbed into Shane’s lap, arms looped around his neck. “If Hunter can jump his boyfriend on the ice in front of a full arena, I am sure the league will find a way to deal with us, yes?”

Shane finally laughed, and it was the sweetest sound that Ilya had ever heard. “We can do it slowly. Slower than that.”

“Sure, yes,” Ilya said without hesitation. He didn’t care about the logistics. Whatever it took to keep this, to keep them, for as long as they could. “However you want, lyubov.”

Shane

He hadn’t needed proof on paper to know that Ilya was Olesya’s forever home. But the government had given it to them, and God, it was a relief. There were no delays, no requests for additional evidence, no raised eyebrows over timelines or intentions. The appointment itself had been stiff and awkward in the way bureaucracy always was, focused entirely on facts rather than feeling. They didn't care to know that he tucked her in every night, or had read her six different books since she'd come to America. That she'd finally learned their names. They leaned on proof of Ilya’s legal guardianship following Alexei’s death, the documentation showing Olesya had no remaining immediate family willing or able to care for her, and evidence that Ilya could provide stability, financially and otherwise. His contract, his housing, his clean record. For all the bad-boy reputation he carried on the ice, there wasn’t a blemish to be found where it actually mattered.

They’d agreed she was better off in the United States, where Ilya’s career and income were rooted, where her schooling and medical care would be consistent, where there was a future already built around her. And on a note that rang bitter-sweet, there had been no relatives in Russia stepping forward to contest it. No grandparents insisting on blood ties. No aunts or uncles filing objections. The embassy hadn’t pushed for her return, and USCIS hadn’t hesitated. With Ilya, for better or worse, was where Olesya would stay.

Ilya explained it to her on the way home, in Russian, sitting with her in the backseat. Shane caught familiar words here and there, not enough to understand the details, but enough to recognize the meaning. That she would stay with Ilya now. That this was her home. That her parents were not coming back, an admission that lodged visibly in Ilya’s throat, even if Olesya didn’t yet grasp the permanence of it. That he would always be there for her, to take care of her, to love her.

Then he told Shane that he loved him, too, and Shane nearly lost his grip on the wheel.

Ilya carried her inside once they got home, fast asleep against his chest, and Shane followed a few steps behind, giving him space to absorb the reality of it. The door clicked shut softly behind them, sealing in a future etched in ink.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Shane asked later. Ilya knew what he meant. He could tell by the way his gaze drifted out over the city, unfocused, like he wasn't really looking at anything at all. They stood on the balcony passing a shared glass of red wine between them, the door cracked open and the monitor within reach. The sun hung low, traffic and the ships in the harbor blending into a far-off hum.

“It’s okay,” Shane added quietly, “if you’re not ready.”

Ilya tipped the glass back, a bit of wine clinging to his lip before he set it on the table. “There is not much to say. Alexei was…” He huffed a quiet breath. “Cruel, mostly.He broke my nose once, for taking the last of the cereal.” Ilya flinched, more reflex than memory. “I could skate, and he could not. I had a way to escape, after our mama died, and our papa got angrier.” He looked at Shane then, blackened memories drifting behind his hazel gaze. “I could have done more.”

Shane wanted to tell him it was a ridiculous thing to say. That he’d been sending Alexei money for years, that he’d been carrying his family on his back for most of his life. That the only person who could have saved his brother was his brother. But the words tangled in his throat, and he wasn’t sure Ilya wanted to hear them anyway. So instead, he crossed the balcony and wrapped Ilya in a hug, tightening his arms until he felt the tension finally start to bleed out of him.

When Shane stepped back, there was a single wet streak down Ilya’s chin. “I am sorry for his loss,” Ilya said, allowing a hint emotion to slip through his composed facade. “I am sorry for…that he did not want a better life.”

“Yeah,” Shane murmured, brushing a thumb along Ilya’s cheek. Ilya leaned into it, eyes closing, like he needed the reminder that he wasn’t alone. “He did one good thing, though.”

“Olya,” Ilya said on a shaky breath. “Yes. She is good.”

Shane nodded, and for reasons he couldn’t fully name, it made his own eyes well with moisture, too Then Ilya was pulling him closer, pressing a firm kiss to his lips, one that grounded them both in the moment. Like he wanted it as much as he needed it, like it was oxygen and he was drowning.

A soft sound slipped from Shane as he deepened it, turning his head to find a better angle. Everything felt different now, standing on untreaded ground, a future stretching out in front of them that he’d finally begun to allow himself to imagine. To picture what life could be if they stopped putting restrictions on themselves. What they shared physically seemed to carry more weight now, travelled deeper than raw hunger, weaving itself around his heart like the ivy that trailed up the wall of his childhood home. He’d always felt most himself around Ilya, but there had been a part of him he’d kept locked away. The part that was desperate to be loyal. Devoted. It was his nature, he’d realized, to give himself fully to his passions. To hockey, he’d gladly handed over his whole life. To Ilya…

He spoke breathlessly between kisses and stolen touches. “I love you, Ilya. God, I love you so fucking much.”

Ilya growled into his lips, like Shane’s admission had unlocked something primal. They barely broke apart as they stumbled back inside, not bothering to come up for air, clumsy with urgency as they made their way to Ilya’s bedroom. Fingers tangled with practiced ease, clothes stripped away in minutes, and Shane was pressed against the wall seconds after his pants hit the floor.

Ilya’s body was flush against his back, arms caging him in, lips tracing a trail over his shoulder, his length teasing and pressing between Shane’s backside, and Shane’s cheek was pressed against the cool wall, hands reaching blindly behind him to pull Ilya’s hips closer.

“So impatient,” Ilya purred against his neck. Then one arm disappeared from Shane’s view as Ilya adjusted, testing their position. An inch in, Shane let out an unrestrained groan, collapsing slightly against the wall, held only by Ilya’s other hand tightening around his hip.

“Is good like this, yes?” Ilya murmured.

“Yes,” Shane gasped, the world tilting and falling around him. “Yes…please.”

“Say it in Russian,” Ilya whispered, nipping along Shane’s neck. “Show me how well you are learning.”

Shane whimpered as Ilya pressed in another inch. “Po-zah…loo-sta…”

“Vsyo tvoyo, solnyshko,” Ilya breathed into his ear. “Everything is yours.”

There was nothing Shane could say as Ilya pressed into him fully, the rhythm relentless and consuming. His limbs felt like molten putty, surrendering under the weight of the pleasure that had seized every corner of his being. The wall pressed hard into his bare skin, while Ilya’s hands traced paths over him, fingers curling into flesh, holding him close, moving with a wild precision. Every thrust sent sparks through him, leaving him on the edge of sensation, and he was aware only of the way Ilya filled him, and how mind-numbingly good it felt. The unyielding pace threatened to buckle his knees.

Ilya took notice before Shane voiced it aloud, spinning him away from the wall, perched on the edge of the bed. “So pretty,” Ilya said, his voice low, before he was gripping Shane’s hips and pushing back in. 

Shane dissolved into a series of mumbled words, begging for more, until Ilya’s pace quickened to a staccato and Shane knew that he would chase him to the finish line. 

Pleasure washed over him wholly and completely as Ilya folded over him, his own release following in the same awe-striking moment. They tumbled into one another, collapsing on top of the sheets.

Shane wasn’t sure he’d yet landed back in reality when Ilya ran his fingers through his hair, peering down at where he’d laid his head on Ilya’s chest, and murmured quietly, “Odnazhdy ya budu nazyvat tebya svoim muzhem, lyubov.”

“I’m not that fast a learner, you know.” Shane raised an eyebrow, glancing up. “What’s that mean, anyway?” 

Ilya tilted Shane’s head back down, hiding a smile. "Not today. Soon, I will tell you.” 

Five Years Later

Ilya

They skated down the center of the Rideau Canal, bare trees lining either side, the Ottawa skyline looming in the distance. To his right was Shane, never one to hold back, speeding up and skating backward, facing Ilya with a wild grin. It was refreshing to see him freed from their team gear, dressed only in a thick parka and a knit cap over slightly outgrown dark hair, no hockey stick or puck in sight. To his left, Olesya was bundled in a thick scarf, comfortable enough on the ice that her holding Yuna’s hand felt more like a comfort than a necessity. Trailing behind at languid speed was David, lacking the competitive streak of the other Hollanders but still reveling in the nostalgia of it all. 

“Papo!” Olesya called out to Ilya, and he pivoted to the side, savoring the freedom of gliding without the weight and restraint of padding or helmet. “Can we do the thing?”

The thing. Shane sighed, and Ilya laughed. Yuna raised an eyebrow, “What is the thing?”

“The thing,” Shane murmured to his mom, “is my worst nightmare.”

“Nothing to worry about. She is very strong,” Ilya said, winking at Olesya. “Okay, Olya. Only one time. Are you ready?”

She reached out her gloved hands, already bouncing in place. Ilya grabbed them, crossing his own hands over hers, holding her determined gaze with his own. Bright hazel eyes stared back at him, framed by light curls tied into braids that fell over her thick coat. They settled into the position, and then Ilya leaned back, and Olesya followed, and he led them into a clean, tight spin.

David let out a low whistle as they slowly spun. He vaguely heard Shane mutter something about not encouraging it, that she had no pads on, no helmet, and wasn’t supposed to be practicing without her coach. Yuna would have agreed, it was how bad habits were formed.

Olesya’s crooked grin appeared. “Bystrye?”

Faster?

Shane shook his head from the sideline, “Ne bystrye.” 

While Olesya had learned English, Shane had learned Russian. There were no secret conversations anymore. 

Ilya flashed a playful waggle of his eyebrows at his partner before leaning into the spin one last time, quick and wild, before tugging Olesya inward and pressing her gently against his chest. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head before nudging her back toward Yuna. “Enough. We will give your papa a heart attack.”

“You,” Shane corrected, circling around Ilya, “will give me a heart attack.”

There was a fondness there, despite his lecturing tone, that Ilya didn’t miss. The soft edges of Shane’s dark eyes, snow-dusted lashes flicking in the fading sunlight, as he wove their fingers together and skated closeto his side. Yet another thing he’d never imagined experiencing with Shane Hollander, and it had become one of their favorite shared moments, whenever schedules allowed. Playing on the same team for the past two years made some things both easier and more complicated; they didn’t need to juggle separate practices or games, but it also meant that one couldn’t fill in for the other when non-hockey responsibilities cropped up. For that, they were exceedingly grateful for Yuna and David. It hadn’t taken long for them to slip into the roles of doting grandparents, despite having no time to prepare. Olesya had already been a rambunctious toddler when she first charged into their lives, and they’d taken each day since in stride. 

Yuna called out from a short distance behind them, “Hold on. Let me grab a picture of you two.”

Ilya paused, glancing over at Shane. He wasn’t usually a fan of posing, and it often took some coaxing to get him to smile for a camera. But this time, he didn’t appear ready for argument. In fact, Ilya noted with a touch of skepticism, he looked…eager.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Ilya said slowly. When he turned back to Yuna, he saw the same warmth on her cheeks as he had noticed on Shane's. David stood beside her, barely concealing a smile, and Olesya was crouched behind Yuna, struggling to contain her glee. On skates, there was nothing Ilya could do but relent when Shane suddenly pulled him into his side and flashed a cheesy, triumphant smile. Not the one he reserved for pictures, either. It was real. 

“One more,” Shane called out, skating backward a few inches to put a foot of distance between them. Ilya frowned, confused.

“What are you—” he began, but Shane was digging into his pocket with a quick hand, returning it to his chest with a closed fist. His chest, which was noticeably rising and falling at a tempo that caught Ilya's attention. He was holding something. Ilya’s eyebrows drew together. “What is this, lyubov?”

Olesya’s high-pitched voice rang across the canal. “Marry him, papochka!”

Marry? Ilya blinked, following her gaze to Shane’s hand, which was now stretched out between them. When the fingers unfurled, a thick silver ring gleamed in his palm. A ring.

Shane glanced at Olesya. “Kind of took my line, Olya.”

She flushed, returning to hiding behind Yuna, who had her hand pressed to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Sorry! You’re so slow!”

“Shane,” Ilya finally managed, “you are proposing?”

“I mean,” Shane said, lips curling into a nervous smile, “trying. Just…give me a second, alright?”

Ilya felt gravity waver beneath his skates. He absently wondered if Shane had considered the logistics of proposing on ice.

“Ilya,” Shane began, and Ilya would not cry. This was corny, public, and…fuck, it was kind of perfect. On the ice, where it had all begun, with family at their sides, twinkling Christmas lights reflecting off the canal walls, a faint dusting of snow falling around them. Shane’s voice was soft, low, and sure. “The day Olya got her papers, you told me you’d be my husband one day. Is that…do you still want that?”

He finally realized what Ilya had whispered to him that day, in Russian. How long had he known?

“You are stealing my plan, Hollander?” Ilya said, voice cracking despite his attempt to play it cooler than he felt.

Shane shrugged. “It was a good plan,” he murmured, then added, “Well? You’re not going to make me ask again, are you?”

Ilya could not respond. For once, he was rendered absolutely speechless. Something that Shane would probably brag about later. With his heart lodged in his throat, he lunged forward, pulling Shane against him. Their lips met in a long, gentle kiss, the warmth of their mouths stark against the winter air. Distantly, he heard David whistle low, Yuna’s quiet, happy sob, and Olesya’s triumphant squeal. Wishing for privacy so he could fully express his gratitude, he pulled back before the fire in his core became unbearable to resist.

“I will always want to be yours, Shane.”

They shared a moment, foreheads pressed together. They didn’t need to say anything else. It was already written into a decade-and-a-half of history.

“Let me help,” Shane finally said, nervous, slipping Ilya’s glove off and guiding the ring onto his finger. Both their hands trembled, and it was a miracle they didn’t lose the ring on the ice first. The sight of it on his hand was shocking and yet, it fel right, felt inevitable. As if it had always belonged there, or maybe the idea of it always had been. After all, it was always going to be Shane Hollander. When he lifted his gaze, Shane’s reverence enveloped him, like even though he'd personally chosen the ring and slipped it onto his finger, he could barely believe it himself.

Shane looked as shy as he did in Saskatchewan, all those years ago, when he murmured, "It looks good."

“Good?” Ilya echoed. “It is everything. But...you are sure? You will be stuck with me forever. Even after we retire and become boring old people, like Hunter.”

“I got a head start on the boring thing, didn’t I?” Shane grinned, and Ilya smiled back. He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop. “I can’t wait to be boring with you, Rozanov.”

Chapter End Notes

thank you so much to everyone who has commented and read my story ! it was so fun to bring olesya to life and writing them in these roles. + please know i really appreciated all of your kind words and for sticking through it to the end. <3

 

update! the wonderful maevedarcy has published a companion fic about the first time Yuna meets Olesya! If you enjoyed this story, I highly recommend giving it a read: I'd Share A Life (And You'd Share A Life) (Yuna meets Olesya Remix) by maevedarcy

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

wow. i honestly don’t even have words for how much all the love you’ve shared for this fic means to me. i did not expect this level of engagement at all, and it makes my heart so full that you’ve enjoyed it! from the bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone who’s taken the time to read, and if you left a comment, please know that i’ve probably read it like a dozen times already.
to try and say thank you in a tiny way, i wrote this little bonus chapter.

BONUS CHAPTER: Olesya’s Seventh Birthday

Shane

It was the loudest their house had ever been, which was saying something considering they’d hosted the entire Ottawa Centaurs roster for a barbecue the month prior. Hockey players were loud by nature, but thirty seven-year-olds threatened to shatter the laws of sound.

Every room he stepped into, every corner he turned, Shane risked tripping over a giggling, sugar-high child. Where there weren’t kids, there were stray balloons, abandoned crafts, candy wrappers, and gift bags. Decorations hung from the walls and ceilings, Encanto-themed, as Olesya had requested earlier that month. The movie, which they’d watched no fewer than a hundred times since its release, looped in the living room, where he’d expected to find Ilya’s niece.

But when his gaze scanned the room, searching for golden curls and a frilly lavender dress, Olesya was nowhere in sight. 

Missing.

A dramatic way to phrase it, maybe. But if she wasn’t here, and she wasn’t in the kitchen picking at the leftover cake, and she wasn’t in the backyard inside the bounce tent she’d been counting down to all week, then he couldn’t think of a better word for it.

With a frown tugging at his mouth and an internal battle waging war against rational thought, Shane left the chaos behind and headed toward the dining room, where he’d last seen Ilya at the cupcake-decorating station he quietly suspected his boyfriend was enjoying more than the children.

There was an almost comical focus etched across Ilya’s face as he hunched over a cupcake, icing tube squeezed between his long fingers. He murmured something about his being “much prettier” to the red-haired boy at his side, blue sugar staining his fingertips and a smear of frosting on his shirt he would probably have to apologize to someone’s parents for later.

“Hey,” Shane said, trying to keep the nervous wobble out of his voice as he came up behind him and instinctively rested a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t lean down to press a kiss to his cheek, even though his body objected to the absence of it like a skipped step in his routine. Instead, his fingers tightened briefly over the muscle beneath his palm.

Ilya glanced up, offering him a soft, relaxed smile before gesturing proudly to his cupcake. “Where is Olesya? I have been waiting for her to see how much better mine is than hers.”

“Nice,” Shane grinned, because Ilya couldn’t help teasing, and Shane was grateful he didn’t try. It was how Ilya loved best, and he did love her. Like she was a piece of his soul that had broken loose, something he kept close so they both stayed whole.

On the days they were forced to be apart, Ilya pretended it didn’t affect him. Played it cool, like leaving Olesya with the nanny wasn’t quietly tearing him apart. But Shane had never been fooled. The way Ilya would stare at his phone screen for a full minute before unlocking it, lost in the picture of Olesya and Shane on the bench at the top of a ferris wheel. The third call he’d make to the nanny when he thought Shane was asleep, just to make sure Olesya was tucked in. The faded bracelet she’d made him years ago, still wrapped around his wrist, threads worn thin. He’d run his thumb over it on those nights like he needed proof she was safe and happy and home.

So it wasn’t a surprise that Ilya’s entire body went rigid when Shane added, “I actually don’t know. I’ve been looking for her for, like, ten minutes. I wanted to give her our gift. You know. Away from all the kids. But…”

Ilya set the cupcake down carefully. “You checked Encanto?”

“Obviously,” Shane replied. “And the bouncy house. And the kitchen.”

The chair squeaked against the stone tile as Ilya shot up from the table, his overgrown curls casting shadows across his face as he studied Shane, like he was hoping he could borrow some composure. Unfortunately for Ilya, Shane had lost his minutes ago.

“Okay,” Ilya said on a breath, resolve settling over his features. “Bedroom, then.”

“We told the kids not to go upstairs,” Shane said, though he supposed that didn’t include Olesya. He still couldn’t figure out why she’d be hiding away in her room when the party was everywhere else. “Yeah, alright. Do you want to go check, or—”

“Come with?” Ilya asked, a hint of nerves in his voice, gesturing vaguely toward another room. “Yuna is around here somewhere, yes? Will make sure they do not go too crazy.”

Shane gave a small nod and glanced nervously around the party, hoping his mom hadn’t strayed far, before turning to follow Ilya through the dining room. At the base of the stairs, where it was slightly quieter, he grabbed Ilya’s hands, weaving their fingers together. Their relationship wasn’t a secret anymore, most of the world had figured it out long before they’d bothered to announce it officially. It was no one’s business but their own. The media could take pictures on a rare night out, or at the zoo with Olesya, or when they shared a wide smile after a win. It didn’t matter anymore.

With that said, they had agreed to keep public displays of affection in front of the kids to a minimum. For decency’s sake.

A warmth bloomed behind Shane’s chest when Ilya squeezed his hand in return. “Is a good birthday party so far.”

It was the first one they’d been able to host together. Olesya’s birthday often collided with the end of the playoffs, leaving Shane to wish her a happy birthday over the phone, or sneak in after the day had ended to press a soft kiss to her sleeping cheek beneath her thick, flowery comforter.

But they were on the same team this year, and while they’d made a notable improvement on the team, it hadn’t been enough to get them a cup. A disappointment, but softened by the realization that for the first time, they could celebrate Olesya’s birthday together. So maybe he’d gone a little overboard. Whatever.

“You think?” Shane asked, following Ilya up the stairs. “It looked like Olya was having fun earlier. Everyone loves her.”

“Of course they do. She is Rozanov. We are very charming,” Ilya said, stopping at the final step to turn to Shane. 

He reached up, running a gentle palm over Shane’s cheek, as if he somehow knew Shane needed the comfort. Ilya had always been able to read him like a book, even before he had the power to do anything about it. He had always known what Shane needed, whether it was a crass joke to break the tension or a clear, simple instruction when Shane’s mind was spinning and grasping for something he could hold onto. That sixth-sense had grown sharper since they’d fully leaned into to one another, and to Olesya, and to the little family they’d built despite the dozens of battles they’d fought to get this far. It was always there, in the subtle ways, like when Shane came home to find ginger ale over ice waiting on the counter, or his clothes folded exactly as he liked in their shared closet or the alarm set ten minutes later because Ilya had sensed he needed just a little extra time tucked against his bare chest.

Ilya knew him. 

He placed his hand over Ilya’s, hoping it said the thank you that was stuck to his tongue.

As they turned down the quiet hall, Shane’s eyebrows tugged inward. “Her door’s closed.”

They never closed doors, not even at bedtime. Olesya had never grown fond of the dark, or of being far from Shane and Ilya. She liked knowing that if she had a bad dream, she could peek out and see their room across the hall.

Ilya took the lead, rapping his knuckles gently against the door. “Olya? Are you inside?”

When no answer came, Shane leaned over Ilya’s shoulder. “Can we come in, Olya?”

Instinct urged him to burst through the door, but they both knew the importance of privacy all too well, and Shane wasn’t about to make her feel like she had none, even at freshly seven years old.

To his immediate relief, muffled footsteps came from inside. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until the knob turned, silently welcoming them in.

“Olya,” Ilya spoke her name through a gasp, concern in his voice that made Shane’s chest ache. Because Olesya’s eyes were full of watery tears, her bottom lip trembling, her dress wrinkled from having been curled up on the bed. They both crouched at the same time, and Shane was grateful Ilya spoke first, because he wasn’t sure he could force a word past his own swollen throat.

“What is wrong, malyshka?” Ilya whispered, reaching out and wrapping a hand around her back, pulling her closer. The edge of his accent was softer now, like honey sliding from a spoon.

Then Shane noticed her other hand pressed against her side, fingers clutching something. A photo. Small, torn at the edges, faded in color.

Through a blubbery half-sob, Olesya lifted it. “Did they know it was my birthday today, papa? They are watching from sky?”

It was an old photo of Alexei and his wife. Her mother in a hospital bed, her father standing beside her. In her arms was a blanket-wrapped bundle, Olesya’s first breath captured on film. The older she grew, the more questions she had about them. Though most had faded from memory, Ilya had done his best to keep their memory alive, sharing stories about her father. The ones that weren’t angry or bloody, anyway. Shane had been surprised to hear them, little glimpses of Alexei’s kindness: protecting Ilya at the bus stop, or shaving for the first time with cuts on his chin.

Now Ilya was speechless. Or maybe his voice had been stolen by grief and helplessness. Either way, Olesya looked up at them with wide hazel eyes, trembling in her little fingers as she waited for a response. 

Shane acted on instinct, placing a hand over her curls and running his thumb in gentle circles. “Of course, Olya. Your mama and papa are very proud of you. They can see how smart, and kind, and clever you are.”

A small noise rolled from Ilya’s throat, and he leaned into Shane, jaw tight, lips pressed into a line.

Her voice grew smaller as she glanced down at the photo. “Are they lonely?”

“No,” Shane shook his head, desperately keeping his own emotions at bay, because Ilya was shaking against him and they couldn’t both afford to break. “No, Olya. They have each other. Just like we have each other.”

Shane pressed two fingers to Olya’s chest. “And they are here, too. With you, all the time. You can talk to them whenever you want. They’re always listening.”

“Even now?”

“Sure,” Shane nodded. “Do you want to? Talk to them?”

“Maybe, yes,” Olya murmured, hesitant, then stepped back to stare at the photo, as if finding the courage to speak.

“She’s okay,” Shane whispered to Ilya, whose hand ran softly along Shane’s spine. “Are you okay?”

A foolish question, probably. Ilya inhaled through his nose, eyes tight shut.

In her tiny purple gown, Olesya murmured to the photo. “Hello. Papa says you can hear me. Is that true?” A long pause. “You cannot answer me from sky. It’s okay. I know Papa would not lie.”

Ilya’s forehead fell against Shane’s shoulder, and Shane wove his fingers into Ilya’s curls. They watched as Olesya rested against her four-poster bed, deep in thought that felt far too pensive for a seven-year-old. Grief, Shane supposed, made adults of all of us.

“I am seven today. I will go into second grade after summer,” Olesya paused, curling a finger around a lock of hair, a gesture she always made when nervous. “Ya boyus novoy uchitelnitsy. A vdrug ya zabudu slova? Nadeyus, ona ne budet serdit'sya.”

Not fluent in Russian yet, but Shane understood enough to piece it together. That she was afraid of meeting her new teacher, worried she might forget words, afraid she’d get in trouble for it. They’d had no choice but to enroll her in an English-speaking school, their options limited in the new neighborhood they’d settled into. For a brief moment, guilt pressed on his chest, and he found himself considering how bad homeschooling would be. What did hockey matter if she needed him?

But then she added, “but I am going to be brave, like papochka always says.”

Against his shoulder, Shane felt the shape of Ilya’s smile. A hand came around his thigh, holding him close. 

“Maybe since you cannot talk to me,” Olesya’s voice steadied, “you can show me you are watching in a special way? You are in the sky, right? Maybe it can rain tomorrow, then. And… I will know you are really there.”

Ilya muttered against Shane’s shoulder, “We can bribe the weather man, yes?”

A laugh rumbled in Shane’s chest as he pressed his nose into Ilya’s curls. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“We can talk again soon, okay?” Olesya ran her finger over the photo, then, with her chin held a little higher and her hazel eyes blessedly dry, set it on her mattress and sprinted across the room, throwing herself against Shane’s chest.

A burst of air left his lungs in a whoosh as he wrapped his arms around her, his heart swelling behind his ribs when Ilya’s came up around both of them. Tight and warm and crushing. If Olesya’s mother was watching, Shane hoped she could see how loved and cherished her daughter was, find some comfort in the knowledge that she would never spend a day feeling anything less than perfect.

“You are going to ruin my dress, papochka,” she whined when Ilya scooped her up into his arms a moment later, spinning her around before pressing a wet, sloppy kiss to her cheek. “Yuck!”

Ilya bared his teeth in a grin, nuzzling his fist into her curls. “I cannot help it! You are seven now, and soon you’ll be sixteen, and you will forget all about your papa and papochka!”

“No, I won’t,” she giggled, her earlier grief forgotten for the moment.

Shane stood quietly, leaning against the door, happy just to soak it in and memorize it, because Ilya was right. Everyone had warned him these days would fly by far too fast. Even now, Olesya’s arrival on Ilya’s doorstep sometimes felt like yesterday, despite how far they’d come, how many milestones she’d crossed, and how much deeper Shane had fallen in love with Ilya, and the family they’d built. Fear had been replaced with hope, slowly, over time, until one day he’d woken up and realized he wasn’t afraid at all.

Ilya set her back down with notable reluctance. “You ready for the party now?”

She nodded eagerly, and Shane didn’t even have the chance to fix her messy curls before she was sprinting from the room, as if tiny rockets had been strapped to her heels. The sound of her barreling down the stairs faded, leaving Ilya staring at the open door, as if waiting for her to return.

With a pinch of nerves gripping his composure, Shane took a step toward his boyfriend. “Sorry if I overstepped—”

“No,” Ilya cut him off, closing the distance before Shane could react. Firm hands wrapped around his hips, tugging him close, pressing him back against the wall. He leaned in, and their lips met in a breathless kiss. Shane’s body went lax at the pressure, the insistence, as Ilya’s hand rose to cup his neck, guiding him.

“You were perfect,” Ilya murmured against Shane’s mouth. “I… I was terrible. I could not think. To see her like that—”

“Sucked,” Shane finished, lacking eloquence, but really, was there a better word?

Ilya nodded weakly, nuzzling Shane’s cheek, murmuring into his skin. “Yes. Sucked.”

“But you’re brave,” Shane teased, stealing Ilya's line and earning a pinch to his sides. “It’ll get easier. I think.”

“I hope,” Ilya said, pulling back just enough to hold Shane’s warm gaze. “I love you.”

“So much,” Shane echoed, reaching down to weave his fingers through Ilya’s, wishing there were some skin-safe superglue to keep them together forever. “Ready?”

And maybe Ilya wasn’t quite ready, but that was alright, because they’d do it together.

Ilya 

The house was thoroughly destroyed.

He walked through the carnage with a glass of vodka in hand, like he was picking his way through the aftermath of a battle, over the corpses of forgotten crafts and spilled drinks. He made his way to the couch, where Shane was sprawled out with his own drink, a generous pour of red wine, which they both agreed was well-deserved after a party that could have rivaled a Stanley Cup celebration.

“Please turn it off,” Shane muttered. Ilya huffed a laugh and grabbed the remote from the coffee table, quickly muting Encanto. The music had been catchy enough, but now it haunted him, like a Disney ghost lingering in the corners of his mind.

He lifted Shane’s legs onto his lap, letting them settle over his thighs. Wrapping his fingers around a foot, he pressed into the base of Shane’s sole.

“God,” Shane moaned low. The sound alone was enough to spark something in Ilya, making him feel suddenly much less tired. “That feels good.”

Spurred on by the way Shane’s eyes fluttered closed and his lips parted, Ilya dug his fingers in deeper, rolling them against the knot. “Who knew Shane Hollander could throw such a good party?”

“Yeah, for kids,” Shane laughed. “Put me in charge of adult entertainment and everyone’s going to have a terrible time.”

“I do not know,” Ilya murmured, tipping back the vodka against his lips with his free hand before adding, “I can think of one adult you entertain very well.”

A blush crept over Shane’s cheeks as he pried open an eye, narrowing it at Ilya. “Don’t start.”

“Why not?” Ilya ran his hand over Shane’s ankle, beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants, dragging his fingertips slowly upward. “You do not have energy to entertain any more tonight?”

“Mph,” Shane made a non-committal noise that Ilya latched onto, leaning over and letting his hand roam higher, squeezing gently against the inside of his boyfriend’s thigh.

“Maybe I will do all the work, yes?” Ilya set his glass down, abandoning teasing in favor of the full package. He climbed over Shane until they were lengthwise on the plush couch, knees on either side of Shane’s hips, taking Shane’s chin between his fingers and dipping down for a clumsy, needy kiss. “You can sit back, relax, drink wine…”

“The house is a mess,” Shane argued, but it lacked conviction when Ilya’s tongue dragged over the length of his neck, teeth catching at the bottom of his ear. The twitch of solid length beneath Ilya gave him some indication that he hadn’t entirely lost the battle.

“And so what? We’ll make Olesya clean tomorrow. Is what kids are for,” Ilya said, earning a glare from Shane. “What? She’s seven now. Old enough for chores.”

“Shut up,” Shane muttered, though Ilya saw the smile tugging at his lips despite the effort to hide it.

“Problem for later,” Ilya said more earnestly. Honestly, he’d hire a whole team of cleaners if it would make Shane happy. Before he could object again, Ilya was sitting back, lifting Shane’s shirt enough to run his fingers over the sculpted muscle there, across the dips of his abs, the hardened breadth of his chest. When he ran a nipple between his fingers, Shane groaned.

“This is a problem for now,” he murmured, breathless.

“Who said I have a problem?” Shane teased, his voice low.

“Not you. Me.” Ilya dropped forward, covering Shane’s chest with his own, letting his arousal ride against Shane’s core. “See? Big problem.”

“Mm,” Shane hummed through a soft smile. “That is a problem.”

“So we’ll need to deal with this first, I think.” Ilya caught Shane’s parted lips in another kiss, diving his tongue deeper, greedily taking anything his boyfriend would give him. Within a second, he remembered that Shane would give him everything and more. Shane’s hunger, though tired now, rivaled his own on the best day. More subtle to most, perhaps, because Ilya was blunt, crass, and wore his libido on his sleeve. But Shane’s was a beast of its own, and Ilya loved to draw it out, happy to let it devour him whole.

“Here?” Shane mumbled against Ilya’s lips, his own hands now roaming beneath Ilya’s shirt, slowly, subtly trying to peel it off.

“Yes,” Ilya replied through a playful smile, lifting his shirt off in one smooth motion. Shane’s eyes widened, as if it were the first time he’d seen Ilya’s bare chest, and yet why did it make his heart skip a beat to know that years hadn’t dulled his constant reverence?

With need clouding his thoughts, Ilya maneuvered to the other end of the couch, glad to see Shane was done with arguments as he turned and crawled onto Ilya’s lap instead. The compliment rolled off his lips, soft and sincere. “So pretty.”

“You are.” Shane reached down to peel his own shirt off, leaning back into another kiss, this one punctuated by soft moans, as he rolled his hips against Ilya’s lap with insistence. His pace was quick, uneven, desperate, like he was chasing something. 

“I missed you,” Shane murmured, his voice fractured and raw.

And it probably sounded silly, because they’d been together all day, but Ilya gripped Shane’s hips, pulling him down for more friction, groaning his reply, “Next time, plan shorter party.”

Stifled moans echoed through the living room as Shane used Ilya’s lap like a toy, rutting until he could hardly contain himself, and Ilya was happy to oblige, though his own self-control was wearing thin.

“Over the side,” he ordered, voice hoarse and low. Shane’s eyes widened slightly but he obeyed, slipping off Ilya’s lap without protest. He crossed the room to close the French double doors that led into the kitchen before returning, holding Ilya’s heavy gaze as he stepped out of his sweatpants.

“Good,” Ilya purred, nodding to the arm of the couch, conveniently at waist height.

Watching, breath caught somewhere between his ribs, as Shane obeyed, pressing the front of his legs to the side of the couch, folding himself slowly, torturously, over the edge.

Ilya knew he wouldn’t last long like this. He’d need to reach his peak with Shane’s eyes glued to his, lips together, breath mingling, warmth pressed against him.

Shane’s eyes were wide, expectant, a little wild, and Ilya’s core revved forward, tracing every inch of Shane’s figure with his fingertips, greedily squeezing his favorite parts. Bringing his fingers to Shane’s mouth, he felt his stomach tumble recklessly as Shane sucked until his cheeks hollowed, leaving behind a sheen Ilya used to his advantage.

Words that existed somewhere outside any known language tumbled clumsily off Shane’s tongue as Ilya took his time, breaking him apart. His own knees weakened under the self-restraint it took to wait, to make sure his boyfriend was practically crying out before he took the final step, lining his hips exactly where they needed to be.

Pushing in, slowly, inch by inch, Ilya used one palm to cover Shane’s mouth, because he had a tendency to scream out in raw bliss when filled entirely, and bit back his own pleasure as Shane moved into him, insatiable, wanting more.

“Slow, lyubimiy,” Ilya ordered through a hoarse escape of breath, but it was futile. Shane was lost to it: the sensation, the escape, the drugging rapture.

With his fist wrapped around Shane, Ilya pressed his other hand against Shane’s stomach, guiding him up, desperate to kiss him, to feel his tongue against his teeth, the vibration of his whimpered moans against his lips.

“Oh,” Shane gasped at the new angle, wrapping his arms behind his head and around Ilya’s neck for balance. Ilya used his hips to move into Shane, holding him in place as he fell into a plane somewhere outside reality, until heat bloomed over every inch of his body, and he could focus only on the building roar of release.

“Please, Ilya. More.”

It was usually Ilya who gave the commands, but he always loved it when Shane begged for it.

They dissolved into a feral pace, into one another, until Shane’s features fractured, and Ilya held his chin in place, swallowing down every stifled cry and muffled moan, until his own climax spilled over and they toppled forward, over the couch, breathless and feverish.

“Fuck,” Ilya cursed, still twitching from the aftereffects, and Shane melted beneath him, nodding his agreement into the cushion.

“Come here,” Ilya murmured, wrapping an arm around Shane and guiding him back onto the couch. He showered him in soft, quiet affection, dragging a blanket over them both as they collapsed into a knot of limbs. “We’ll shower in a few minutes, okay?”

Exhaustion washed over Shane with rapid effect; his eyes fluttered closed, his body languid in the way Ilya only saw it when he’d given up trying to stay awake. Ilya traced the shape of his nose and the edge of his jaw with a fingertip, memorizing the soft lines.

“You weren’t terrible,” Shane said quietly, catching Ilya off guard. His eyes drifted open, soft around the edges, finding Ilya across the short distance between them. “Earlier… I mean, with Olesya.”

Hadn’t he been, though? His body had shut down like his brain, paralysed by the weight of grief he’d carried as a child. Olesya, whom he would do anything to protect, had been hurting, confused, grieving, and he hadn’t found the right words. He hadn’t found any words at all. He’d crawled back into a younger version of himself, less hardened, unprepared for a world that didn’t include his mother.

Grief had been a living, breathing thing, and he had spent his childhood bargaining with the universe to bring her back, wishing for every big moment, every small one, that Irina could see him. Wondering if she was proud.

To think Olesya might feel even a fraction of that had sent Ilya’s mind spiraling. There wasn’t enough comfort in the world to soothe such an ache.

But Shane had found the words for him, simple and kind, to wash away Olesya's worry, to give her something tangible to hold onto when Ilya had faltered. Another reminder that he couldn't have done any of this without him. From the very first day, Shane had been there, filling in the gaps. From the days before Olesya, when Ilya hadn't even known what he'd been missing, and Shane had found a way to offer it to him, anyway. Stealing the loneliness that had followed him from Russia, erasing the worry that Ilya would never be enough to make someone stay. 

“I should tell her, I think,” Ilya said, angling into Shane, leaning in not just for warmth but for something stable, that he could rely on. It'd taken a long time to get to a point where he'd felt like anyone was safe enough to rely upon. “About Irina. Maybe it will make her feel less alone.”

Shane’s lips lifted in a small smile. “I think she’d like that.”

“Is a sad story, to tell a little girl, no?”

“Maybe, but Olya is…” Shane searched for the right words. “She’s strong. Smart. And she loves you.”

“And you,” Ilya replied without hesitation. He wouldn’t let Shane think for even a moment that Olesya was any less his family, regardless of genetics or legality. That she didn’t depend on him just as much as on Ilya. Today, maybe she’d needed him a little more than Ilya. And maybe Ilya had, too.

For a long moment, they stayed like that. Shane leaned his forehead against Ilya’s chest, feeling the steady beat beneath his palm, and Ilya pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Shane’s curls, a silent vow that he hoped his boyfriend understood. 

Of course he did. They’d spent too many years speaking without words that it was practically it’s own language now. But just in case, Ilya whispered, “I am very lucky.” 

And maybe his nature had begun to rub off on Shane after all this time because he shrugged and murmured, “Don’t forget it, Rozanov.”