Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Alexei Rozanov's Daughter, Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike's Children

Additional Tags:

Accidental Baby Acquisition, lol, Well - Freeform, more like, Purposeful Baby Acquisition, as in i purposefully killed alexei, Kid Fic, Mutual Pining, Pining, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Fluff, Smut, the neverending trials of parenthood, DILF Ilya Rozanov, shane hollander: not the step dad, but the dad who stepped up

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-15 Completed: 2026-07-30 Words: 140,570 Chapters: 7/7

who will love a little sparrow

Summary

Spring of 2016: Ilya loses a father.

Summer of 2016: Ilya loses a brother.

Fall of 2016: Ilya gains a daughter, a lover, and a friend.

Or: another "what if Ilya gained custody of his niece" fic.

Notes

“Levin, gazing at this tiny piteous being, vainly searched his soul for some indications of paternal feeling. He felt nothing for it but repulsion. But when it was stripped and he caught a glimpse of thin, little arms and legs saffron-colored, but with fingers and toes and even with thumbs distinguishable from the rest; and when he saw how, as though they were soft springs, [the midwife] bent those little arms which stuck up, and encased them in their linen garments, he was so filled with pity for that being, and so alarmed lest she hurt it, that he tried to restrain her hand."

- (Levin is meeting his son for the first time after Kitty has given birth in Chapter 15 of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy)

Chapter 1: "not i" said the oak tree

Chapter Notes

~ Spring, 2016 ~

Shane’s halfway out of his practice jersey when J.J. breaks the news.

“Holy shit,” he announces, dropping the “h” and elongating the “i.” “Boston got absolutely slaughtered last night!”

He’s staring down at his phone, wearing a wide grin as he thumbs through whatever article he’s got pulled up.

“Says here Rozanov wasn’t on the roster. Speculation—” His brow furrows as he scrolls down further, and Shane tries very hard to school his expression into something neutral. But he’s paused in disrobing, ear tilted slightly to hear everything J.J. has to say.

“Ah! Here. Speculation that he’s flown back to Russia. Some sort of family emergency.”

Nobody appears to be that invested in the news, turning back to their cubbies once J.J.’s dished out all the details he can fish from the article, but Shane’s heart is still in his throat. He ignores Hayden’s curious look, grabbing his phone from the top of the cubby and sitting down on the locker room bench. He finds Lily’s name quickly, sending a quick, “Hey, is everything okay?” He waits a minute, then two, then gives up on the prospect of receiving a reply anytime soon, unlacing his skates just to give his hands something to do. He takes as much time as he can in getting undressed, hesitant to shower, lest he get a reply in the short time it takes him to rinse sweat off his body, but he knows himself. Knows he’ll feel gross the entire way home.

His fear had been unwarranted. No text waits for him when he exits the shower, nor does he receive a reply on the drive back to his apartment, nor does it come while he makes himself dinner. He lies in bed, ignoring his book to scroll the news, “Ilya Rozanov” being the first word to pop up in his Google recommendations when he tries to find any information as to why Rozanov dropped last night’s game. He’d feel embarrassed if he wasn’t so worried. Eventually, he falls asleep with his phone tucked beneath his pillow and tries not to dwell on the familiarity of the silence.

***

Days pass, and Shane hears nothing. The only news to pop up comes from a TMZ article: a blurry photo of Rozanov somewhere in Moscow, confirming that he has, in fact, left for Russia. Shane is very proud of himself for not sending a follow-up text, frequently reminding himself of that time in Sochi: unpleasant, lonely. He won’t make the same mistake again.

Except when he does. When Boston plays three days later, Rozanov is still not in the lineup. Shane wakes up early the next morning, checking the time in Moscow, checking the weather, wondering what Rozanov is doing right now, what’s important enough to have dragged him away from two games. He runs his hands through his hair, bites at the tip of his tongue, then sends a follow-up text because he’s weak and worried.

Jane: I heard you went back to Russia.

He sends it, pauses, then follows up with:

Jane: I hope you’re okay.

Not, “Are you okay?” Phrased as a statement, not a question. That way, if Shane doesn’t receive a reply, his feelings won’t get hurt.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

He sets his phone face-down on the counter and starts prepping a smoothie. The sound of the blender drowns out all other ambient noise, so he misses the soft ping resounding from his little phone speaker. He pours his smoothie into a glass, only to nearly drop it when he picks up his phone and sees the text notification from Lily.

Lily: I’ve been better.

Shane watches the three dots pop up, disappear, pop up again, but no other message comes in. He takes a large swig of his smoothie, then leans his elbows against the counter, both thumbs at the ready. But what to say? Is this an invitation to prod? Or will Shane’s curiosity and worry just frustrate Rozanov? He decides to play it safe.

Jane: Saw your team’s hard loss the other night. Sorry about that.

The reply is instant.

Lily: no you’re not.

Shane smiles despite himself, grabbing his glass and moving to the couch. He settles down on the far corner cushion, hugging one of the couch pillows to his chest.

Jane: no, I’m not.

He pauses, thumbing at his lower lip, then:

Jane: how much longer you out?

He manages to get a few more sips of smoothie in before the reply comes through.

Lily: should be back by end of the week.

Hmm, okay. So, maybe it wasn’t that serious? He gets a second text.

Lily: would not want to miss the chance to beat you to the playoffs.

Shane grins so wide he knows it’s showing teeth. He shoots off an “in your dreams” before rising to get ready for the day. They text here and there throughout the day, but the conversation eventually teeters off once Shane arrives for afternoon practice. It’s not until late in the evening that he gets another text from “Lily.”

Lily: what are you doing right now?

Shane glances down at the biography spread open across his lap. He feels foolishly embarrassed for having cracked open the book at eight p.m., but it’s not like he had anything better to do, and the Goodreads reviews had really hyped it up…

Jane: not much

Jane: why

A loading circle pops up at the bottom of the screen for a solid three seconds before the picture loads. Shane nearly jumps out of his duvet. It’s Rozanov, full frontal. He’s standing in front of a mirror, all but his face showing, deep shadows thrown across his body. He’s only wearing his underwear, the thin fabric doing some serious heavy lifting in the front (he’s obviously hard). Shane can count each individual abdominal muscle, zooming into them with thumb and forefinger, a totally normal and not at all creepy thing to do when one’s… something sends them a thirst trap. A text notification pops up beneath the photo.

Lily: now you

Shane takes a deep breath, shifting in his bed as he feels his blood begin to travel south.

Jane: this is dangerous

He waits with bated breath, bookmarking the page he’s on in his biography and laying the book down on top of the bedside table.

Lily: I’ll delete it. promise.

Shane stares down at his duvet, fingers picking at the edge of it the way a toddler pushes spinach around on their dinner plate.

Lily: please? has been a long day

And— well— who’s Shane to deny him this? He did say he’d delete it. He’s happy to be talking to Rozanov in the first place, expecting to have been given the Sochi treatment and frozen out until next season. This— this is not nothing.

Jane: fine. okay, one sec

He takes off his sleep shirt, then places another pillow on top of his own, leaning back slightly against the headboard. He thumbs at the camera app on his phone and flips it to the selfie option, positioning his body so the lamplight throws shadows over his torso in a flattering manner. Last minute, without thinking too much on the decision, he pushes the phone down further, making sure to capture the very prominent bulge of his boxers. He double-checks that the photo cuts off at his neck, then sends it.

He doesn’t get a reply for two minutes. He starts to feel awkward, exposed, his erection flagging a bit. He’s just about to pull the duvet back up over his hips when he finally gets a response.

Lily: are those glasses on your nightstand?

Confused, Shane glances over at his nightstand, like he didn’t already know what was waiting for him there.

Jane: um. Yeah, they’re my reading glasses. why?

Lily: new pic. glasses on.

Shane frowns.

Jane: I’m not sending you a picture of my face.

Rozanov reacts with a teary-eyed emoji. He follows with:

Lily: have I mentioned it has been terribly long day?

Shane bites his bottom lip, already knowing he’ll succumb to Rozanov’s wishes. Still, he’ll wait it out a bit longer, let himself pretend he’s got some iota of power here. He doesn’t have to wait long.

Lily: I will delete picture. promise.

Sent with an angel emoji.

Shane rolls his eyes, but relents, unfolding his glasses and placing them on the bridge of his nose. He flips back to the camera, trying hard not to flinch at the sight of his face staring back at him through the phone screen. He’s not sure if he should smile, knowing his fake one often veers into the “slightly constipated” territory. He settles for just relaxing the muscles of his face, staring down at the phone camera with slightly hooded lids. He doesn’t give himself any time to scrutinize the photo before sending it. The response is immediate.

Lily: Fuck

Shane smiles, shuffling under the covers and curling in on his side. He hugs his pillow to his chest, watching the dots at the bottom of the text screen wiggle up and down with Rozanov’s response.

Lily: I am so fucking hard right now

Lily: are you?

Shane smiles, typing back quickly:

Jane: maybe

Jane: you have more material to work with than me, so..

Jane: feels a little imbalanced

He only has to wait another minute or so before the loading circle pops up. Then—

It’s not what he’d been expecting, something sexy and a little scandalous. Rozanov smirking at him with his dick in his hand. Or maybe frowning at him, like he felt inconvenienced by the simple act of taking a selfie. The picture is neither of these things. Instead, he’s lying on his side, cheek cradled by his own hands, both of which are pressed heavily against a pillow. He’s shirtless, but the sheets are pulled up to his shoulders, tucked around his neck. His hair is frizzy, curls dancing around in a disordered manner, a look Rozanov only sports post-shower if he forgets to dry his hair properly. Shane’s only seen it twice, and he finds the childlike floofing of his hair incredibly endearing.

That’s where the charm of the photo ends, though. Rozanov’s face is pale. Maybe it’s the lighting, but Shane doubts it. The off-screen lamp appears to be using a warm bulb, if the slightly yellowish tinge of the photo is anything to go by. Dark circles rest beneath his eyes, making his face look slightly swollen and puffy. His cheeks are sallow, lips a bit chapped. Shane wonders if he’s cold, wrapped up in thin sheets within the austere atmosphere of his childhood home. Shane doesn’t know much about Rozanov’s home back in Russia, but he knows the other man generally prefers not to talk about it. He figures he must have his reasons. He once googled Rozanov’s father, finding from brief internet articles that he’s some sort of Russian businessman. A nebulous title, but, then again, it’s Russia. Not the most forthcoming nation when it comes to information about its citizens.

Shane’s thumb hovers over his keyboard.

Jane: are you okay?

Delete.

Jane: you look a little.. sad.

Delete.

Jane: you look so cold
Jane: I wish I was there with you.

Delete, delete.

Shane buries his face in his pillow, groaning at his own incompetence. He’s saved from having to respond when he receives a follow-up text.

Lily: are you hard right now?

He’s not, but he doesn’t know how to tell Rozanov that without deeply offending him. How does one tell their fuckbuddy, “Your sad selfie made me lose my boner, and now I want to maybe hold you instead of jacking off?” They don’t. Or, at least, Shane doesn’t. So he lies. He says he’s so hard right now, lets Rozanov follow up with some nonsense about sucking him off. In any other world, at any other time, said nonsense would have Shane blowing his load in under three minutes. But, right now, he walks Rozanov through his one-man show, wondering if he’s even getting off to this. He doesn’t look like he’s slept in three days. Shane checks out a bit after Rozanov sends a third “I’m so close” text, so much so that he almost misses the small, sentimental sentence nestled between “I’m so hard for you” and “can’t wait to fuck your perfect little mouth.”

I miss those pretty freckles of yours. Want to lick them

Which— okay, so the last sentence sort of leeches the text of most of its sentiment. But, still, those first few words:

I miss those pretty freckles of yours.

Something warm blooms in Shane’s chest. If Rozanov is actually jacking off, is it to Shane’s selfie?

Suddenly, feeling bold, and slightly more turned on than he’s been the past ten minutes or so, he fires off a text.

Jane: send me another picture

He slips his hand into his boxers, palming his erection loosely.

Jane: I wanna see you.

He need not wait long. Twenty seconds pass, thirty, the loading circle pops up and—

There he is: a light sheen of sweat catching the lamplight on his chest, his grin broad and knowing. His curls are a slightly less frizzy, tamed by the damp sweat congealing at his forehead. His shoulders and biceps are flexed, and Shane knows he’s gripping himself behind the screen, smiling in delight at Shane’s half-baked replies. God, he’s so hot, even at his worst. Shane props his phone up against the side of the nightstand so he can use both hands to slide the waistband of his boxers down over his hips. He wastes no time in gripping his cock, getting off fast and dirty, watching Rozanov’s smiling face like he’s lying right next to him. When he comes, he keeps his eyes open.

one more for me, Rozanov sends, after a few minutes of not getting any sort of response from Shane. Shane lets out an exasperated huff, but clicks back to the camera app, positioning his phone on his chest and angling it so he captures the come streaked across his abdomen, cock still half-hard and peaking out from beneath the waistband of his boxers. He’ll probably regret sending this once he’s slightly more lucid.

Lily: fuck, hollander

Lily: oh fuck I’m gonna come.

Shane waits an obligatory three minutes, then shoots back:

Jane: delete that last text

Jane: has my name in it

Rozanov replies with a winky face, then silence.

Well, Shane thinks, closing out his phone and reaching for the box of tissues on his nightstand.

That was certainly something.

***

Shane doesn’t hear from Rozanov again until the night before they’re set to play against one another, three weeks after their little late-night soiree via text messages.

Lily: tomorrow at yours? After game?

Shane sends him a thumbs up, then spends the rest of the evening trying to pretend he’s only manically cleaning his condo the normal Shane amount. He’s definitely not stressed about the hookup, just game nerves. That’s why he changes the sheets, even though he’d just washed this set yesterday, and wipes down his already immaculate kitchen island. The one Rozanov never sees. Because he never sees the kitchen. In fact, Shane doubts he even has a mental layout of Shane’s flat, the only path he’s ever traversed being that of the one from front door to staircase to bedroom. He doesn’t even know that Shane has an ice maker that creates circular ice. A real shame, when Shane stops to think about it.

The next day, he arrives at the arena thirty minutes early. He runs through a few light drills, thinking through the evening. Wondering if Rozanov plans on heading straight to the condo, or if he’ll stay out with his team. If Boston wins, a celebratory drink is a guarantee. If Shane weren’t a Metro, he’d almost find himself wishing for a Boston victory. Rozanov’s late nights of partying offer Shane ample time to prep. Not that he can’t prep when Rozanov comes straight over, but it’s never as thorough as Shane would like, and he rushes through as much as he can get away with, knowing Rozanov’s an impatient man. He never wants Rozanoz to feel like there are better, quicker options out there after playing the Metros; though, Shane knows that, logistically, there always will be.

He’s dislodged from his thoughts when his team starts making their way into the arena. They group together, joined in on a small team meeting before Theriault claps his hands to signify a break. The guys head to the locker room, Shane trailing after them.

Two hours later, Shane finds himself warming up on the ice, trying (and failing) not to glance over in Rozanov’s direction every three minutes. On the fourth glance, he catches his teammate, Rogers, saying something to Rozanov. Rozanov’s brow furrows slightly, but then he nods, and, to Shane’s utter astonishment, allows Evans to slap him on the back in what looks to be a rather friendly manner. When Evans skates back over to their side of the ice, Shane can’t help but ask what the exchange was about.

“I’m buddies with one of their defensemen,” he jerks his chin toward the Boston guys. “Told me his dad died a few weeks back. Was just offering my condolences.”

“Who? Your buddy’s?”

“Nah, man. Rovanoz.”

Evans skates off, which— thank God. Shane freezes, eyes finding Rozanov quickly in the sea of black and gold jerseys. His eyes are wide, and there’s a sharp ringing rattling around in his ears. His dad— a few weeks. Had that been—

No. Rozanov wouldn’t have—

Right? Not when his dad had just died.

Right?

Suddenly, that forlorn selfie makes a lot more sense. The dark bruises under his eyes, his ghastly appearance. When Shane had reached out, had Rozanov been… mourning?

Jesus, kind of a fucked up way to mourn one’s dead father.

Shane crosses the ice, ignoring the curious looks thrown his way by a few Boston Raiders. He approaches Rozanov from behind, skating right up to him before catching his attention with a tap to his shoulder. Rozanov turns, whatever chipper expression he was wearing before slipping into something a bit more serious when he sees Shane’s pointed look.

“Why didn’t you tell me your dad died?” Shane hisses, trying to keep his voice low.

“Hollander, what?”

“Your dad,” Shane repeats, checking their perimeter with a quick glance. “I had to find out from one of my teammates that your fucking dad died. Rozanov—”

Rozanov waves a hand between them, shaking his head in annoyance.

“Is not your problem, Hollander.”

“No, that’s not—” Shane shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut tightly before opening them, staring at Rozanov directly. “That’s not what I meant, I—” He wishes they were alone, wishes he’d had this revelation in the safety of a hotel room, hidden behind closed doors. He wants to touch Rozanov, to reach across the ice the way he’d wanted to reach through the phone three weeks ago. To hold him.

“Rozanov, I’m so sorry.”

He hopes his sincerity is shining through. He chokes on the final syllable, but maintains steady eye contact. Rozanov must find his earnestness discomforting. He breaks Shane’s gaze, staring past his shoulder to avoid speaking to him directly.

“Is nothing. Is— is not something worth worrying about.”

I worry about you, Shane finds dancing across the tip of his tongue. He swallows down the words, staring down at his skates and feeling acutely embarrassed over his care.

“Not here, Hollander,” Rozanov says, voice soft and low. Shane’s thrown back two years, standing at the top of an arena and watching Rozanov close himself off in real time. He’s dragged out of his nightmare when Rozanov continues with, “We talk later, yes?” Shane’s stunned, too shocked to move, even when Rozanov skates past him, slapping him on the shoulder with his glove in a friendly manner.

We talk later.

So, not Sochi then.

Shane plays a good game— he always plays his best when facing off against Rozanov— but it’s not enough to bag them a win. Boston beats them by one point, and Shane can taste the bitterness of the defeat as he and his team march back to the locker room. The mood is tempered, curses thrown softly around as pads are dropped and wicking material shed. Shane tries very hard not to let the bud of excitement he feels blossoming in his chest show on his expression. When one of his teammates takes a snipe at Rozanov’s sloppy form during third period, Shane hides his grin in the collar of his jacket.

When he gets home, the elation rises when he receives a text from Rozanov informing him that he’ll be over a bit later.

Lily: celebrating big win.

Perfect. Shane gets to work, flicking the stove burner and putting the kettle on to boil. He reaches up, digging around the top shelf of his pantry blindly until his fingers wrap around a familiar jar. He pulls it down, grabs his tea strainer from the dish rack, and portions out an appropriate amount of digestive tea. The loose leaf is a concoction of his own making, the product of many years of trial and error. By the time he’s got the strainer filled, the water is boiling. He pours it over the tea leaves, leaving the tea to steep while he gets everything set up in the restroom.

He’s halfway through douching— tea mug in one hand, rim to mouth; expression tight as he tries to breathe through the odd sensation of cleaning himself so thoroughly— when he gets the text he’s been waiting for all evening.

Lily: wrapping up. be there in 20

Shane gets through his routine as quickly as possible. He showers, moisturizes, throws on jeans and a T-shirt so he doesn’t look too desperate, then shucks the pants immediately when he remembers Rozanov’s been fucking him for half a decade. He knows how desperate Shane is for him. He chugs his tea and paces the living room, not even bothering to play something on the TV. He doesn’t want to hear the background noise when they inevitably stumble their way into the bedroom. Unfortunately, this means Shane’s finally left alone with his thoughts, unable to avoid the worry worming its way beneath his breast now that he no longer has the steady order of his routine to distract him from his neuroses. He tries very hard not to mentally track Rozanov’s timeline: the missed game, the radio silence, then—

Then?

Why were you sexting me when your dad died? Shane wonders, directing his thoughts at nothing and no one in particular. Why can’t you ask for help like a fucking normal person?

Luckily, he’s not left to simmer in his own thoughts for long. Five minutes post-shower, the doorbell rings.

He cracks the door open, only to find Rozanov speaking roughly into his phone. He glances up at Shane, mouthing “sorry” while the person on the other end of the phone says their piece. Shane waves him in, stepping to the side so Rozanov can toe off his shoes. He’s speaking in Russian, the words coming out fast and rude. Or, maybe he’s not being rude; maybe that’s just the natural cadence his voice takes on when speaking in his mother tongue. The benefit of the doubt is crushed when Rozanov stomps into the kitchen, his voice rising. He’s starting to sound frustrated, his free hand clenched around the back of one of Shane’s dining room chairs. He leans against the chair, says something sharp and quick, then ends the call while the person on the other end is saying something mid-sentence. Rozanov pockets the phone and rests his forehead on the back of his hand. He lets out a deep breath, shoulders tense.

Shane steps forward, then pauses at the kitchen entrance, unsure if he should approach Rozanov or let him work through the frustration on his own. Rozanov turns his head, cursing under his breath. His eyes find Shane’s, and he smiles tightly.

“Is, umm—” Shane gestures toward Rozanov’s pants pocket where the phone is stowed. “Is everything okay?”

Rozanov lets out another audible breath, then rises. He shakes his head like he’s clearing it of settled dust, then reaches for Shane, hands settling on his hips. He smiles mischievously, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. He backs Shane up against the wall, crowding into his space with ease.

“It will be now, I think.”

He starts to slide down to his knees, but Shane grips him by the shoulders, forcefully holding him at eye level.

“I’m serious,” Shane says, voice as even as he can make it. That is to say, there is a slight wobble to his vowels, stemming purely from concern. “You said we’d talk.”

Rozanov groans, tipping forward to bury his face in the crook of Shane’s neck.

“Hollander, I do not want to talk.” He squeezes Shane’s hip to punctuate his remark, biting his collarbone playfully. “I want to fuck.”

Shane’s not sure how to respond to that. It’s not like he can reprimand Rovanoz for avoiding a discussion. He’s not his boyfriend. Not his keeper. He’s not his anything, really. Just a man he fucks who’s placed his misguided care in the palms of another’s hands. Shane nods, swallowing down the disappointment, and allows Rozanov to drag him upstairs toward the bedroom.

When they make it in, Rozanov throws himself onto the bed, shuffling up so that he’s leaning back against a mountain of pillows and the headboard. He’s still fully clothed and doesn’t look like he has any intentions of disrobing anytime soon. Shane feels slightly more vulnerable, standing awkwardly at the end of the bed, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt and hoping it covers his half-hard erection.

“Where do you keep your toy?” Rozanov asks, voice cool and smooth, devoid of any of the prior held anger.

“My what?”

“Dildo, Hollander. Where do you keep it?”

Shane blanches, staring at Rozanov like he just asked for his social security number.

“Umm…”

“Oh my God,” Rozanov groans, rolling his eyes as he shifts to his side, reaching for Shane’s bedside drawer. Shane’s eyes widen, and he lunges across the room, but not before Rozanov gets his hand into the bedside drawer, drawing out Shane’s dildo. He smirks, throwing it at Shane’s chest— Shane barely has the wherewithal to catch it— and rolls back into his initial position.

“And what exactly,” Shane spits out through clenched teeth, “do you want me to do with this?”

Rozanov spreads his arms, stretching them out with wide exaggeration, then folds them behind his head, leaning back with ease. His smile is lecherous, his eyes hard.

“I want you to crawl up onto this bed,” he drawls, eyes roving over Shane’s body, “and I want you to show me exactly how much you’ve missed me with that little toy of yours.”

The words are sharp in their delivery, humiliation filling Shane to the brim. He has half a mind to chuck the dildo back at Rozanov’s face and march him out of the house. It’s one thing to have Rozanov understand his vulnerabilities, to let him see the way his eyes water when he fucks him just right, to feel his body loosen around him, an unspun tournoquet allowing the wound in his chest to bleed out between them. Rozanov has taken him apart so many times. Each time, Shane has played the key role in putting himself back together.

He thinks back to Vegas, when the shared portion of that role was laughably weak. Rozanov had watched him get dressed with a blank look, the kindness he’d shown six months prior a phantom limb stilting Shane’s movements.

Shane looks down at the dildo, then up at Rozanov, his expression carefully smoothed over. He did not spend two hours of his evening prepping his asshole for a repeat performance of one of the most humiliating nights of his life.

Something in Rozanov’s expression wavers, a crack in the mask of cruelty. Shane recalls the hollowness in his stare in Sochi, how he’d crossed his arms over his chest in a self-soothing manner while he verbally snapped at Shane’s olive branch.

Are you okay? Shane had asked then, is asking now, silently, as he lays the dildo on top of the bedspread.

He had not understood how Rozanov worked back then. How the tick in his jaw wasn’t a sign of his frustrations with Shane, but with everything else: Russia, his father, his shitty team. Shane just happened to be an easy target. It’s not a comforting thought, doesn’t shed Rozanov in a particularly warm light, but it’s not personal, and Shane’s never been one to shy away from a challenge.

“How about this,” Shane starts, drawing one knee up onto the bedspread, then another. He shuffles his way up the sheets until he’s straddling Rozanov’s thighs, pinning him to the bed. “I’ll do whatever you want, whatever you ask of me.” He leans forward, hands pillowed on both sides of Rozanov’s torso. Rozanov raises his eyebrow, like this is a challenge, like Shane’s about to ask him for something equally humiliating. Shane maintains eye contact, tilting his head like a curious kitten. He licks his lips, anticipatory.

“All you have to do,” he says quietly, a near-whisper, “is kiss me.”

Rozanov’s brows furrow. He purses his lips, probably wondering where the joke is. Waiting for the pin to drop. It’s something he would do, has done in the past, dance around his desires until they’re interwoven with his self-loathing. But Shane’s not like that, too earnest not to ask for exactly what he wants. Rozanov waits a beat longer, then smoothes out his expression, eyes softening ever so slightly.

“Okay, Hollander,” he says quietly, shifting his weight beneath Shane’s heavy body, but keeping his arms behind his head. “Come give me a kiss.”

Shane leads forward, holding Rozanov’s gaze until he goes slightly cross-eyed. He closes his eyes at the last minute, pressing his lips, feather-soft, against Rozanov’s. He feels the breath Rozanov lets out through his nose tickle his top lip, his five o’clock shadow brushing against the dimple in Shane’s chin. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss ever so slightly, dragging both hands up to cradle Rozanov’s face. He is purposefully tender, purposefully careful in the way he holds Rozanov between his palms. He opens his mouth, forcing Rozanov’s open as well, and inhales Rozanov’s hot breath, sneaking his tongue out to taste his bottom lip. His thumb traverses the high arc of Rozanov’s cheek, resting at the far corner of his eye. Rozanov groans, finally, finally relenting to his basal instincts, tugging his arms out from behind his head and wrapping them around Shane’s torso, crushing their bodies together. He rolls them onto their sides, one hand burying itself in Shane’s hair, the other snaking down to grab at his ass. Shane hitches a leg up around his hip, rutting up against Rozanov’s hard-on with no shame. Rozanov groans into his mouth, biting his lower lip before soothing it over with his tongue. Shane allows himself to get lost in the kiss for a few more seconds, pouring everything he’s felt over the past few weeks into it, making up for the twenty-year-old man who made the walk of shame out of a Las Vegas penthouse three years ago. When he feels Rozanov responding with urgency, trying to press Shane onto his back so he can smother him completely, Shane pulls back, their lips parting with an obscene, slick sound.

“Now,” Shane pants, smiling up at Rozanov like the cat who got the cream, “what was that you wanted me to do with the dildo?”

Rozanov presses him down forcefully, kissing him again and again. He runs his hands up Shane’s sides, tucking his arms beneath his shoulders, letting all his bodyweight squish Shane into the mattress. Shane’s hands find Rozanov’s hair, holding him steady.

“Forget the dildo,” Rozanov finally grumbles into his mouth, “was stupid idea anyway.”

Shane hides his grin in the crook of Rozanov’s neck.

Rozanov’s still slightly rough with him that night, pressing bruises into his hips, digging his thumbs into the sharp jut of his pelvis as he fucks him hard from behind. He’s relentless, gripping the back of Shane’s neck and using the hold as leverage to press Shane’s sweaty face into the sheets. He makes Shane come first, refusing to let up as Shane ruts against the sheets, staining them with his spend and biting the pillow, hard, to keep from screaming. Rozanov doesn’t stop, fucking him into a hypersensitive state, cockhead slamming into Shane’s prostate until tears gather at the corners of his eyes. Rozanov traps him beneath his heavy body, both arms wrapping around his chest as he pistons his hips with unrelenting force. When he finally comes, body trembling and arms locking around Shane’s torso in a vicelike grip, he bites down on Shane’s shoulder, letting out a deep, guttural groan. When he’s finished, he flops onto his back, not bothering to protest when Shane turns with him, tucking his body in close to Rozanov’s to avoid the wet spot on the sheets.

Once their breathing has settled, sweat cooling on their skin, Shane speaks.

“Hey,” he tries, timidly, voice quiet and subdued, like he’s speaking to an easily spooked animal. He draws mindless circles atop Rozanov’s chest, speaking to his collarbone. “Is everything okay?”

Rozanov lets out a deep breath, the small gust tickling the short hairs at the crown of Shane’s head.

“I don’t know,” he responds, voice raspy and raw. He presses his mouth to the top of Shane’s head, not quite a kiss, but something akin to it.

Shane tries again.

“Who was on the phone? Earlier, when you were—” he clears his throat, planting a close-mouthed kiss on Rozanov’s sternum. “Well, you seemed upset.”

Rozanov brings one hand up, gripping the one Shane has resting on his chest. He pulls it to his mouth, kissing the pads of his index and ring fingers. His upper lip is still damp, and Shane feels the sweat cling to the skin of his fingertips. He lets go of Shane’s hand, allows the fingers to curl beneath his chin, resting against the hollow of his throat. When he speaks, Shane can feel the vibration of his vocal cords tickle his palm.

“My brother,” Rozanov finally responds, his voice flat and audibly unhappy. “He is scared, I think. Now that our father is dead. He thinks I will abandon him.”

Shane scrunches his face up in confusion, wondering if Rozanov can feel the expression pressed against the skin of his chest.

“Like, not come back to Russia?”

“No, no,” Rozanov sighs, “like, financially. I have been paying him to take care of our father. Though, he did a piss-poor job of it.”

“Oh,” Shane swallows. “Was your father sick?”

“Sort of,” Rozanov’s voice is starting to sound cagey, and Shane half-expects him to end the conversation there, but he doesn’t, words flooding out as though Shane’s taken a sledgehammer to the dam built around this one aspect of Rozanov’s life. “He was—how do you say— having memory issues.”

“Dimentia?” Shane supplies.

“Da, yes. That. Anyway, was getting worse with age. I paid Alexei to take care of him, but now there is nobody to take care of, so he worries about money.”

“Does he not have, like, a job or something?”

“No, no. He has work. Is with the police. But he—” Rozanov sighs again, shifting his grip so he’s got both arms wrapped around Shane’s shoulders. “He has problems. Drug problems. Spends lots of money.”

“Oh,” Shane says, uselessly. He curls his knuckles in tighter at the base of Rozanov’s throat.

“Yes, oh,” Rozanov repeats, not unkindly.

“Was it hard? Watching your dad forget stuff? Did he forget you?”

“Sometimes,” Rozanoz replies. “Most of the time, no. It was better, actually, him being sick. He was a lot nicer as a sick man. Made me feel very guilty. I did not miss him.”

“Your dad… he wasn’t very nice to you?”

Shane tries to picture it, tries to imagine someone other than his own father. His father, who came to every junior hockey event, allowing himself to be chauffeured around by Shane’s mom to whatever meeting they needed to attend on Shane’s behalf. Packing lunches for Shane during his school years, smiling over the stovetop as he made dinner while Shane and his mom poured over hockey stats at her laptop. His dad, who has shown Shane nothing but kindness and warmth, compassion spilling from his actions easily, so earnest in the way he loves his family, showing Shane exactly how he should love other people.

Shane snuggles in closer to Rozanov’s chest.

No, he cannot imagine what it was like growing up with Rozanov’s father. He has, blessedly, always been held like he is something precious.

“My father was hard,” Rozanov says, voice growing distant. “He tried very much to make my brother and I hard. To make us less like our mother. To escape this, I think I turned to hockey. My brother…”

“Turned to drugs,” Shane finishes lamely. Rozanov inhales sharply.

“Da. And he has a child, a little girl. I worry about her, very much. My brother, I owe him nothing. But, his baby girl…” He trails off again, arms loosening their hold around Shane’s shoulders so he can bring one to the nape of Shane’s neck, playing with the baby hairs growing there.

“I set up a trust for her. Gave Alexei my flat, so she will at least have a roof over her head.”

“And, the call earlier?”

“Alexei trying to figure out how to dip into the trust.”

“Jesus,” Shane breathes, “your dad hasn’t even been dead a month.”

“Yes,” Rozanov groans, tightening his grip again, using his strength to pull Shane on top of him. Shane leans up on his elbows, hyper-aware of the half-hard cock digging into his hip. “My family is so fucked up, is not much of a secret. Now, less talking, Hollander,” he grins salaciously, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes, something dead and silent settling behind his irises. “I think I need you to make me feel better. Make me forget about stupid phonecall.”

Shane smiles, knowing a request when he hears it. He leans forward, kissing Rozanov’s bruised, puffy lips.

“Mmm,” he hums, mouthing down the prominent tendon of Rozanov’s neck, “I can think of a few ways to help you forget.”

When he takes Rozanov’s cock in his mouth, feeling it swell against his tongue, he tries very hard not to think of a young Rozanov, standing alone at center ice, wondering what it feels like to be held for the simple purpose of being loved.

Rozanov fists at his hair, rolling them to their sides so he can fuck Shane’s face properly. All thoughts slip away like wisps of cotton candy after that, sticking to the sides of Shane’s brain, waiting to be picked apart and analyzed later. For now, he keeps his jaw slack and pillows his cheek against the inside of Rozanov’s thigh. He zeros his focus in on keeping his teeth a safe distance away from forskin and his tongue pressed against the prominent vein running up the underside of Rozanov’s cock. This is a comfort he knows how to offer.

~ Summer, 2016 ~

Ilya gets the call at 4:00 p.m. in the afternoon, two miles deep into his evening run. He has to catch a cab back to his father’s house—Polina’s graciously allowed him to stay in his childhood room over the summer—so that he can shower and change as quickly as possible. He makes it to the hospital by 5:00 p.m. and does not leave for three days.

A car wreck, the doctor had explained. Driving under the influence. Killed instantly.

Both of them, Alexei and his pretty, unassuming wife, Anna. Their four-year-old daughter, Natalya, has been spared, but only just.

A light concussion, but we’ll monitor her here for a few days, just in case, the doctor had assured him.

Just enough time for Ilya to meet with the lawyer. He calls Svetlana, and she drops everything to fly over the second morning, sitting at Ilya’s side as he and the attorney discuss “next of kin,” “full custody,” “rights of the state.” Svetlana helps get the Visa situation handled, gets a hold of Natalya’s passport, holds Ilya’s hand as he signs the adoption paperwork, the funeral bills, the condolence letters to Anna’s parents, who live in Siberia and who cannot afford to feed another mouth (not that Ilya had even thought to ask). They ask only for their daughter’s ashes to be sent to them.

The following two weeks are a whirlwind of packing, moving, caring. Svetlana stays, insisting this is important, that work can wait. That they are family, (My only family, Ilya thinks, morbidly). Natalya is mute, refusing to speak to anyone once she’s discharged from the hospital, but she hates to be left alone. That first night, when Ilya took her back to Polina’s and Svetlana tried to put her down for rest in Alexei’s old bedroom, Natalya had started to scream, thrashing around wildly until Svetlana scooped her up and brought her back to Ilya’s bedroom. Polina is in St. Petersburg for the summer, so there’s no other sleeping arrangement available. Natalya sleeps nestled between Ilya and Svetlana, the three of them cramped on Ilya’s old, full-size bed. They eventually migrate to Polina’s bedroom, where the large, four-poster king awaits them, fitting them all comfortably.

They are back in America by mid-July. Natalya has never been on a plane, and she cries when her ears pop during ascension. Ilya glances around nervously, as all parents do when they must comfort their crying child on an airplane. He receives few sympathetic glances. Svetlana, at least, had the foresight to pack Benadryl. Ilya feels odd about drugging his niece to get her to sleep through the flight, but after fifteen minutes of screaming cries and numerous scornful looks shot his way by fellow passengers, he relents, allowing Svetlana to give Natalya the baby Benadryl. She’s out in ten minutes, and the rest of the flight is, blessedly, uneventful.

Once they are home, things do not get much better. In fact, they get progressively worse. Svetlana has to return to work during the day, leaving Ilya alone with a child he does not know, and who he’s sure must hate his guts (assuming Alexei ever spoke about him in the first place). He’s given no time to grieve his brother, if that’s even what he wants to call it. He supposes he feels the phantom loss of a boy he once knew, one who skated with him on the ice of the lake outside their childhood home, the two of them playing chase until their mother called to them from the frozen lake’s bank. He misses the boy who’d share his candy with him during Orthodox Christmas, the boy who hugged him to his chest when Ilya would crawl into his bed after a particularly gruesome nightmare.

He does not miss the boy who treated him with utter disdain after their mother died, as if it was Ilya’s fault their father was taking his grief out on them. He doesn’t miss the boy who beat him for asking for a portion of his packed lunch, as neither were ever sent off to school with enough to tide them over, even after Polina came into the picture. He most definitely does not miss the man who screamed at him over the phone, demanding his money, demanding his time. What about my daughter, you selfish bastard, he’d spit through clenched teeth. My wife!

Yes, Ilya had thought, staring down at Alexei’s name in his call log after his brother inevitably hung up. What about them?

Even in death, Alexei will not stop haunting him, leaving him with a child who will not speak, but who refuses to be left alone. Ilya cannot begin to parse together what she may be feeling. Does she even miss her father? Or does she, like Ilya, feel a culpable sense of relief in losing him? Whatever she must have felt for Alexei does not translate over to how she feels about her mother. At night, she cries for her in her sleep, wrinkling Ilya’s sleepshirt with her tight little fists and screaming the word, over and over, against his chest. Ilya’s crucifix hangs heavy on his chest in those moments, and he empathises with Natalya acutely.

Ilya does not know if Anna was a user like his brother. The autopsy showed that she had just as much substance in her system as Alexei during the crash, but he doesn’t know if that was a one-off thing for her or if she, like Alexei, was funding her addiction with Ilya’s NHL funds. He likes to imagine this wasn’t the case. That she was a good mother, who waited up for Alexei at home, making sure Natalya was loved properly, held properly. He has a sick, stomach-churning thought that Anna may have used while she was pregnant with Natalya, but banishes the thought immediately. Even if that were the case, there’s nothing he can do about it now.

Days pass, and Natalya refuses to speak. She does not trust Ilya, but she appears to be constantly engaged in a personal battle with herself, part of her clearly wanting to keep Ilya at arm’s length, but part of her is still a touch-starved child. She will not speak to Ilya, but she won’t let him out of her sight. Following him to the bathroom, following him to the home gym, the office, the bedroom. It is only when Svetlana drops in after work that Ilya is given a moment of peace. He wastes most of this small fragment of time locking himself in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet and texting Shane. Sometimes Shane will respond, sometimes he won’t. Still, it’s nice to talk to someone who will at least make an attempt to talk back, not that Ilya ever offers anything of substance to the conversation.

How’s your summer been? Shane will ask politely. Ilya will curl his knees up onto the toilet seat, mouthing at his mother’s crucifix.

Great, he wants to say. My brother is dead, and he’s left me with a child who I’m pretty sure hates my guts, but who refuses to leave me alone. I have not shit in peace in three weeks. I can’t listen to music while working out because I have to keep my ears open in case she begins to cry. The only joy I feel is when I see her show an iota of expression, typically after she’s finished creating some masterful piece of child art in her coloring book, or when her cries die down to sniffles when I hold her at night. I have not gotten laid in over a month and I’m ready to jump out of my skin, but I can’t fuck Svetlana because she’s already putting up with so much, and I can’t fuck you because you are so far away. I feel guilty for needing such things, in the wake of this child’s loss, but I have never been a father and I have no idea how to start being one now, let alone a good one. Tell me, Shane, tell me what to do. I feel as though I am swimming in a giant vat of oil, my head barely staying afloat. What the actual fuck am I supposed to do with this child— who will not leave me alone for one goddamn minute— when this season starts?

Good, he texts back.

A week after returning home, Ilya finally manages to convince Natalya to start sleeping in her own bedroom (a guest bedroom he fixed up for her as soon as they got to Boston), but she never lasts through the night. Between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. Ilya is awoken by screaming cries of “Mama!” coming from Natalya’s bedroom. He’ll rush down the hallway, scoop her sweat-soaked body up into his arms, and carry her back to his bedroom. Some nights, he’s determined she’ll at least start in her own bed; others, he’s too exhausted to care, allowing her to crawl in bed with him a little after nine.

That’s the other thing. In the short span of just under two weeks, Ilya’s entire lifestyle has shifted. No more late nights out at the Boston clubs, summer bringing tourist bars and night clubs into full swing. No more last-minute excursions with teammates or weekends spent parading about the coastal cities with whatever girl he’s entertaining for the time being. No, Ilya wakes at the asscrack of dawn to Natalya’s pleading eyes, like she forgets he will feed her every morning and has fed her every morning since she’s been in his custody. He’ll make them both breakfast, then let her trail after him to his home gym so he can go on his morning run on the treadmill while she sits doodling with her coloring books. Afterwards, she follows him to the shower, where he decides to kill two birds with one stone and allows her to bathe at the same time. He’ll stand beneath the stream, not hogging it too long or she’ll begin to shiver, then shift so that she can have her turn beneath the spray. He’ll shampoo his own hair, then shampoo hers, condition his curls, condition hers. They both got Irina’s beautiful, blond curls, a fact Ilya tries not to allow his mind to linger on for too long.

He washes her body as perfunctually as his own, then rinses them both. Afterwards, he’ll towel-dry himself, then step out onto the mat and kneel down so he can dry her little body. Sometimes, when he’s ruffling her hair with the fluffy towel, he’ll get a small smile out of her. He considers it a win. He’ll brush her hair as gently as he can, and they’ll both brush their teeth, standing naked, side by side in front of the bathroom mirror, sharing his ensuite sink. He’ll dress himself in whatever sweats and T-shirt he can find in rummaging through his drawers, then he’ll take her hand and walk her down the hallway to her bedroom, where he’ll pick out simple clothes for her to wear and help her dress. Some days she’ll push his hands away, a physical insistence that she can do this on her own. Some days, she won’t, letting her limbs hang limp and unhelpful like a rag doll.

Late mornings and early afternoons are spent watching Russian cartoons Ilya pulls up on YouTube. Sometimes, he will read to her, and she’ll nod along occasionally, the only indication that she’s listening. The littlest things will set her off. Once, one of the characters in her cartoon dropped a small animal, and she threw a raging fit, thrashing herself to the ground and beating the carpet with her fists. She screamed and screamed, wailing when Ilya picked her up, holding her close and trapping her limbs to the side of her body. It’s a miracle if they can get through one day with only one meltdown.

Late afternoon, they find themselves back in the home gym. Ilya lifts weights, Natalya colors. She’s very secretive about her coloring book. Anytime Ilya approaches her, she turns the cover over, carefully concealing her artwork from him. Whatever, he thinks, anything to keep her from losing her shit while he's trying to bulk.

At around five or six, Svetlana comes around. She and Ilya take turns with dinner duty. Dinner is always an interesting ordeal, Ilya and Svetlana holding stilted conversations while Natalya picks at her food. So far, the only things she seems to feel okay consistently eating are boiled eggs, dry cereal, and apple sauce. Ilya’s no expert, but he knows he’s supposed to be slipping a vegetable in there somewhere. Svetlana tries new and creative ways to make vegetables and meats interesting for Natalya. Sometimes, her concoctions work. More often than not, Natalya’s plate remains untouched.

After dinner, Svetlana sits with Natalya as they watch TV, read books, or color, and Ilya will disappear to the bathroom for his allotted twenty minutes and try not to scream into the hand towel. Svetlana leaves at around eight, and Ilya helps Natalya dress for bed. He reads her a bedtime story— in her own bed, if she’ll allow it— or he’ll rock her to sleep in his bedroom if she’s decided it’s a night worth crying over. He never knows. He never knew one person could shed this many tears, wonders how she’s not completely dehydrated by the end of the day. He thinks, perhaps, she refuses to speak to him because her throat is sore from all the screaming. It’s a cruel thought, but he is so exhausted and so starved for some semblance of affection that he cannot help but wonder about these things late into the night. He wishes he had the privilege he’s granted his niece, to scream until his throat hurts. Here is a little girl who will not leave his side, and yet he has never felt more isolated.

***

Two weeks before preseason is set to begin, the three of them find themselves sitting around the dinner table, Ilya shoveling down Svetlana’s roasted chicken and brussel sprouts, Natalya poking at her dinner with her fork, scowling down at her vegetables like they’re personally responsible for murdering her parents. Suddenly, without preamble, she looks up from her plate and says plainly, “I don’t like green vegetables.”

Svetlana drops her fork, a loud clang resounding throughout the echoey kitchen. Ilya swallows down his bite of chicken, then says dryly, “You do not speak to me for over a month, and this is the first thing you have to say?”

Svetlana elbows him sharply in the ribs, then turns a sickeningly sweet smile in Natalya’s direction.

“Okay, so you don’t like green vegetables. What colors do you like?”

Natalya slouches down in her chair, and, for a moment, Ilya’s worried she’s going to go back to ignoring them entirely; but, she answers, her voice soft and quiet, wispy, the way Anna’s sounded on the few occasions Ilya interacted with her.

“I like orange ones.”

“Okay,” Svetlana nods in encouragement. “Like carrots?”

“Yes,” Natalya answers. “And purple ones. And yellow.”

Beats, squash, all things Ilya can accommodate, all things he just didn’t know. He swallows down his frustration and tries simply to bathe in the relief of receiving the small olive branch being passed over their shared meal.

After that, words come easier, though not as frequently as Ilya would like. Natalya only speaks Russian, a problem Ilya knows he’ll have to face eventually, but, for now, he will be grateful she’s speaking at all. “Thank you,” she says one morning, after he’s dished her out some scrambled eggs and a banana. His grin is so wide he has to hide it against his shoulder lest he scare her off. “Pass me the blue one?” she asks thoughtfully when they’re sitting at the coffee table, her crayons spread out across the tabletop in disarray.

“Goodnight, dyadya,” she says on a night she’s won the bedroom battle, burying her little face in the crook of his neck. Warmth blooms beneath his ribcage, spreading to his limbs, and for the first time in weeks, his exhaustion feels like a privilege, not a cage. He squeezes her in a tight hug, planting a dry kiss atop her forehead.

“Goodnight, Natashenka.”

The difficulty of caring for his niece is not eased, but at least they can now communicate.

***

The first day of pre-season training, Ilya is twenty minutes late to practice. He tried leaving Natalya with Svetlana, promising to return at the end of the day, but Natalya had thrown a raging fit. She screamed at the top of her lungs, beat her little fists against Ilya’s chest, and bit his forearm when he tried to detach her from her stronghold. He could tell Svetlana was getting frustrated—she’d promised to watch Natalya, but she’d need to take her into the office—and they both worked together to talk Natalya down from her heightened state of emotion.

“You are going to have to get help, Ilyusha,” Svetlana had scolded, not unkindly. Ilya nodded, knowing he couldn’t keep relying on Svetlana for help. She has her own life, after all. Her own job, friends, and family. She is young; she should not be locked up in Ilya’s familial prison. He ended up telling Svetlana to go, that he’d take Natalya with him to the rink and figure out what to do. Svetlana, because she is firm but also because she has an endless well of kindness residing in her heart, tells him she’ll take the morning off to accompany him to the rink.

Which is how he finds himself in his current predicament, walking into the rink later than he’s ever been in his life, Natalya cradled in his arms, her little chin hooked over his shoulder, and Svetlana following him close behind. Coach LeClaire had arranged for a press conference later in the morning, so the entrance is swarming with reporters. Reporters who all take this perfect opportunity to snap about a hundred pictures of Ilya and his little entourage. Natalya squeezes her eyes shut, burying her face in the crook of Ilya’s neck. He moves his hand to the back of her head, repeatedly telling her that everything is okay, that nobody will touch her, to not look at the flashing lights. As they shove their way through the entrance, Svetlana crowds in close behind him, reaching up to cup her hands around Natalya’s ears, blocking out the sound of the reporters.

“Rozanov, is that your kid?”

“Are you bringing your girlfriend to practice?”

“Rozanov, it’s rumored that your brother passed away this past summer. Are you sure you’re ready to start this new season?”

“Where’d the kid come from?”

Ilya barrels past all of them, shoving his way through the entrance doors and handing Natalya over to Svetlana.

“Natasha, malyshka, I need you to stay with Svetlana—”

“Dyadya!”

“Nyet, I am right here.” He points toward the locker room. “I am right down the hall, just like in our home. You can wait for me right outside, da? I will be out in ten minutes. I need you to be a brave girl and wait for me, okay? Just wait.”

Natalya’s eyes tear up, but he’s pretty sure he’s averted a full-blown meltdown. He looks to Svetlana, nodding quickly when she offers him a pitying smile, and races to the locker room. It’s empty, of course, as all of his teammates are already all out on the ice. When he’s finished dressing, he skates out onto the ice, spotting Natalya and Svetlana in the bleachers. Natalya presses her face to the glass, watching with wide eyes as Ilya skates over to his very stern, very angry, coach.

“Rozanov, what the fuck is going on here?”

“I can explain—”

“You’d better.”

He gives his coach a watered-down version of everything that’s transpired, sure to emphasize the fact that he cannot leave Natalya alone, that she loses her goddamn mind when Ilya’s out of her sight. Marlow and a few others skate over near the tail-end of his explanation, furtive glances betraying their clear eavesdropping. When Ilya gets to the end of his explanation, LeClaire sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“Kid, I don’t know what to say. You can’t just leave her in the bleachers on her own.”

“I know,” Ilya says through gritted teeth. “This just happened a month ago. I’m trying to figure it out.”

“Hey man,” Marlow pipes in, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “My niece is like seventeen, and she’s still got a month left before school starts. I can pay her to come hang out with the kid until you get things sorted.”

Ilya looks at Marlow, really looks at him, and for the first time in many, many years feels as though he might actually burst into tears.

“I— really?” He swallows down the lump in his throat, unsure as to why the thought of hiring a babysitter is wringing him out emotionally. “You’d do that?”

“Of course. It’s no big deal.”

“Yeah,” Evans this time. He’d heard too, and he’s smiling up at Ilya with genuine warmth. “I can call Annie, too. She’s stay at home with the kids, but I don’t think she’d mind packing them in here for a practice or two.”

Ilya glances between the two of them, then back at his coach, then over to the far side of the bleachers, where Natalya’s still got her little nose pressed against the glass. For the first time in weeks, Ilya feels something tight and thorny begin to unravel inside his chest. He looks at Svetlana, who’s petting Natalya’s hair back, keeping those wild curls out of her face, and thinks he is surrounded by very good, very kind people. Ilya turns back to his two teammates and says with a watery smile, “Yes. Okay, yes, thank you. We plan it out after practice?”

***

Ilya’s first practice could have gone, well, a lot smoother. Turns out letting a four-year-old watch her only surviving caretaker get checked into boards during a friendly scrimmage one month after her parents died in a brutal car crash doesn’t lend very good results. After the first check, Natalya starts screaming, wiggling out of Svetlana’s arms to run toward the ice. Ilya meets her halfway, sending an apologetic look his team’s way before scooping her up in his arms.

“Okay. Okay, okay, okay, shh, shh, shh. Natasha, malyshka, I need you to calm down, yes? Calm down. Everything is okay. Calm down.”

“Dyadyaaaa—”

“I know. I know, it’s very scary, I know.”

He tucks her face against his chest and rocks her side to side, staring over at Svetlana hopelessly. LeClaire approaches him from behind, careful to make noise so he doesn’t spook Natalya.

“Why don’t you take her up to the spectator box?” He jerks his head toward the little glass box at the top of the bleachers. “She can watch and make sure you’re still down here without having to witness all of it. I stored some markers and shit up there for the commentator’s kids.”

Ilya’s relief is palpable. He nods, herding Svetlana and Natalya up to the box, close enough that Natalya doesn’t feel like she’ll lose Ilya, but far enough away that she doesn’t have to watch the hockey matches too intensely.

Practice goes smoothly after that. Everything’s quiet from the spectator box, and Ilya’s offered a glorious few hours where the only thing he has to focus on is hockey.

After practice, Marlow calls his niece in the locker room, arranging for her babysitting sessions to start in a few days. In the meantime, Evan’s wife will meet Ilya out front tomorrow for the handoff. Ilya feels overwhelmed with gratitude, going so far as to pull both men into a one-armed hug.

“Whoa, hey man,” Marlow teases. “Watch it, I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“I think you’re fine, Marlow,” Evans teases. “By the looks of it, our boy Rozanov here’s got his own little looker.”

“Who, Svetlana?” Ilya asks. “Nyet, she is just a friend. Good friend.”

Marlow rolls his eyes as he walks backwards toward his cubby.

“Sure, man. Whatever you say.”

Ilya doesn’t bother correcting him. His teammates can believe what they want, as long as they don’t figure out exactly who takes up his every waking thought when Natalya’s not clogging his mind with grief. He swipes open his phone and opens his most recent text thread.

Jane:
hope your first practice goes well.

Ilya smiles, knowing he’s blushing. But only slightly.

***

That night, Ilya has his first breakthrough with Natalya since she started speaking.

Svetlana can’t stay for dinner, so Ilya makes them both an “Ilya Rozanov Special.” Breakfast for dinner. He fries them both bacon, makes a large stack of pancakes, and scrambles a few eggs. By the time they’re through eating, Natalya’s covered in maple syrup. Ilya gives her a brief, calculating once-over before scooping her into his arms and carrying her to the bathroom. He sets her down on the toilet seat and starts running a bath. When the tub’s halfway full, Natalya tiptoes over to Ilya’s side, peering into the tub alongside him.

“Where are the bubbles?” she asks quietly.

“What bubbles?”

She looks at him like he’s being the ridiculous one here.

Not wanting to disappoint his niece by denying her the one thing she’s expressed any interest in these past few weeks, he grabs his bottle of shampoo and dumps half its contents beneath the water spigot. As bubbles start to froth up, covering the surface of the bathwater entirely, Natalya lets out a small, helpless giggle. Ilya feels like he’s just won the lottery.

When the bath is full and overflowing with sandalwood-scented bubbles, Ilya helps his niece strip out of her sticky clothes, then picks her up and lowers her into the tub. He tries to wash her hair and body, but she keeps getting distracted by the shampoo bubbles. At one point, she scoops a large handful up between her palms and presses them to Ilya’s chin, giving him a wet, crackly beard. At his offended look, Natalya lets out a screeching laugh.

He reaches in and scoops up his own handful of bubbles, then rubs them along Natalya’s jaw. She retaliates by standing and piling them onto his head. He starts to pile them on her’s, as well as her shoulders and her neck. She sits back down in the tub, laughing so hard her cheeks go pink. She sinks down beneath the water for a few seconds, then pops back up, head and torso caked in bubbles. She and Ilya continue to play their little game of bubble fight until the bathwater is lukewarm and Ilya’s clothes are absolutely soaked. He doesn’t care. He’d wear drenched clothes the rest of his life if it meant he got to hear Natalya laughing at their shared antics.

When he eventually pulls her out of the tub and towels her off, her grin doesn’t die down until they leave the bathroom. He marks the evening down as a success.

***

Natalya seems to take to both Marlow’s niece and Evans’ wife well. She’s quiet, as she is most of the time, and she doesn’t understand much of what either sitter is saying, but she doesn’t lash out at them when Ilya leaves her with them during practices. In the interim, he works with Svetlana to start setting up interviews with potential nannies. The task is difficult, as they need someone who speaks Russian, who lives nearby or who can agree to a live-in situation, and who doesn’t mind potentially travelling with the team. The interview process alone will probably take weeks, and Ilya’s first away game is in a little less than a month. To say he’s stressed is an understatement. Worst-case scenario, he asks Evans to bring his wife to the first few away games, but his wife, Annie, has two children of her own, both of whom would also need to travel with them. It’s a lot to ask of Evans’ family, who have all done more than their fair share to help their captain out.

The first few games of the season are, thankfully, home games. Their second home game will be played against Montreal. Two days before the game, Shane texts Ilya.

Jane: do you still want to meet, or..

Ilya tries very hard not to text back immediately. After two months of fathering the most emotionally unregulated toddler known to man, he nearly forgets he used to be cool. Once.

Lily: yes

Lily: text me room number when you check in

He’d rather die than bring Shane to his house, only to have Natalya cockblock him with one of her screaming fits. He figures Shane’s hotel room is the safest bet.

Boston holds a light practice the day before they’re to face Montreal. When Ilya enters the spectator box to collect Natalya, Annie grabs him by the elbow, stopping him in his tracks.

“Listen,” she starts, a polite smile plastered on her face. “I know you’ve been running on panic mode since becoming Natalya’s guardian,” she smiles down at Natalya as she says this, “but I think there may be a few things you want to consider accounting for, now that you’ve got her somewhat settled.”

“Ah,” Ilya swallows uncomfortably, knowing his inadequacies as a parent could probably fill the pages of a Bible.

“Well, for one, she knows very little English.”

Ilya nods, knowing he’d have to face this issue eventually.

“It’s not a big deal now because she’s not old enough for kindergarten, but next year…”

“Yes,” Ilya nods, trying not to sound frustrated, “we will work on this.”

As soon as she starts saying more than three words in one day, he decidedly does not tack on.

Annie bites her lip, looking slightly nervous.

“Okay, um, and the other thing…”

“Yes?” It comes out too sharp, and Ilya winces at his own rudeness.

“Sorry, I mean— yes. Next thing,” he corrects himself.

“Well,” Annie pauses, staring past Ilya’s shoulder so she doesn’t have to make direct eye contact with him when saying the next bit. “I don’t know everything, obviously, but Mike gave me enough of a rundown to know that Natalya’s not exactly had the easiest year.”

Ilya nearly snorts. Yes, one could say that.

“And I’m just wondering if you’ve looked into getting, um, help. For that. Like, professional help.”

Ilya’s brow furrows in confusion.

“Like doctor?”

“Well, yes. Maybe.” She pauses for a minute, then shakes her head. “No. I mean like… a therapist. Specifically for kids.”

Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You think my niece needs to see a shrink?”

“No, I don’t—” Annie breathes out a long huff of air, finally turning her head to meet Ilya’s gaze head-on. “I don’t know what you guys are taught about therapy over in, like, Russia. But here, it’s not stigmatized. Not as much, at least.”

“Stigma— what? I am sorry.”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I mean like— like, it’s not a bad thing. To need help. And I think maybe Natalya could use some help. Like, a lot of it.”

Ilya looks down at his niece, who is currently filling in all the white spaces of her Color by Numbers book with blue ink.

“You think she will not talk to me?”

It’s a rhetorical question. He knows she doesn’t talk to him. Annie gives him a sad, knowing look.

“Kids are hard,” she says sympathetically. “Traumatized kids even more so. They can leave their caretakers feeling like they’re living on an island all by themselves.”

Ilya glances back down at Natalya, alone in her language, in her grief. Ilya doesn’t even feel like he’s been given an island to inhabit. He feels like he’s treading water in the center of the Bermuda Triangle.

“I will think about this,” he says, unsure of where to even begin. Annie breathes out a sigh of relief, then reaches into her purse, digging around for a card that she pulls out and hands to Ilya.

“I used to work for a general practitioner. He’s not a therapist, but he’s often made out referrals to diagnosing psychologists. You might wanna give him a call.”

Ilya thanks her, then scoops Natalya up into his arms. He’s not sure what to think about his conversation with Annie. He’s never been to therapy himself, having been told by his father countless times that therapists were a resource relied on only by the weak. But Ilya’s mother hadn’t been weak. She’d been the strongest person Ilya’s ever known. He wonders, maybe, if she could have retained that strength with a little help.

That night, during his allotted “toilet seat alone time,” he texts Shane.

Lily: what do you think about therapy?

The reply is almost instant.

Jane: uh, like have i been? Or just like my general thoughts on it

Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up.

Lily: HAVE you been?

Jane: depends. if I say yes are you gonna make fun of me?

Lily: when have i ever made fun of you?

Ilya smiles, gnawing mindlessly at the chain around his neck.

Lily: no, but seriously. have you? been?

Text bubbles appear, disappear, then reappear. It takes Shane a few minutes to respond.

Jane: yeah. when I was a kid.

Interesting.

Lily: why?

Jane: it’s a little personal…

Lily: i have literally been inside your asshole for the better half of a decade.

Jane: Jesus, okay, relax. give me a second.

The typing takes a while. Ilya uses this time to wash his face, brush his teeth, other menial tasks he must attend to before crawling into bed. When his phone lights up with an incoming text, he’s back at the toilet seat in three seconds flat.

Jane: when I was a kid I had a really hard time being around other people. I couldn’t do large crowds. I also had a lot of idiosyncrasies that started to get obsessive. my mom got me set up with a therapist when I was about seven or eight, after I had a complete meltdown out on the playground playing tag or something with the other kids. I don’t remember it, but mom says it took me hours to calm down. the therapist helped a lot. she helped me understand what my triggers were, and she gave me a few tools to help me navigate social settings. I think I would have been a lot worse off without her.

Ilya sits with that information for a bit, picturing little Shane out on the playground, so serious and cute in the way he’d try to walk everyone through the strict rules of tag, step-by-step. He cannot imagine the other kids took too kindly to his avid need for structure. He thinks of him now, the way he folds his pants before sex, or how he’ll only kiss Ilya post-blowjob after he’s wiped his mouth off on the sheets. He never really thought through how burdensome it must be to be so structured in such a chaotic world.

Lily: Hmm, I would never have known. you always look so excited to be speaking to the press during your post-game interviews.

Jane: shut up asshole.

Ilya smiles down at his phone, cracking the bathroom door open and heading back toward the living room. His allotted alone time is up; Svetlana needs to head home soon.

Lily: no, but seriously. thank you for sharing.

Jane: sure, why do you ask?

Ilya looks over at his niece, who is currently glancing through a picture book while Svetlana combs her hair.

I’ll explain later, he finally responds, closing out his phone screen and joining the two girls on the couch.

***

Later comes in the form of a blessed, early morning flight. Shane arrives in Boston at nine a.m. on a Saturday morning. Their game isn’t until four. Ilya practically begs Svetlana to watch Natalya for a few hours. She agrees to babysitting, sending Ilya out of the house with a quick, “Say hello to Mister Jane for me,” and a salacious wink. Ilya rolls his eyes, but can’t hide the way he practically dances out to his garage.

He worries, briefly, that Natalya will have another meltdown when he leaves, but Svetlana texts him ten minutes after he’s left the driveway, a picture of the two of them building Lego ships. Natalya’s eyes are shockingly dry. Ilya thanks God for small mercies, wondering if this means Natalya’s started to feel safe and comfortable in his home.

Ilya parks in a lot a few blocks away from Shane’s hotel. When he texts Shane to let him know he’s there, Shane sends him a thumbs up, then asks him to meet him behind the building, as there’s a back entryway there. Ilya feels like he’s bouncing out of his skin as he walks the few remaining blocks to Shane’s hotel, feeling, for the first time in months, like his old self. He tries not to grin like an absolute maniac when he sees Shane waiting for him in the alleyway between his hotel and the building standing directly next to it.

He fails at this, of course. He’s always happy to see Shane.

***

Shane is very proud of himself. He saw the tabloids over the summer. The grainy photos of Rozanov arriving at the Boston airport with a little girl; more grainy photos of him driving her around Boston. He read the articles, speculation over his brother’s death; reports that he’s fathering a secret lovechild, that this secret lovechild belongs to the woman he was spotted with entering the Boston arena during preseason. She’d clung to him quite tightly, her body close to his as she pressed her palms against the mystery child’s ears in the photos. Shane is proud that he hasn’t said anything, mentioned anything over text. And yet he can’t help but feel frustrated that Rozanov hasn’t mentioned it. Any of it.

He can’t use the excuse that they haven’t been texting. In fact, they’ve been texting nonstop since the end of last season, nearly every day. None of it really means anything, has gone nowhere aside from their standard chirps and little things that pop up throughout their days. However, not once has Rozanov thought to mention that he’s now in full custody of a little girl. And that the little girl might have dead parents, or very alive parents, one of those parents being the beautiful Russian woman whom Rozanov apparently drags to practices with him.

What is going on? Shane wants to scream at his phone screen when Rozanov sends him a link to a YouTube video of a dog chasing its own tail. Why aren’t you saying anything to me about this?

And— okay, so maybe it’s presumptive to assume he’s owed any sort of explanation given their relationship… or lack thereof. Still, if what the tabloids are saying is true, the ones painting a picture of Rozanov’s new happy family with the child whose curls match his and the woman the magazine editors have identified as Svetlana, then isn’t Shane owed something? He’s not exactly keen on filling the role of “homewrecker.”

Still, when Rozanov texts him two days before their first game of the season against one another, Shane can’t help the way his heart stutters at the thought of seeing the other man after so long. Whatever’s going on with Rozanov, it hasn’t kept him from reaching out to Shane; from wanting him, even.

He meets Rozanov behind the hotel the Metros booked, some offshoot of the Hilton hotels, so that everyone has ample opportunity to rack up credit card points. Rozanov is smiling when he meets him, an honest-to-God, blinding grin. It’s a little jarring, but it doesn’t throw Shane off kilter enough to distract him from the fact that Rozanov looks, for lack of a better word, kind of awful. His hair has grown out past his ears, the curls unruly and unkempt. They fall into his eyes and tease the collar of his shirt. His eyes, though crinkled at the edges with genuine mirth, are cradled by deep shadows, the purple bruising nearly as prominent as the black eyes he incurs on the ice. He’s got stubble, sporting a rare five o’clock shadow that still does things to Shane’s psyche, but nevertheless is lacking a certain rugged quality when paired with his slumped shoulders and rumpled clothing.

Still, still, Shane can’t help but return his smile when he sees him. Rozanov approaches, conscientious of the fact that they’re still outside, but as Shane slips his keycard into the door’s car reader and props the door open for both of them with his elbow, Rozanov slides past him, brushing his arm against Shane’s torso intentionally. Shane leads him to the elevator, the two of them silent as the door closes and they ascend, slowly, to Shane’s floor. When the elevator panel dings, and the doors slide open, Shane peeks his head out, checking to make sure the coast is clear. He then motions for Rozanov to follow him, the two of them racing to his hotel room while trying to stay quiet about it. Shane throws a secretive smile over his shoulder when he reaches his room, unable to stifle the laugh that bursts from his lips when he finally wrestles the door open, Rovanoz gripping him hips from behind and shoving him inside the entryway, growling playfully as he nips at the back of his shoulder.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you ‘patience is a virtue?’” Shane huffs, kicking the door closed with his foot, only for Rozanov to flip him around and press his back into the door handle.

“Mm, I have no virtues,” Rozanov sighs, nipping lightly at Shane’s neck. “Your mother should have told you this.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but Rozanov doesn’t see this. He’s too busy mouthing at his neck, then his chest, which he’s accessed by hastily unbuttoning Shane’s shirt with the same sharp, single-minded precision he brings to knocking opponents into the board. His hands travel down, down, until he’s reaching for Shane’s belt, then the zipper of his pants, wasting no time reaching inside Shane’s boxers and grabbing his half-hard cock.

“Jesus,” Shane gasps, throwing his head back against the door, shifting his hips to get the door handle out from under the spot it’s been persistently digging into. “Eager, are we?”

Rozanov drags his lips back up his neck, peppering a sloppy trail beneath the underside of his jaw to his chin, nipping at it like a small dog.

“Yes,” he groans, completely unabashed. Shane’s momentarily stunned into stillness, the honesty in Rozanov’s voice raw and unexpected. He’s usually much more suave than this, at least trying to pretend he’s not as desperate for this as Shane, elusive responses and enigmatic smirks throwing Shane for an endless loop. Now, he’s kissing Shane like he’s getting drunk on it, hands rough and earnest in their need for him, pawing at his hips, his waist, his ass, fingers dipping into his glutes hard enough to bruise. He pulls Shane forward, mouth open and panting. Shane tastes the faint echo of cigarette smoke on his tongue, the bitter tinge of coffee. He tilts his head, slips his tongue inside Rozanov’s mouth, and Rozanov sighs, biting at his lower lip, only to kiss it better not two seconds later. Then, without preamble, he turns his head to bite at the apple of Shane’s cheek before dropping to his knees.

“What—” Shane starts, but never gets the rest of the sentence out. Rozanov grips the waistband of his pants, tugging them down in record time. He presses his face to Shane’s crotch, mouthing at it like a man starved.

”Rozanov,” Shane gasps, burying his hands in Rozanov’s curls. Rozanov groans, opening his mouth and exhaling hot breath against the soft cotton barely concealing Shane’s cock.

“Christ, come here,” Rozanov says, voice low and gruff. His hands find Shane’s ass once again, fingers spreading wide, the tips digging into the waistband of Shane’s boxers.

“Off,” Shane gasps, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down on his lower lip. “Take them off.”

“Yes,” Rovanov responds, lust-drunk and riding the edge of desperate. He curls his fingers around the waistband of Shane’s boxers and tugs them down. “Yes.”

He swallows Shane down in one go, jaw going slack and eyes rolling back. Shane forces himself to watch, unable to keep the shock from slipping into his expression. He hopes his wide-eyed look can be played off as arousal, and not like he’s watching one of his wildest fantasies play out in real-time. He loves their dynamic, loves the way Rozanov talks him down into acting on his most primitive instincts. Loves being tossed onto his back, soft white underbelly exposed to Rozanov’s predatory gaze. He loves when Rozanov touches him with pointed tenderness, all the while speaking dirty, useless nothings into Shane’s sweaty skin. But sometimes, in the quiet confines of his bedroom, deep in the archives of his fantasies, drawn forth only near the cusp of self-induced orgasm, Shane will imagine this. Imagine Rozanov just as needy for it as Shane; “it,” being the reckless abandonment with which they reach for one another. Rozanov’s sucked his cock countless times, but there’s always been an edge to his offering, an understanding that he’s still driving the ship. But here, staring up at Shane with bruised eyes and desperate fingertips, Shane knows he holds the power. It’s exhilarating, it’s… a power he’s not sure he’s wielding correctly. Who is hurting you? he wants to ask, hand slipping down to cradle Rozanov’s flexed jaw, thumb digging into the spit-slicked corner of his mouth. Rozanov closes his eyes, moaning in a seeming state of pure, unadulterated bliss. Shane thumbs at his soft earlobe, the baby hairs at the nape of his neck, the little crinkles at the corner of his eye. He imagines tears gathering there, wetting the pad of his thumb for Shane to bring to his lips and taste, like he can swallow down the sadness Rozanov insists on burying deep in the confines of his heart. Rozanov, who is not emotive, not in the traditional way. He will not cry, will not ask for what he wants, but he will hold onto Shane’s hips like they are a lifeline, taking Shane deep enough down his throat that his nose is buried in his pubes. He stays there, just breathing deeply, in and out through his nose, and Shane cradles his head, holding him with the same delicacy he brings to cradling his Godchildren. You are safe here, he wills Rozanov to hear, threading his fingers through unruly curls. Nothing will touch you here.

Rozanov finally pulls back, coming up for air just long enough for Shane to grip him by his shoulders and drag him back into a standing position. He looks dazed, face flushed and eyes slightly unfocused, but so stupidly happy.

“Bed,” Shane grunts, kicking off his pants and ignoring the sharp instinct to fold them. Later. Right now, his bed partner looks like he’s one puck drop away from a mental breakdown.

Shane drags him to the bedroom, then pushes against his hips, forcing him to sit before him. Rozanov immediately begins nuzzling Shane’s stomach, but Shane doesn’t let him linger, pointedly tugging at the neckline of his shirt until he catches the hint, leaning back and shucking his T-shirt in one full swoop. Shane places his hands on his shoulders and pushes him forcefully until he’s sprawled out atop the bedspread.

“Up further,” Shane demands of him, smiling at the exaggerated wiggle of Rozanov’s hips as he shuffles up the bed. Shane uses the motion to help him tug off his pants and boxers, flinging them down to the carpet. He trails kisses up Rozanov’s leg, starting at the fold of his knee, the soft skin of his inner thigh, the pungent area just at the base of his cock. He smells so masculine here, and Shane gets a little drunk on the sensory experience, burying his nose in coarse pubic hair, letting his hands find purchase in the cheap hotel sheets. When he eventually rises, eyes meeting Rozanov’s gaze, all he finds there is unguarded gratitude. This breaks him open momentarily, Rozanov’s unmasked need digging into his burried vulnerabilities. Tit-for-tat, he thinks, licking a broad, wet stripe along the underside of Rozanov’s cock. Rozanov sighs, letting his eyelids droop and dropping his head back into the giant pile of hotel pillows. A quiet “oh” escapes his lips when Shane finally takes him into his mouth, bobs his head rhythmically, set at the pace he knows Rozanov loves. “Oh, please.”

Please, spoken so softly, like everything Shane offers isn’t mutually beneficial. Shane curls one hand beneath Rozanov’s upper thigh, the other reaching up to pet the downy hair trailing up his abdomen. “Oh, oh,” Rozanov repeats, like he’s having a revelation, like Shane hasn’t done this countless times, learned every tick, every precious movement, indicative of an impending orgasm.

Rozanov comes shockingly quickly. Embarrassing, really, if Shane didn’t find it incredibly endearing, but he does, feels sick with adoration. He crawls up Rozanov’s body, the other man smiling at him, crooked and dopey. “C’mere,” he breathes, kissing Shane with messy abandon, tasting himself on Shane’s lips. He reaches for Shane’s leaking cock, jerking him off with nimble, efficient fingers. Shane curls into him instinctively, breaking off their kiss to hold Rozanov’s heady gaze. When he comes, spend dripping down Rozanov’s fingers and wrist, he doesn’t look away, watching Rozanov smile triumphantly.

Rozanov wipes his hands off with the tissues on Shane’s bedside table. He then reaches for Shane, tugging at his shoulders until he takes the hint, shuffling closer to rest his head on Rozanov’s chest. When he dares to wrap his arm around Rozanov’s waist, Rozanov hums in contentment, wrapping both arms around Shane’s upper back and squeezing him to his chest in an honest-to-goodness hug. Shane takes pity on him.

“Do you want to sleep?” he asks, tracing mindless doodles atop Rozanov’s sternum.

“Don’t you need to meet with your team soon?” Rozanov asks, breath tickling the hairs on the crown of Shane’s head.

“Not ‘til four,” Shane replies, trying to stifle the hope rising in his chest. “You?”

“Same.”

They unwind themselves from one another’s grip to shuffle beneath the covers. Then, Shane is back in Rozanov’s arms, head tucked beneath his chin and leg thrown over his hip.

“You are tired?” Rozanov asks, his voice tempered by obvious fatigue. No, Shane thinks, pulling back from the embrace to watch the late morning sunlight filtering through the blinds, casting shadows across Rozanov’s beautiful, exhausted features. But, you are.

“Yeah,” Shane lies, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “I can set an alarm for us.” He doesn’t. He’s determined to let Rozanov sleep for as long as his body deems fit.

“Okay,” he replies, the English coming out thick, vowels elongated. He’s out in three minutes, his breaths evening out, chest rising and falling slowly beneath Shane’s cheek. Shane cuddles in closer, watching an Admirals game with the volume cut out, trying not to think about how this is the first time either of them has slept with the other in the same bed.

Rozanov sleeps for two hours, waking only when Shane shifts his weight to keep his arm from falling asleep. He startles awake, jostling Shane’s cheek when he tries to rise.

“What—” he starts, glancing around the room with bleary eyes. “I—”

“Hey,” Shane says, tilting his head back to meet Rozanov’s eyes. Rozanov’s expression softens, and he settles back into the pillows with ease. He smiles, dimples forming at his cheeks. For the first time that day, he looks young.

“Are you hungry?” Shane asks, pausing the video on his phone and locking the screen. Rozanov wraps his arms around his torso, tugging at him slightly until he shuffles up his chest, the two of them sharing a sleep-soft kiss.

“I can order room service,” Shane says into his open mouth, trying not to sound too desperate, like he’s trying to make him stay (even though that’s exactly what he’s doing). Rozanov nods, and Shane calls the front desk from his cell, ordering a few different dishes, unsure of Rozanov’s preferences. When the food arrives, he ignores the discomfort he feels in spreading the trays out atop the bedspread. He’ll just ask the front desk for new sheets later.

The sit criss-crossed across from each other, glancing up between bites to share secretive smiles. Shane asks Rozanov something inconsequential about his pregame workout routine, skirting around the real subject sticking to his brain, photos of a girl with golden curls circulating the forefront of his mind. Rozanov asks him how his preseason went, evading most questions thrown his way with monosyllabic answers. His gaze grows furtive the more Shane pries, until Shane finally snaps, ripping off the provincial bandaid while Rozanov’s in the middle of stabbing into a bowl of shrimp scampi.

“Rozanov, I saw the photos,” he says, voice thick with fear, shaky with nerves. He stares down at his plate of fish, unseeing. “Of the girl.”

“Ah,” Rozanov responds, also refusing to look up from his meal. He holds his fork still for a moment, halfway to his mouth, before dropping it back down into his bowl. “Right.”

“Is she—” Shane swallows around the lump that’s started to form in his throat. He’s not eating either, just poking at his food with his fork. “Is she yours?”

“She is now,” Rozanov says, a bit morose. He abandons his food entirely, wiping a hand down his face and pulling at the delicate skin beneath his eyes. “She is my brother’s.” He purses his lips, correcting himself. “Was. Was my brother’s.”

“Right,” Shane replies, voice tight. “I saw that he— Is it true, then? That he’s…”

“Dead, yes.” Rozanov turns his head, staring out the window absently. “His wife, too. Left me the little girl.”

“Oh, God,” Shane reaches forward, instinctively reaching for Rozanov’s hand. “I— Rovanov, I’m so sorry. That’s—”

Rozanov stares down at their joined hands with an absent stare.

“It is hard. She is very sad. Very angry. She misses her momma, something I think we can share, I suppose.”

“What do you mean? Is your mom also…” He trails off again, each question harder to finish than the last. Rozanov nods.

“Also dead.”

Shane stares, heart constricting with the context behind Rozanov’s fatigue.

“Rozanov, that’s— that’s—”

Rozanov shrugs, finally meeting Shane’s gaze with a sort of “what can you do?” look in his eyes.

“So, there’s no one,” Shane says. It’s not a question, and Shane doesn’t frame it as such. “It’s just you.”

“It’s just me,” Rozanov confirms, turning his gaze back down to stare at their joined hands. “Svetlana helps. She is a good friend. But she has her own job, her own life. She is not a mother. And I—” His voice drops off, and he drops Shane’s hand to bring both of his to his face, palms pressed against his eye sockets. “I am not a very good father.”

“Come on, Rozanov, you don’t know that.”

“I do,” shockingly, his voice comes out wet, a little choked, like he’s just on the cusp of tears. “Fuck, I do. I am so bad at this, Shane, you can’t—” He takes in a deep breath, and Shane tries not to freeze at the sound of his first name falling from Rozanov’s lips. Now is not the time, not when Rozanov seems to be one prying question away from falling apart.

He pulls his hands away from his face, his eyes rimmed red, his expression raw.

“My father, he was so terrible. So cruel. And sometimes—fuck— sometimes Natasha, she gets in these moods. Just screaming. Crying. So much crying. I cannot make her stop crying. And I am so— so frustrated with her. So angry. And then I am angry with myself because she is just a little girl who misses her momma so much. But still, I am angry at her. And I feel sick, like I am my father, exactly like my father. Mad at a child for wanting their mother. Who does this? Who is like this?” He shakes his head, chin to chest as he breathes through his pain. “Not good people. Not good fathers.”

“Oh, Ilya—” The name slips from Shane’s lips easily, falling between them to rest beside Ilya’s self-depreciating sentences. Shane scoots the food off to the side, then shuffles forward to pull Ilya into his arms. “You are not a bad father.”

“How can you know?” Ilya asks, words muffled by Shane’s shoulder. “You cannot know this.”

“I do,” Shane says, his words carrying the strength of his conviction. “You’re a good man.”

“This means nothing!” Ilya pulls back, eyes wild as he spits the words out. “My father was a good man, made lots of money, did lots of things for many people back home. But he was a terrible father! Terrible, and cruel, so cruel. I don’t want to be this.” He punctuates the remark by pointing at his chest, his tired eyes filled to the brim with unshed tears. “I cannot be like this.”

Shane reaches up, cupping his cheeks with both hands.

“And your mother? Was your mother cruel, Ilya?”

”Nyet!” The reply is instant. Ilya jerks his head back like he’s been slapped. “My mother was perfect. She—” he shakes his head, indiscretely wiping at his tears with the back of his hand. “She loved me perfectly.”

Shane reaches out again, wrapping both arms around Ilya’s broad shoulders. He tugs at him until they’re both lying on the bed, facing each other on a shared pillow. Shane brings his hand back up to Ilya’s face, wiping at the tears collecting along his waterline with the pad of his thumb. He scoots forward until his nose is touching Ilya’s, closing his eyes in hopes that Ilya will do the same.

“You don’t want to be like your father,” he whispers, another non-question. Ilya shakes his head, sneaking a hand up to rest against Shane’s heart.

“Then, be like your mother,” he whispers, tilting his head to kiss the juncture between Ilya’s upper lip and his nose. “Try to treat her like your mother.”

Ilya’s breath catches, his fingers curling atop their grasp on Shane’s chest.

“My father always said she was very weak.”

Shane knows nothing about this woman. He doesn’t even know how long she’s been dead, how long Ilya truly knew her, but he doesn’t need to. He just needs to reach for what Ilya needs to hear right now.

“And do you believe that?” he asks, kissing Ilya’s upper lip, then his lower one.

“Nyet,” Ilya says with conviction. “She was lovely. So kind. Sometimes—” he pauses, pulling back slightly to meet Shane’s gaze head-on. “Sometimes, I think it takes more strength to be kind when you are struggling, yes? To be good to people, even when everything inside you hurts.”

Shane stares up at him, knowing his heart is beating like a wild animal beneath Ilya’s fingertips.

“Yes,” he agrees slowly. “Yes, I can agree with that.”

Ilya offers him a sad, watery smile before tugging him to his chest, hooking his chin over the crown of his head. He buries his face in Ilya’s chest, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of emotions. Ilya runs his palm up and down his spine, perhaps a soothing gesture for the both of them.

“You are a very kind man, Shane Hollander.”

Shane tries very hard not to tear up at that statement. He fails tremendously.

***

Eventually, they clear the bed of their half-eaten meals. The clock reads 2:00 p.m. Ilya will have to leave in a little under two hours. They spend the remaining time in bed, Ilya offering Shane his second-most reverent blowjob of the day while spending an ungodly amount of time fingering him open. By the time Shane’s ready, he’s whining and needy, riding the edge of an orgasm so acutely that he has to grip the base of his cock to keep from coming.

He pushes Ilya onto his back once he’s properly prepped, crawling up onto his knees and pressing against Ilya's chest with his hands to keep him supine. Ilya relents easily, hands resting on Shane’s hips as he sinks down onto Ilya’s cock, slowly, slowly. Shane keeps his eyes open, watching the way Ilya’s cheeks turn pink, the skin of his forehead shining with a light sheen of sweat. His lips part, panting ever so slightly, tongue peeking out like he keeps meaning to ask a question, but always seems to think better of it last minute. Shane tugs at one of Ilya’s arms, dragging his hand up to his mouth with his own to suck his index and ring fingers into his mouth. Ilya groans, hooking his fingers and pressing them against Shane’s tongue. Shane rides him like this, slowly, languorously, moaning around Ilya’s fingers with complete abandon. He’s sure to make Ilya come first, watching with unabashed pleasure as Ilya arcs his back, eyes rolling back into his head and fingers leaving bruises on Shane’s hips. Shane watches with abject fascination, reaching for his own cock and stroking it once, twice, coming on Ilya’s stomach and chest with wild abandon, uncaring about the mess when he leans forward to swallow Ilya’s dying moans with a dirty, open-mouthed kiss.

Afterwards, after Shane’s wiped them both off with a hotel towel, they lie in bed facing each other. Ilya still looks so tired, completely worn down. Shane traces the bags beneath his eyes with his index finger, prodding at the puffy skin there with a gentle pressure.

“I have to go,” Ilya finally says, eyes shifting to the clock behind Shane’s prone form. Shane sighs, nodding his head as he begins to untangle his body from Ilya’s.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

Ilya watches him silently, watches as he crawls out of bed to search for a clean pair of boxers.

“Do you— would you come over tonight? After the game?”

Shane looks up from where he’s leaning over his suitcase, unable to stifle the shocked smile dawning across his expression.

“Yeah,” he says, stupidly hopeful. Stupidly fond. Ilya’s answering smile is equally fond. He tilts his head, hair bouncing with the simple movement.

“Okay,” Ilya says, still not leaving the bed. “You still have address?”

Shane rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind the gesture.

“Unless you moved…”

“I didn’t. Just come after the game. I’ll try to have Natalya in bed by then.”

“Okay,” Shane says, rising from his crouch above his suitcase, just smiling at Ilya like a lovesick idiot. “If that’s okay.”

Ilya finally crawls out of bed, striding over to him and dropping his head down to offer Shane a soft, lingering kiss. When they part, he says quietly, “Is okay,” offering him another kiss before stepping back to search for his own scattered clothes.

***

The game goes to Boston, but only just, Ilya scoring the winning goal two minutes before the clock runs out during third period. Shane stays with his team long enough to talk down the stale atmosphere permeating the locker room, promising to “get them next time,” and to “hold your heads up, it’s just the start of a competitive season.” He doesn’t really hear the shit he’s spewing, mind already thirty-two flights high on a Boston terrace, looking out across the city from a very familiar penthouse. He’s not the first to leave the locker room that night, but he’s not the last. He asks Hayden to cover for him in passing, ignoring the knowing smirk his friend shoots his way. Their coach has never been all that strict with curfew, but they did just suffer their first defeat of the season; best to cover all his bases.

When he gets to the penthouse, keying in the code at the bottom floor elevator, it’s just past nine. He exits the elevator on the top floor and knocks on Ilya’s front door. He hears slight shuffling on the other side, a hushing voice, then the door cracks open, Ilya peering around the side like he’s inviting in a spy.

“She is still awake,” he says quietly, glancing at something to his left, behind the door. “Is okay if she meets you?”

Shane tries not to swoon at seeing this side of Ilya. A rare occurrence, primarily slipped in between the moments they wrap up in bed and the silent click of a hotel door. Shane covets his rare outward expressions of tenderness, collecting memories of his soothing touches and softly spoken words like a very sentimental magpie.

He nods, letting Ilya know it’s okay to open the door a little further. Ilya does, stepping aside so Shane can enter. When he does, toeing off his shoes absentmindedly, he’s met with the jarring sight of a pair of matching grey-green eyes. Ilya bent to pick his niece up off the floor while Shane was taking off his shoes. The little girl is watching him warily, head tucked beneath Ilya’s chin, an instinct Shane knows all too well. Ilya tilts his head, saying something in Russian to her disheveled mess of curls. She nods, tucking her chin further into her chest, but her eyes do not leave Shane’s.

”Privet,” she says timidly. This one Shane knows.

”Privet,” he replies, smiling in what he hopes is a disarming manner. She doesn’t smile back, but she also doesn’t turn her face away. Ilya pulls back slightly, meeting her eyes as he says something else in Russian. Shane catches his name somewhere in the jumbled mess of Russian spilling from the other man’s lips. “Shane,” he says, the name coming out heavily accented when paired with Ilya’s native tongue. It sounds rougher, the “a” elongated. Shane is unsuccessful in stifling the shiver it sends down his spine.

Ilya’s niece looks back toward Shane, holding out her hand with clear trepidation.

“Shane,” she says, the word not quite as heavily accented in her high-pitched voice. “I am Natalya.”

Despite himself, Shane can’t keep his heart from absolutely melting. He takes her hand, shaking it with two fingers. Her hands are so small.

“Natalya,” Shane says, voice cloying over with fondness, “it is nice to meet you.”

Natalya looks back at Ilya, who translates for her quickly.

“Can you say that again?” Shane asks, still not letting go of Natalya’s hand. “Slowly?”

Ilya shoots him a questioning look, but repeats the phrase slowly.

”Priyatno poznakomit’sya.”

Shane looks back at Natalya, bending his knees slightly so they’re at eye level. He tries his best to echo the phrase back to her, heart fluttering at the delighted smile his words bring to her face. She squeezes his hand tightly, then lets go, turning back to Ilya. She says something again in Russian, and Ilya replies gently, also in Russian, planting a quick kiss to her forehead before setting her back down on her feet. She teeters off down the hall, throwing another unknown phrase over her shoulder before rounding the corner. Whatever Ilya says back must disappoint her, as her face falls and she wears a small pout as she leaves them.

“What did you say?” Shane asks, smiling when Ilya grabs his hand and tugs him toward the kitchen.

“She asked if she could stay up since there’s a guest,” Ilya rolls his eyes affectionately. “I told her is still bedtime soon, even for eager little Russian girls who’ve suddenly decided to make new friends.”

Shane’s face lights up.

“You think she likes me?”

“Da,” Ilya replies, letting go of his hand to round the kitchen island. He opens the fridge, digging around for something on the top shelf while he speaks. “She is my niece, after all. Was probably in— ine—”

“Inevitable,” Shane supplies without thinking. Ilya nods.

“Yes, this.”

“You think it’s a Rovanov thing? Or maybe just a Russian thing. Something about me attracting an entire demographic.”

Ilya throws his head back in laughter, pulling a few containers out of the fridge and closing it with a hip check.

“Ah, yes. You are like catnip, but for Russians.”

He lays the containers on the counter and starts opening them one by one.

“You like tuna melt?”

Shane looks up from the counter, eyeing him curiously.

“What?”

“Tuna melt,” Ilya repeats, moving back to the fridge to pull out— one Coke and one Canada Dry ginger ale. He slides the ginger ale across the counter to Shane, then pops the can of Coke open for himself. He catches the fridge handle before the door closes completely, pulling out a jug of milk and pouring a large glass, which he then places in the microwave to be heated up.

“You wanna make me a tuna melt?”

Ilya shrugs, not meeting Shane’s eyes as he says:

“Was gonna make me one, I can make two.”

“And Natalya?”

“Ah, she ate at game,” he says, starting on one sandwich, piling the ingredients on top of one another with what appears to be prepped portions. Shane opens his can of ginger ale, taking a large swig before setting it back down on the counter.

“Where does she stay?” Shane asks, spinning the can around between his hands. “At the game?”

“In spectator box, this time with Evans’ wife. She let the kids get stuff from the concession stand.”

“Does she stay there every game? Your niece?”

Ilya tilts his head, comme-ci comme-ca.

“For now, yes. But, she will have nanny soon. A lady to come help me. Will need someone with me for away games. Most of the wives don’t travel.” He moves the sandwich to a tray, looking at Shane pointedly. “Hollander, sandwich. Yes or no?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Yes, please.”

Tuna melts are definitely not a part of his macrobiotic diet, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s the second time they’ve shared a meal together, both times landing on the same day. Shane’s not one to question small miracles.

The microwave dings, and before Ilya starts on Shane’s sandwich, he lets out a little whistle, the soft pitter-patter of toddler feet running towards them right after. Natalya rounds the corner holding an iPad in both hands. Ilya says something to her, she says something back petulantly, but he interrupts her with a sharp, clipped phrase. She huffs, setting the iPad down on the stool next to Shane, and Ilya hands her the warm glass of milk. She starts gulping it down like she’s dying of thirst, and Ilya rolls his eyes.

“What?” Shane asks, thoroughly confused by the interaction. “What’s that face?”

“She’s addicted to this fruit-slicing game,” he says, voice softening as he turns to his niece, petting her hair back from her forehead tenderly. “Going to give herself hiccups gulping the milk down that fast. She knows this but— ah.” Natalya finishes her glass of milk, wiping her mouth on Ilya’s pants before scrambling back over to the iPad and racing off to her room. “Little gremlin. Knows she should be in bed by now.” He finishes prepping Shane’s sandwich, then throws them in the toaster oven. Shane can’t help the hopeless grin that’s spread across his face.

“What.” Ilya says when he finally catches his eye, deadpan.

“Nothing,” Shane replies, shaking his head. “Just— weird seeing you like this.”

“What, cooking?”

“No, just—” but he doesn’t have a word for it, waving his hand uselessly in Ilya’s general direction. “Just—”

Ilya’s smirking, rounding the kitchen island and butting in to stand between Shane’s spread knees.

“I am just what, Hollander?” he teases, leaning in for a half-hearted kiss.

“Domestic,” is the only word Shane can think of. It must be the wrong descriptor, because Ilya scrunches his nose up, clearly taking offense.

“What, like dog?”

Shane bursts out laughing.

“No, not— not domesticated. Domestic, like—” he pauses, tilting his head in thought. “Like, you spend a lot of time at home. Making meals and taking care of a child. It’s domestic.”

“Ah, well, don’t give me too much credit. Svetya has helped with much of the work.”

Shane’s smile dies instantly. His hands, which had travelled up Ilya’s upper thighs, fall to his lap.

“Right,” he says, staring at Ilya’s chest blankly. “Yeah.”

Ilya steps back, giving him a scrutinizing look. Before he can remark on Shane’s odd behavior, the oven dings, and he steps back from Shane’s cold embrace to plate their sandwiches.

“Is she…” Shane swallows, staring down at his can of ginger ale as he powers through the question. “Are you guys dating, or…”

“You think I would have you here if I had a girlfriend, Hollander?”

Shane swallows thickly, tensing up when Ilya rounds the island with their plates, setting his before him with a bit more force than necessary.

“I don’t know, I just thought—”

“I may have fucked a lot of women,” Ilya says coolly, setting his own plate down and taking the stool next to him. Shane doesn’t look up from the counter, feeling ashamed and confused. “But I am not that type of man.” That type of man, the one who would cheat on his partner. Still, that doesn’t exactly answer Shane’s question. He and Ilya aren’t anything, yet they fuck like rabbits. So, what does that make Svetlana?

“Besides,” Ilya continues, the word coming out a sigh. “Child is the biggest cockblock on the planet. I haven’t gotten my dick wet in over two months.”

Shane nearly drops the sandwich he’s reached for, finally turning his head to stare at Ilya in wide-eyed shock.

“Wait, really?”

Ilya’s mouth is full of tuna melt, so he just nods, then rolls his eyes, chasing the bite down with a swig of Coke.

“You try keeping a regular fucking schedule with a toddler clinging to your leg every second of the day.”

Shane doesn’t have to. He doesn’t need a toddler to keep him out of women’s beds. He’s embarrassingly good at that all on his own. Still, he nods like he knows what the fuck Ilya’s talking about.

“Yeah, um. Yeah, I guess I didn’t really think about it like that.”

They eat in mutual silence, and Shane stews over what he’s learned. Ilya’s not fucking Svetlana. Ilya’s not fucking anyone, except him, apparently. But he sees Svetlana. He has her over to his house. She helps him with his child. She’s… she’s something. Perhaps her place in Ilya’s life is just as nebulous as Shane’s, living off the scraps of affection he tosses out at the most inconvenient of times. He finds himself sympathizing with a woman he doesn’t know, and who his heart has subconsciously already chosen to hate.

“Still,” Shane breaks the silence, unable to help himself. “You came to find me.”

It’s not accusatory, just probing, but Ilya doesn’t take the bait. He takes one last bite of his tuna melt, then stands, clearing his plate. He squeezes the back of Shane’s neck in passing. Affectionate. Domestic.

“Take your time finishing your meal. I need to put Natasha to bed, but you meet me in bedroom, yes?”

Shane nods, brow furrowing. He thought her name was Natalya. Had he misheard?

Shane’s long finished his dinner and is three wiki-articles deep in learning about Russian diminutives by the time Ilya makes it to the bedroom. Ilya shucks his shirt, then his pants, movements sluggish, like his limbs feel heavy. When he stands, Shane can see the fatigue written clear across his face. Still, he shifts beneath the sheets, patting the space beside him. Ilya offers him a tired smile, crawling into bed next to him and reaching for him immediately.

Shane’s never thought much about children. He’s always had a nebulous sort of plan laid out in his mind’s eye: hockey, retirement, marriage, kids. But the marriage and the kids were always a byproduct of having nothing to work towards. The hockey has to be out of the picture; he can’t imagine trying to juggle family life while on the road. He has no idea how Hayden does it, how Ilya plans to do it.

Also, he never thought he was particularly good with children, but Hayden says he’s a natural. He always worries he’s saying the wrong thing, his voice too serious, cadence not slow enough, but Jackie assures him that that’s how one is supposed to approach kids. Match their earnestness, their openness. Shane has never known how to be anything aside from completely honest, never able to play up his words and emotions the way others in his life can. However, what he lacks in charisma, he makes up for with genuine compassion. He’s unsure of many things in his life, but he knows his godchildren have never doubted his love for them.

He looks at Ilya now, looks at the way his lids keep sliding shut without his permission, how he keeps snapping them open, like he doesn’t want to miss the view before him. His grip on the sheets swaddling Shane’s torso is white-knuckled, his touch searing hot and unrelenting; he does not want Shane to leave. Shane tries not to let it get to his head, tries not to fall into the hold, ignoring the fact that Ilya’s probably just touch-starved. But, even then, his stupid, bleeding heart finds an easy mental compromise. Ilya has not been touched in months because all his energy has gone towards making sure the child of a man who hated him is safe and loved. Even if Ilya’s comfort-seeking is misplaced, Shane’s is not. Caring for someone who cares so deeply for others is a worthy enough reason to face a little heartache.

They trade sleepy kisses, the warm glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows across Ilya’s harrowed face. Shane cuddles in close, tangling their legs together, pressing his pelvis to Ilya’s, followed by his abdomen. He feels every exhale Ilya makes, his diaphragm expanding and contracting against Shane’s own. Shane starts to match him, breath for breath, until every inhale he takes is timed to match Ilya’s exhales, one chest expanding, one contracting. He can feel Ilya’s heartbeat beneath the palm of his hands, slowing as the minutes pass, despite the fact that they don’t stop kissing.

Shane’s ceded the fact that they probably won’t be having sex tonight. He runs his fingers through Ilya’s curls, tasting his sigh as he settles deeper in Shane’s hold, their tangled limbs heavy, exploratory hands settling. They reach a sort of stasis, not even really kissing, just sort of breathing into each other’s open mouths. Ilya tilts his head, cheek pressed deep into their shared pillow. The side of his nose rests against Shane’s, and he peppers close-mouthed kisses against Shane’s lower lip. Shane brings his hand to Ilya’s face, thumb rubbing back and forth, back and forth, along his cheekbone, a weak substitution for rocking him to sleep. He rubs his big toe across the muscle of Ilya’s calf, hums in contentment, hoping Ilya can feel it reverberate throughout his chest. He watches Ilya lose the battle against his drooping eyelids, those pretty, green irises of his shuttered by fatigue. Just as Ilya appears to be slipping away, the last of his tension melting away between Shane’s hands, Natalya begins to scream.

Ilya doesn’t jolt, unlike Shane. He just opens his eyes, rolling over to send the ceiling a despondent stare.

“Mamma!” Shane hears, a high-pitched wail resounding throughout the echoey, wide hallway. “Mamma, mamma!”

Ilya brings his hands up to his face, dragging them down his eyes, then his cheeks. He then rises, rolling his head to the left, then the right, cracking his neck so loud Shane winces. He shoots Shane an apologetic look before leaving the bedroom, quickening his strides when he hears choked, sobbing Russian follow calls for “Mamma!”

Shane stares after him for a while, wondering if this is an everyday occurrence. It would explain Ilya’s general demeanor, the fatigue he carries around on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. Without thinking too much about his own actions, Shane slips out of bed, making his way as quietly as he can toward the bedroom door that’s cracked open, soft lamplight spilling out of it onto the wooden floor. Shane follows it like a beacon, hearing whispered Russian as he slinks closer. He peers through the crack in the door, his heart doing something faint and concerning beneath his ribcage when he spots Ilya.

Ilya, who has his niece wrapped up tightly in his arms, sitting at the edge of her twin bed. He cradles her head to his chest, whispering hushed, Russian sentences, rocking her back and forth, back and forth, petting her hair back from her face, sweet little nothings interspersed with kisses pressed to her forehead. Shane watches on in abject fascination, watches Ilya’s hand rub her back soothingly, nothing of the hard edge he brings to the ice slipping into his expression, in the way he holds his brother’s daughter like she is worth nothing more than being cherished. There is so much love, so much compassion in the delicate way he speaks to her, like if he breathes too hard she’ll fall apart.

Shane stands there awkwardly, watching for a long time as Ilya rocks his baby girl to sleep. He takes a step back eventually, after his neck begins to ache. It’s late, much too late to even put up the pretence of hoping for sex. He tiptoes back to Ilya’s bedroom, thinking over his options. In the end, he crawls back into bed, not wanting to imagine Ilya’s expression when faced with an empty bed, not after spending over an hour fighting off sleep to battle someone else’s nightmares. Shane figures, if he really wants him gone, he’ll ask. He’s never shied away from hurried partings before, each one sinking a sharpened blade into the pit of Shane’s stomach one inch deeper. Not that Ilya’s the only one at fault for their shared, silent grief. Shane leaves just as frequently.

But, tonight, he doesn’t. Tonight, he turns to his side, feigning sleep. When he hears Ilya eventually reenter the bedroom, his movements are quiet, purposefully hushed. He slips between the sheets, shuffling over to Shane’s side. Then, very gently, reaching for him as though approaching a spooked fawn, Ilya’s arm wraps around Shane’s waist, palm to naval, fingers spread out across his lower abdomen. He slots his body up next to Shane’s, back to chest, legs tangling with Shane’s, warm skin cocooning Shane alongside the sheets. Ilya presses a close-mouth kiss to the nape of his neck, then another, his lips lingering as he breathes out a deep sigh, his breath tickling Shane’s baby hairs.

“Goodnight, Shane,” he thinks he is whispering to no one, taking comfort from a body only in its presumed unconsciousness. Shane dares not move, not breathe too hard, lest Ilya find him out. Instead, he stares wide-eyed at Ilya’s half-opened blinds, wondering what to do about the fact that he now knows what it’s like to share the same embrace that rocks a little girl to sleep each night.

Goodnight, Ilya, he thinks quietly, feeling Ilya’s breath even out against his back. Ilya’s out in under three minutes. Shane, on the other hand, does not fall asleep for a long, long time, watching moon beams creep across the bedroom carpet until his world goes dark.

Chapter End Notes

this fic is my love letter to anna karenina; that one picture of robert plant swinging his curly-haired little boy around on their farm in wales; and my dad, who i love and miss every day.

if you don't know the plot of anna k, it's basically just tolstoy's long-winded way of telling us that the meaning of life is to farm, have kids, and not fund the education of the serfs.

rip leo tolstoy. you would have loved stardew valley. and the reallocation of funds from public education to private schools (a decision i do not support, fuck you tolstoy. and republican lawmakers).

Chapter 2: "not i" said the swan

Chapter Notes

"The odd-looking little face wrinkled up still more and the baby sneezed…What [Levin] felt towards this little creature was not at all what he had anticipated. There was nothing merry or joyful in it; on the contrary, there was a new and distressing sense of fear. It was the consciousness of another vulnerable region. And this consciousness was at first so painful, the fear lest that helpless being should suffer was so strong, that it quite hid the strange feeling of unreasoning joy and even pride which he experienced when the baby sneezed.”

- (Levin is meeting his son for the first time after Kitty has given birth in Chapter 15 of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy)

Shane’s flight lands in Montreal at 9:00 a.m. At ten, he joins his parents for breakfast, feeling hungover and sleep-deprived. He wonders if this is how Ilya feels every day of his life now.

How exhausting.

“Hey, buddy,” his dad greets him with a warm hug. “You look like death.”

“Thanks,” Shane says dryly into his shoulder. “Was a long flight.”

“Were you out late last night?” His mom asks, roping him in for her turn at a hug.

“No, just—” he thinks of waking this morning, alarm set for five. Thinks of Ilya’s head on his chest, not even stirring at the sound of the blaring alarm. It had taken all of his measly willpower to remove Ilya’s arm from its place wrapped around his waist and to shuffle his torso out from beneath his cheek. He’d quickly replaced his body with a pillow, watching with tooth-rotting fondness as Ilya smacked his lips and nestled back into the pillow with a quiet sigh.

“I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

Yuna pulls back from the hug, tilting her head and surveying her son’s face.

“Nerves?” she asks, and Shane’s mind flashes to images of Ilya rocking his child to sleep, whispering comforting Russian phrases into her curls.

“Yeah,” he says thickly. “Nerves.”

They settle down for breakfast, chatting amicably about the season, about David’s job, about new sponsorships Yuna’s working on pulling. Shane nods along politely for most of it, swallowing down his omelet made with no cheese and trying not to crash out over his cup of decaf. He’s so tired his teeth hurt, which is probably why he doesn’t notice the tone shift in the conversation.

His parents have brought up Wimbledon, asking if he’d like to go.

“What?” he looks up from his half-eaten omelet in a stupor. Wimbledon, his mom asks again, politely ignoring his spaced-out response. Would he like to attend the matches?

Shane would rather pry his own toenails off than purchase an international flight in the middle of a season. He declines, using words that are far more polite.

His mother doesn’t let it rest, though, and she pushes and pushes, until she says something that has Shane frowning, staring down at his coffee mug like it might suddenly turn into a portal to his bedroom.

“Could be nice, meeting a Swedish princess.”

Shane’s stomach churns. He thinks of Ilya, smiling at him over a stack of sandwich ingredients. “Catnip for Russians,” Shane had referred to himself, jokingly. Ilya hadn’t disagreed.

When Shane doesn’t reply, Yuna leans back in her chair, sharing an indecipherable look with David. David hunches forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped together tightly. When he speaks, it is to Shane’s downturned eyes.

“Or, Swedish prince,” he says softly, the words slicing through Shane’s sleep-induced haze like a bolt of white lightning. Shane’s entire body jerks, his eyes snapping up to meet David’s like a deer caught in headlights.

“I—” he swallows, his mouth drying out as he speaks. There’s a ringing in his ears, cotton clouding his vision. “What?”

They both know Shane heard properly. David just tilts his head, eyes knowing and kind, like Shane’s reaction is all the confirmation he needs. Shane glances at his mother, her expression purely sympathetic, her eyes a bit teary.

Shane thinks he’s going to be sick.

He stands from the table, chair scraping loudly against the linoleum floor. He stumbles back, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. He averts his gaze, staring at anything and everything aside from his parents.

“I have to—” he stutters, gesturing toward the door helplessly. “I have—”

“Shane,” his mom tries, standing and reaching out for him. He jolts, taking another step back without thinking. Yuna’s expression wilts, and she curls her arm into her chest.

“I have to go.”

His breathing has accelerated, the tell-tale signs of a panic attack. He knows that his parents know this, that they’ll want to offer comfort. He doesn’t think he could handle that right now. Not with the way they’re looking at him, their knowing.

He sucks in a deep breath through his teeth.

Just get to your car, he tells himself, throwing on his jacket mechanically. You just need to make it to your car.

“Son,” his dad tries again, voice hesitant and raw, like it’s been raked over with gravel. Shane shakes his head, taking another step back as he does so.

“I— bye.”

He turns on his heels, speed-walking out of the restaurant and practically racing to his car. He gets into the driver’s seat, resting his forehead on the steering wheel and trying to breathe through the panic that’s taken hold of his lungs.

They know, he thinks morbidly, holding his hands to his chest and groaning into the cool, dead air of his vehicle. They know, Christ, they know.

He wheezes his way through the worst panic attack he’s had since high school, wondering what he’s supposed to do with this information.

Over the next few days, he declines his parents' calls. When he does finally answer, a few hours before his next home game against Denver, nobody mentions breakfast. His parents don’t apologize for asking, and Shane doesn’t apologize for his rude exit.

He doesn’t exactly know what he’s supposed to do with this information. So, for now, he ignores it.

***

Shane goes out with his team after their home game against Denver, but only because they won. And they didn’t just win, they obliterated the Panthers, final score 7-2. Even Shane can’t say no to a celebratory drink, not after a win like that.

J.J., Hayden, and a few other guys choose a subdued bar in downtown Montreal. Shane wonders if they picked the location because of him, because they know, even at his best, a rowdy club is really just not in the cards. He doesn’t have to feel guilty for long. When he shows, hands stuffed awkwardly into the pockets of his brown leather jacket, J.J. is instantly on him, telling him about some film cast that had been spotted here earlier.

Ah, Shane thinks warmly. So there had been ulterior motives playing into his team’s location of choice, he just wasn’t one of them.

He slides into his team’s booth, falling into conversation easily— that is, the men around him are conversing while he sips tepidly at his ginger ale. The group gathered are the men Shane feels closest to on the team, so he doesn’t feel obligated to keep up the pretense of enjoying the spotlight. In settings such as these, he’s happy to simply laugh at his friends’ jokes, smile when appropriate, and partake in the occasional bout of light teasing. Hayden calls it “wall-flowering,” Shane calls it “being a good listener.” Whatever he is, he keeps getting invited back, so he must offer something of substance. All these big personalities in hockey. Shane thinks it’s not so bad that some of them play supporting roles off the ice.

After an hour or so, he excuses himself to go use the restroom, which is how, not five minutes later, he finds himself sitting opposite Rose Landry in a secluded corner of the bar.

***

Ilya enters the doctor’s office like a man preparing himself for battle. Annie’s contact had pulled through, referring Natalya to a child psychologist five minutes into their visit. Which is how he found himself here, standing before the reception desk with a toddler clinging to his neck like a small, teary-eyed chimp.

He checks them both in, then joins the small gaggle of parents and kids in the waiting room. After ten minutes or so, Natalya finally loosens her grip around his neck, blinking owlishly around them, eyes landing on two kids playing at the small play station set up for children by the office staff. She continues to stare at them while Ilya makes awkward eye contact with the kids’ parents, smiling tightly. One of the moms smiles back, then she directs her smile at Natalya.

“How old’s yours?” she asks politely, tucking a strand of copper blonde hair behind her ear.

“Ah, she’s not—” Ilya stops himself, swallowing thickly. He’d been about to say, She’s not mine, but that hasn’t been true for months. He pulls Natalya closer to his chest and rubs his palms up and down her back in a soothing gesture. He clears his throat and tries again.

“She is four.”

The mom’s smile doesn’t drop, and she nods as she replies with:

“So is Sarah,” she jerks her chin in the direction of the two kids playing in the corner. “Just turned four, actually. What about her?” She holds her palm out, gesturing toward Natalya. “When’s this little one’s birthday?”

Ilya’s voice gets caught in his throat, staring at the woman across from him helplessly. He doesn’t actually know when Natalya’s birthday is. Sure, he must have collected that information when working through the Visa paperwork with Svetlana, but his mind had been in such a haze those first few weeks after his brother passed, he couldn’t have distinguished his ass from his elbow. When Natalya was actually born, nobody had thought to inform Ilya, his brother only mentioning her in passing during one of his pitiful, begging phone calls. She could have been born anywhere between August and late February.

Ilya’s saved from answering when the receptionist calls his name. He offers the mom an apologetic smile, then hauls his niece up, letting the receptionist lead him into one of the back rooms.

Natalya’s therapist is there to welcome them inside. He’s a man, an older man with round-rimmed spectacles and a tweed jacket. He greets Ilya with a firm handshake, then stares over the rim of his spectacles, offering Natalya his hand as well. She looks to Ilya first, needing verbal confirmation that this man is okay, that he’s safe to engage with. Ilya offers her an encouraging nod, and she reaches out tentatively, shaking the doctor’s hand.

“My name is Dr. Peters,” he says, warmly.

“Hello, Dr. Peters,” Nataly says, her accent not as prominent as Ilya’s, but still noticeable around the vowels. “My name is Natalya.”

The session goes about as well as can be expected with a patient who only knows a handful of English words. Dr. Peters speaks with Ilya first, letting him lay out the situation in excruciating detail: the death of Natalya’s parents, the move to America, the isolation here, the potential isolation back home. How it appears her parents may not have ever offered her a stable home life to begin with. How Ilya doesn’t know this for sure, as Natalya has never brought it up, and Ilya’s been too scared to ask. How she clings to him, hating for him to leave her sight. How a few hours of time apart seems to set her back days, her emotions spiraling, tears flowing freely for hours. How she can appear perfectly fine one minute, the most mundane thing setting her off the next. How Ilya’s not had a good night’s sleep in three months. How the team will need to start travelling next week, and he’s scared shitless about how the disruption in her routine is going to upend all the progress he’s made with her. By the time he’s done speaking, he’s commandeered thirty minutes of the therapy session.

Dr. Peters nods thoughtfully throughout his complaints, then turns to Natalya, asking her a few questions, using Ilya as her translator. They’re all very generic. How are you feeling today? You are here with your uncle Ilya? Can you tell me what you and your uncle do together? What you plan to do after this session?

She gives monosyllabic answers to each question thrown her way, muffling her voice in Ilya’s shoulder. She shrinks further and further into herself with each question, until she’s curled up into a ball on Ilya’s lap, eyes straying toward the window. Eventually, she just starts shaking her head when Ilya translates the questions for her, until he sighs, staring at the psychologist like, “What can you do?” Thankfully, Dr. Peters doesn’t look perturbed. He turns his attention back to Ilya, commenting on how hard it must be to try to maintain his rigorous schedule with such an emotionally needy toddler on his hands. How he’s probably feeling overwhelmed, overstimulated, perhaps a little lonely? (The last observation is phrased like a question, but Ilya’s tense nod is confirmation enough).

Ilya leaves Dr. Peters’ office with his own referral to a therapist, a post-it note he chucks into the tiny trashcan at the receptionist’s desk. He’s also told that he’ll need to attend each session with Natalya for the foreseeable future, both due to her mistrust of others and the language barrier. For now, Ilya must unfortunately endure her clinginess, especially with travel coming up. Dr. Peters lamented Ilya’s job not being a little more stable, but he understood the nature of the beast. He told Ilya to continue to let her sleep in his bed, to do so especially during travel, even if they bring the nanny (which they will). He explained that she’s still adjusting to losing the pillars in her life, that the foundation of her emotional stability has crumbled beneath her. Ilya needs to do damage control right now; they can work on weaning her off the emotional tit once she feels reassured that Ilya will not be leaving her anytime soon. This means routine. This means accountability. It means Ilya really, really needs to find his own support system, if he hasn’t already done so, and would he please consider setting up his own sessions with Dr. Peters’ colleague?

Ilya almost scoffs at the suggestion. Between hockey, Natalya, and the brief, glorious twenty minutes he gets to spend hiding in the bathroom each night, he has no idea when he’s supposed to find time for his own mental well-being. Besides, he’s fine. A little tired, a little lonely, maybe a little heartsick, but nothing he can’t face. Plenty of people have been through much worse. Hell, his own mother had been through way worse than him. She raised two boys in total isolation, mothering the children of a man who’d treated her like a servant and provided her with very few tools to achieve her tasks.

Yes, a small voice in the back of Ilya’s mind pipes up, and look at how well things turned out for her.

Ilya ignores it, driving Natalya home in silence. When they arrive, dinner’s already been prepared. Sofya, the new nanny, has settled in quite comfortably over the past week. She’s older, probably around fifty-five or sixty, a Ukrainian immigrant. She has children, Ilya had learned during her interview, but they’re all grown. She’s certified to teach primary school in Ukraine, but never bothered to transfer her licensure to the United States. When she moved here— about ten years ago now— she found being a nanny to be far more lucrative. She is fluent in both Russian and English, a bonus Ilya feared he’d never find sifting through the slew of applicants. She’s fine with the travel and is happy to take up residence with Ilya. He’d offered her one of the guest bedrooms, then took her out shopping with Svetlana to find decor to her taste. He begged her not to worry about the price, reassuring her that it’s already a blessing she’s agreed to this arrangement.

Natalya took to her instantly; something about the warm, grandmotherly nature spoke to her. This first week has been an adjustment period, both for Ilya and Natalya. Sofya has spent most of it learning her way around the penthouse, getting used to the kitchen, to the overflowing fridge and pantry. Ilya agrees to pay her for any housework she deems fit, though he reminds her that he pays a cleaner to come each week, and that she’s not obligated to pick up after everyone. After her third night of eating Ilya’s go-to dinner, baked chicken and rice, she had commandeered the kitchen, graciously kicking him out and asking to be given cash on hand so she could buy household groceries. Ilya feels like a child being scolded for doing the bare minimum. He’d feel chuffed if it wasn’t so endearing.

During a short introductory period, Natalya and the nanny mostly played games, many of them involving Ilya those first few days. She accompanies them to the rink, and she stays with Natalya up in the spectator box while Ilya’s out on the ice. At home, she’s good for conversation, but she’s also quiet when Ilya finds himself needing to be alone. After their first week together, she approaches Ilya with a game plan to start working on Natalya’s English, as well as other foundational knowledge she’ll need if she wants to enter kindergarten next year. It might be a long shot, given that nobody knows the type of education Alexei and Anna had provided, but Ilya doesn’t think it’s unreasonable to assume “not a lot.” Sofya asks him point-blank how involved he’d like to be in Natalya’s education. If he wants to help with her English, working with Sofya on different exercises she’ll enact with Natalya each day. If he’d like to read with Natalya, preferably at night. She speaks about his fatherhood clinically, like she’s dealt with many parents who weigh out the cost-benefit ratio of spending time with their children. He hears the underlying message: “How involved do you actually want to be in this kid’s life?”

Ilya agrees to all of it, right down to the scheduled homework sessions fitted in between morning practice and mid-afternoon cardio. Ilya says yes to everything Sofya suggests, always keeping the face of his father in the back of his mind. Sofya may be here to help Ilya, but she will not take his place. Natalya is his responsibility now, his daughter for all intents and purposes. He is this broken child’s father, and he is determined to act as such.

As Sofya plates everyone’s meals, Natalya runs up behind her, hugging her leg as she relays everything about her day with the therapist in rapid-fire Russian. Sofya smiles down at her, nodding between Natalya’s breaths, and Ilya is relieved to hear that she hasn’t been scared off from therapy. He doesn’t think he can just leave their situation at “let her cling to you for an eternity.” He doesn’t think that’s feasible. Or healthy, for that matter.

Once the meals are dished out, Ilya helps Sofya carry their plates over to the dinner table. It’s funny, three months ago, this table hadn’t been used in years. Ilya ate every meal over the coffee table in his living room, watching hockey matches or reruns of old American sitcoms. He’d never had any reason to take his meals in the kitchen. Now, he feels something warm settling beneath his ribcage as Sofya bows her head in prayer, Natalya and Ilya following suit. Ilya has never found it necessary to do so before, especially when his meals were either DoorDashed or sheetpan chicken he made at the beginning of each week. But he is overwhelmingly grateful for Sofya’s presence, for the terse and no-nonsense care and structure she brings to the household. She makes them hearty meals, good meals, and she asks only to pray over them like the proper Orthodox Christian that she is. Ilya is grateful to Sofya, and Sofya is grateful to her God; and so, Ilya bows his head, and he prays.

***

Shane meets up with Rose a handful of times after that night at the bar. They eat out together, always breakfast or lunch, nothing too intimate. Both of their schedules are packed, but they find time to meet up a few hours a week. She takes him shopping with her one day, telling him atrocious acting-related anecdotes through the curtains of a dressing room. He visits her set, she attends a home game (making an absolute spectacle of herself). Shane finds himself enjoying her company, enjoying her quick wit and easy humor. They don’t touch, except for the obligatory “hello” and “goodbye” hugs. Shane never reaches for her, and she never pushes. It’s comfortable. It’s… nice. Like hanging out with Hayden, if Hayden were slightly more emotionally vulnerable. So, maybe more like hanging out with Jackie.

The team teases him when tabloid pictures are inevitably leaked, and Shane brushes off their comments with as much grace as he can muster (it’s not a lot). When he approaches Rose about it, apologizing for the skewed publicity, she gives him a weird look, but reassures him that it doesn’t bother her.

Three days before Montreal’s next scheduled game against Boston— another home game for the Raiders— Shane gets a TMZ alert that makes his heart drop to his stomach. It’s a photo taken at one of Boston’s home games. It’s slightly blurry, but both Natalya and Svetlana’s distinguishable curly heads of hair are easily discernible. Svetlana holds Ilya’s niece in her lap, the two of them smiling in the front row, seats close enough for them to touch the glass barrier separating the crowd from the players. Shane, despite himself, exits out of the article and opens Instagram, scrolling through Ilya’s “following” list until he finds Svetlana. He instantly regrets clicking on her profile, scrolling through selfie after endless selfie. She’s beautiful, achingly so, cat eyes bright and alluring, hair perfectly styled. Shane’s no expert, but he is an athlete. He knows what a perfect body looks like, and Svetlana’s is damn near perfect.

He exits the app, thumb hovering over it with the impulse to just delete it entirely. To forget about Svetlana. Svetlana and her perfect eyes, with her perfect grasp of the Russian language (many of her photo captions had been in Cyrillic). Her perfect smile, directed at the camera lens, almost like she’s begging whoever stands behind the camera to come closer. Shane wonders if any of those photos have been taken by Ilya. If Ilya looks at any of these photos, seeing the same woman Shane does. A woman whom Ilya can wear on his arm proudly, parading her around in public openly. A woman who, perhaps, can love his niece with ease, and who Natalya will love back. A perfect wife, a perfect mother. A perfect, perfect woman.

Shane squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath in through his nose and exhaling slowly. He’s catastrophizing. Ilya had said she’s a friend, that they “are not anything.” But Shane had been “not anything” once. In Sochi, then after. He’s still not much of anything, if he really thinks about it. A man Ilya still makes time to fuck. Really, the bar is incredibly high.

His spiraling thoughts are disrupted by a text from Rose.

Out with Miles and a few others from set. We’re at La Boca. Care to join?

Shane caves, opening the TMZ article one last time to stare at the grainy picture of Ilya’s niece and Svetlana, before he pockets his phone and rises from bed to get changed. Whatever, he thinks, nobody’s made anybody any promises here. If Ilya stops reaching out, Shane will know what this is for sure. He wouldn’t ask for Shane’s company if he were in a committed relationship; he’d made that pretty clear last time they met.

Still, still, Shane’s phone sits in his back pocket, that stupid TMZ article feeling as though it’s burning a hole through his jeans.

***

The restaurant Rose and her entourage chose is auspicious. They’ve rented out a private room in the back, all of them cheering with hand snaps when Shane pulls the curtain aside to step into the room. Rose has saved a seat for him right next to her. On her other side sits Miles, whom Shane’s met before a handful of times. He doesn’t think they’re familiar enough to warrant the lingering smile Miles offers him.

Rose introduces him to everyone sitting around the table. Shane smiles and nods appropriately, shaking hands with those he can reach. He doesn’t remember the names of anyone at the table, except the two men sitting at the far end.

“Christopher,” the taller of the two had introduced himself as, combing his finger through his dark-blond hair to brush it out of his eyes. His other hand rose, his arm thrown over the back of his dark-haired companion’s chair. Christopher smiles down at him, like the very fact that he gets to hold the man’s name in his mouth is a privilege. “And this is Jace.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jace says, offering up a shy smile.

“Chris is the male lead in our upcoming shoot,” Rose explains, loud enough for the entire table to hear. “He’s gonna be a big star. Huge.”

Chris snorts into his drink, and Jace rubs his back, preemptively prepping for a coughing fit.

“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t think this B-class horror film is what’s gonna get me on the billboards, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

“B-movie,” Shane repeats, turning to Rose. “Why are you in a B-movie? I thought you were an A-lister?”

“Uh-oh, scoping out her stats before locking it down?” Chris grins, wiggling his finger. “Clout chaser.”

The teasing is so familiar that Shane feels a keen sense of whiplash. The restaurant lighting is so dim that if he squints his eyes, he swears Chris’ hair can almost pass for curly, his shoulders a little broader.

“No, that’s not—” Shane stammers, blushing profusely. “I don’t—”

want to fuck her.

care about those sorts of things

know what I’m doing here, actually.

Luckily, Rose swoops in to save him, patting him placatingly on the back.

“Shane doesn’t need clout, Christopher, he’s the greatest player in the NHL.”

“What the fuck is the NHL?” Jace asks, spoken under his breath, but still loud enough for the majority of the table to hear. It elicites a laugh from everyone, including Shane, and he relaxes back into his seat, settling in for a pleasant evening with his friend and her intimate band of Hollywood misfits.

As the night progresses, and Shane’s drink count racks up (well, he’s had two beers; but, still, that’s a lot for a man who only drinks during the summer and on special occasions), his body loosens, his thoughts growing melancholy. His attention is constantly drawn toward the couple sitting at the end of the table. He tries not to let the stab of envy he feels every time they offer one another casual touches show on his face. Chris takes up all of Jace’s space, seemingly unaware or unbothered by the polite distance couples tend to keep in casual settings. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s something else, something more poignant, but Chris can’t seem to keep his hands off Jace’s shoulders, his forearms, his cheeks and hair and hands. Like he’s touch-starved, even though Jace is right there.

“They’re always like this,” Rose whispers to him, lips too close and breath smelling of sugar and tequila. “It’s obnoxious, how in love they are.” She says this part louder, loud enough for Chris to hear over the din of voices. He flips them off playfully before tuning back into whatever conversation he’s engaged in.

They’re halfway through desert when the happy duo round the table, leaning against the wall behind Rose and Miles. Shane spoons ice cream slowly into his mouth, watching as Chris throws his head back, laughing loudly at something Rose said. Jace’s expression goes impossibly soft, and he reaches out, seemingly subconsciously, to squeeze Chris’ hand with both of his. Chris turns his head, directing his open-mouthed smile at his boyfriend, and Jace smiles back. Subdued, quiet. Chris says something quippy and teasing, no bite behind his words, and Jace rolls his eyes, kissing Chris’ cheek and squeezing his hand before letting go. He leaves their little circle to go speak with another guest down the table.

Shane’s gaze drops to his ice cream. It’s mostly melted by now; he ate it too slowly. He mindlessly stirs the melty milkshake with his spoon, imagining this exact scenario. Only, Chris is a little broader, his hair a little kinkier. And Jace— Jace’s features are softened, his body larger. He stands at the same height as Chris. And maybe they’ve just arrived, late to Rose’s party because the game went into overtime. And maybe they are holding hands as they arrive, and maybe nobody cares.

Shane stares down at his melted bowl of ice cream. Unseeing. In his mind’s eye, he is walking through a packed room, trailing behind Ilya. He is watching himself introduce Ilya to his friends. He is looking at him, watching him throughout the night, and he doesn’t care. Because nobody cares. Or maybe they care just enough to tease him about it. As Ilya would.

He takes another sip of beer and wonders if Ilya would tease him for this. For wanting this.

***

It’s Sunday, a rare day off for Ilya. He doesn’t have morning practice, thus agreeing to accompany Sofya and Natalya to church. He’s very proud of Natalya; she’s managing to part from him for hours at a time now. Never over three or four, and never without a few tears during the departure or the reunion. Still, though, he’ll take the wins where he can.

He sits with his little family in the back, singing the assigned hymns, spacing out during the preacher’s spiel, but at least looking polite about it. Natalya grows bored after about ten minutes, crawling into Ilya’s lap. She grabs a spare piece of notebook paper from Sofya’s purse and folds it once, twice— folds it until she’s made a small triangle with sharp, paper-edged points. She then grabs Ilya’s hand and holds it palm-up. She begins tracing the lines of Ilya’s palms with the sharp tip of the triangle, the feather-light edge of paper vaguely ticklish where it glides across his skin. She traces each line, over and over, like she’s etching their lengths into her memory. Once she tires of his laugh line, heart line, life line, she moves on to his veins, delicately tracing the blue-green lines hidden beneath the translucent skin of his wrist. She finds entertainment in this task long enough to get through the sermon.

It takes what feels like twelve years to actually leave the church, Ilya and Natalya waiting— impatient and hungry— at the door for Sofya. But Sofya takes her time, lingering to speak to the older women who are all mingling in the reception area, their laughter carrying throughout the small, claustrophobic room. Ilya leans against an old, wooden beam, crossing his arms over his chest and stretching his neck to the left, then the right. Natalya squats down next to him, the ruffled skirt of her dress fanning out around her. Ilya uncrosses his arms and joins her on the floor, elbows hanging over his knees. He tugs at one of Natalya’s pigtails playfully, and she swats at his hand without looking at him.

Eventually, Sofya weaves her way to the front. She’s joined by three other women, and Ilya quickly stands to introduce himself, patting down his curls like an abashed child. Natalya stays seated, tracing the wooden grains of the floor panels with her fingers. Sofya introduces each of her acquaintances to Ilya, and they all coo over him. “Such a handsome man,” “You must be so proud,” “Oh, my niece would be absolutely smitten,” like he is Sofya’s son, and not her employer. Ilya smiles politely, nods when it’s appropriate, asks Natalya to stand so he can introduce her as well. She is equally loved, though the affection is not as smoothly welcomed by her. When one of the ladies tries to pinch her cheeks, she teeters back, hiding behind Ilya’s leg while sporting the world’s most adorable scowl.

“Ah, sorry,” Ilya apologizes weakly. “She is shy.”

Sofya wraps up her Sunday social hour, grabbing Natalya by one hand, waiting for Ilya to grab the other, and they exit the church without much fanfare. Luckily, the elderly demographic doesn’t appear to recognize hockey superstar, Ilya Rozanoz. They stop by the car to grab the cooler Sofya packed that morning, and a checkered blanket she’d procured from God knows where. They walk the three blocks to Emerald Park, meeting Svetlana on the East side of the pond. She is beautiful, as always, wearing a turrtleneck dress and stockings; knee-high leather boots to accentuate her height. Ilya feels a sharp pang in his chest, wishing, not for the first time, that he could love her properly. It would make life so easy. She’s sexy, loving, kind to Natalya. She is Ilya’s best friend, his closest confidante, but she will never be anything more than that, and Ilya feels eternally grateful that she’s okay with where their relationship rests. There is no nebulous “someday” for them, that spot precariously reserved for another, equally encapsulating figure in Ilya’s life.

He closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head and ridding himself of the smoky image taking form beneath his lids. A dimpled smile and a precious smattering of freckles slipping from his mind’s eye when he glances up at the sun, like he has to burn the picture from his irises.

Svetlana hugs them all hello. She’s already familiar with Sofya, having been the one to help Ilya pick her in the first place. They lay out the blanket, then open the cooler to start pulling out sliced sandwiches, fruit, and veggies. Sofya is so meticulous, so kind to have packed everything perfectly, going so far as to cut the crust off of some of the sandwiches for Natalya. They laugh together, chatting in easy Russian as they watch the last of autumn’s leaves fall from the dead trees surrounding them. After Ilya’s had his fill of lunch, he leans back on his elbows, happy to listen to Sofya tell Svetlana about her daughter, about how she’s in her second year of med school at Northwestern. How she’s so proud of her, proud of her intelligence and her tenacity. Ilya revels in listening to the love of a parent, how that pride doesn’t carry with it a traditional air of hubris, but how it stems simply from the love of a perfect mother. Ilya turns his gaze toward Natalya, deciding he’s proud of the fact that, when she digs her finger into her nose, she decides to forgo eating her booger, opting instead to wipe it on the grass.

Good girl.

Eventually, Natalya grows bored. Ilya grabs a few spare sandwiches, then rises from his doze. He takes Natalya’s hand, leading her toward the bank of the pond. He tears off pieces of the sandwich bread and tosses them to the ducks. They eat it ravagely, circling each other like vultures. He lures them in closer, tossing the bread near the bank in incremental steps. Natalya squeals in delight, clapping her hands before reaching out, holding them palm-up in request.

“Let me!” She giggles. “Let me, dyadya, let me!”

The “dyadya” comes out very slurred, the long “y” sound almost dropping off entirely. Ilya tries not to get choked up over unintentional English.

He hands her a slice of bread, and she promptly throws the entire thing in the pond.

“Ah, nyet,” he scolds weakly. “Watch.”

He tears the bread into tiny pieces, tossing it to the ducks bit by bit. He tears up another piece, then hands over half the pieces to Natalya. She throws them out one piece at a time, drawing the ducks right to the edge of the pond. Hands empty, she bends down to unlatch her church shoes.

“Malysh, what are you doing?”

She tugs off one shoe with her right hand, pointing at the ducks with her left.

“I want to pet them!”

“Ah, no no no, baby. We do not pet them.” He bends down, reaching for her hands before she can tug off another shoe. “They are wild animals. We just watch them, okay? Feed them. But don’t try to pet them.”

She looks up from her task, eyes already teary. Her lower lip wobbles.

“But—” she starts, wiping her eyes with tiny fists. “Why not?”

“You see their big mouths?” he asks gently. “They’re called ‘bills.’” He presses the palms of his hands together and brings them to his lips, opening and closing them like duck bills. “The ducks will nip at you with them, and they’re very painful!” He “bites” Natalya’s pigtail with his fake duck bills, forcing a giggle out of her. She shoves at him, screeching out a laugh when he traps her fingers between his palms.

“Noooo, dyadya, nooooo!”

“I’m going to eat you!” He keeps snapping his fake bills open and shut, “biting” at her neck, her shoulder, her rosy cheeks. “Little girls are my favorite snack!” She runs from him, screeching out a laugh, turning their little game into one of chase. Ilya runs after her, making exaggerated chomping sounds, sandwich innards forgotten at the edge of the pond. After properly tiring herself out, Natalya runs to Sofya, hiding behind her shoulders as Ilya continues to make chase.

“Sofya,” she cries. “Sofya, save me! The duck is gonna get me!” She hides her face in Sofya’s shoulders, and Ilya gets on his hands and knees when he gets to the picnic blanket, prowling forward like a tiger stalking its prey.

“Quack,” he says menacingly. “Quack, quack.”

“Nooooo,” Natalya cries, wrapping her arms around Sofya’s shoulders. “Please, no!”

Svetlana lunges forward, tackling Ilya to the ground. She pins him to the blanket, wrapping her arms around his torso to keep him from rising.

“Run, Natasha! Run, I’ll save you!”

Natalya scampers off, Sofya hot on her tail to make sure she doesn’t go far without adult supervision. Once they’re both hidden in a cluster of trees, Svetlana sits up, laughing and smoothing her hair back from her face. Ilya rises, then settles back down, resting his head on Svetlana’s lap. She immediately reaches for his curls, running her fingers through them like his mother used to.

“You are so good with her,” Svetlana says, tucking stray curls behind Ilya’s ear. “Very kind.”

Ilya swallows, tucking his fist beneath his cheek. He idly plays with the zipper of Svetlana’s boot.

“I love her,” he eventually replies, as if that answers it.

Which, in retrospect, maybe it does.

There are so many different ways to love a child, so many ways to fuck them up. Complex ways to hurt them, to manipulate them. To ask too much of them, or too little. They’re so fragile, so kind, so easy to hurt. But, also, so so easy to love.

Natalya peeks her head out from behind the trunk of a large tree. She smiles and waves at Ilya enthusiastically.

Ilya lifts his hand and waves back.

“She is getting more comfortable,” Svetlana observes. “Sitting with me at the games. Letting you off for a few hours at a time. Does the doctor agree?”

“Da,” Ilya replies, fingers falling to the grass in front of him. “He says she’s progressing well. Still throws raging fits over the silliest things, but she’s smiling more. Sofya would like to start letting her go to Sunday school during church service. She thinks being around other kids would help her.”

“Do you agree?”

Ilya watches Natalya grab a handful of dried leaves, throwing them up above her head and dancing around as they fall over her shoulders. He thinks of his brother, holed up in that cold Moscow apartment with their dying father. He wonders if he’d ever brought Natalya with him, forcing her hand at interacting with her cruel, confused grandfather. He wonders if she ever had any friends, any playmates aside from her mother.

“Yes,” he says, smiling softly as he watches Sofya grab a giant bundle of leaves to throw up above Natalya’s head. The leaves rain down on both of them, and they launch into a fresh set of giggles.

“I agree.”

***

A few hours before the game with Boston, Shane lies anxiously, fully dressed, atop his perfectly made hotel bed. He’s pretending to watch whatever Hayden’s got playing on TV, but, in all actuality, he’s counting down the minutes to when they have to leave for the arena. He’s waiting for a text that may never come, trying not to plow through all five stages of grief before one of the most challenging matches of the season.

“Man, I always thought she was so hot.”

Shane’s snapped out of his self-depreciating thoughts, looking over at Hayden to see him pointing at something— or, more accurately, someone— on the screen.

“Uh, who?” Shane asked, having not followed the storyline at all for the past two hours.

“Courteney Cox. Everyone was, like, all over Aniston when this show came out. But hardly anyone talked about what a fuckin’ smoke show Cox was.”

“Mm,” Shane absentmindedly agrees.

“Don’t get me wrong! Jackie’s got em’ all beat. But, still…” Hayden trails off, turning his attention back to whatever’s on the screen. Or, Shane thought he had, but two minutes later, Hayden’s turning bodily atop his own hotel bed to face Shane.

“Which one is your favorite?” he asks, jerking his head toward the TV.

“Uh, what?”

“The girls,” Hayden grins. “Which one’s your favorite?”

“Oh, um,” Shane glances at the screen, a bunch of characters sitting around a couch in what looks to be a cafe.

“I don’t know, Hayds. I don’t really know this show.”

Hayden frowns, just slightly.

“Dude, we’ve literally been watching it for, like, two hours.”

Shane swallows nervously, glancing back at the screen. His knee-jerk reaction, of course, is to name the guy wearing the leather jacket. Dark hair, maybe a little shorter than the others. He’s a bit stocky, like a hockey player, carrying himself like most men who know they’re handsome carry themselves. Shane’s mind flashes to snapshots of Ilya, smirking at the camera, shoulders and chest still drenched in sweat as he answers reporters’ post-game questions.

“Um,” Shane’s eyes rove over the screen quickly, purposefully avoiding the short, stocky man who’s seated on the arm of the couch. “I don’t know. The blonde one?”

“Which one?” Hayden laughs. “There are two.”

Fuck.

Shane looks a little closer, trying to find a distinctive feature belonging to either of the two blonde women on screen.

“Um, the— the one with the apron on. The waitress, I think?” It comes out a question, and Shane hopes Hayden interprets it as “I think the blonde girl is a waitress,” not “I think I like the blonde one who’s a waitress.”

Hayden groans, rolling onto his back. For a moment, Shane freezes, thinking he’s somehow fucked up his answer enough for Hayden to have clocked his obvious attraction to the leather-clad man on screen. Or, even worse, he might direct his gaze back to Shane’s face, his eyes scrutinizing and knowing, as he says, cruelly: “Oh? The blond one? As in: Ilya Rozanov?”

Hayden does none of these things. Instead, he blows out a raspberry.

“I knew you were an Aniston kinda guy. Sooooo basic.”

Shane’s too relieved to offer a retort, letting his head sink back into the cheap hotel pillows with a quiet sigh.

“Jackie’s, like, in love with Joey.”

Shane, eyes closed, asks: “Which one is Joey?”

“Short one. Leather jacket. Kind of a prick sometimes, but also kind of not. You know chicks, love that kinda shit. Or, at least, in theory. They all want a project, you know? Wanna ‘fix him.’”

Shane can hear the air quotations Hayden’s making, even if he can’t see them.

“Mmm,” Shane replies. Though secretly, he can’t help but quietly agree with Jackie.

Your wife has good taste, Shane wants to say.

“Wish more girls were cool with ‘fresh out the box’ nice guys, you know? No problems or nothin.’ No baggage.”

“Right,” Shane responds, wishing Hayden would kill the conversation before he seriously considers smothering himself with his own pillow. It’s not even a nice pillow, not like the memory foam one he has at home. What a tragic way to go out.

Shane hears Hayden snickering from his side of the room.

“You should be more invested in this cause. Maybe then you’d actually get laid.”

“Hey!” Shane shoots up into a sitting position, glaring over at Hayden. “I get laid plenty!”

“Yeah, sure man—”

They’re both interrupted by Shane’s phone going off. Shane reaches for it at lightning speed, reading the preview of the text before he even unlocks the screen.

Lily: tonight? after game? my place. don’t bother with dinner, will have it ready for you here.

Shane knows the smile he’s wearing is bordering on ridiculous. He doesn’t care. He’s been waiting for this text for days.

“Who’s that?” Hayden asks, head tilted in curiosity. Shane pockets his phone, settling back into his pillows with a smug grin.

“Nobody,” he says, closing his eyes again. “Just a girl who likes fucking nice guys.”

***

The win goes to Boston again. Home ice advantage, or whatever. Shane tries not to be bitter about it. The one advantage being that he doesn’t have to go make the obligatory round with his teammates at whatever club they’ve chosen for the evening. Instead, everyone’s chosen to nurse their emotional wounds in the privacy of their own rooms. Slipping out is easy, Hayden acting overly encouraging about his best friend getting laid. Shane doubts he’d bring the same level of enthusiasm to the table if he knew who Shane is fucking, but that’s neither here nor there.

When he gets to Ilya’s front door, it’s Natalya who answers.

“Hello,” she stares up at him, speaking to him shyly. Shane squats so he can speak to her at eye level.

“Hello,” he replies, smiling softly. “Is your dyadya here?”

“Natasha!” Shane hears Ilya call from inside the house, followed by a slew of Russian. Natalya turns her head, saying something back, short and clipped, before she turns to face Shane again.

“You want to come in.”

Shane thinks she means to phrase it as a question, but she doesn’t quite have the inflection down pat. It’s no matter, he nods his head “yes.”

“May I?” he asks politely.

Natalya reaches out her hand, and he thinks maybe she’s going for another handshake. Another “nice to meet you,” but in English this time. However, she doesn’t shake his hand, and she doesn’t let go. He stands and lets her tug him toward the kitchen. As they walk down the hallway, Natalya yells something out in Russian. He’s not sure, but he thinks he hears the word “Shanya” slip into the tail-end of her sentence. When they round the corner to the kitchen, Natalya drops his hand and leaves him for the table, where there looks to be an elaborate Lego ship set-up spread out across half the tabletop.

“Guess she thought I’d get lost—” Shane starts, cutting himself off when he turns to see Ilya in the kitchen. He’s standing next to an older woman; she’s cutting vegetables into a salad bowl while Ilya’s sauteeing something on the stovetop. Ilya smiles over at him, gesturing toward the woman next to him with his spatula.

“Shane! This is Sofya. She is my nanny.”

“My nanny,” Natalya corrects from her perch at the dinner table. Ilya rolls his eyes.

“My apologies, princess. Natasha’s nanny.”

“Oh, good,” Shane jokes, stepping into the kitchen. “There’s two of you.”

“You have no idea,” Sofya says, shaking her head fondly. “That one over there barely knows any English, yet she still knows exactly where to dig.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” Shane laughs, shooting Ilya a secretive look.

“Shane Hollander,” Shane approaches the kitchen island, holding out his hand for Sofya to take. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Sofya,” Sofya replies, wiping her hands on a dish towel before reaching for Shane’s hand. “It is lovely to meet you, too. Ilya tells me you are…”

“Friends,” Shane supplies quickly. A little too quickly, going by the knowing smirk she wears. “We’re, uh, we’re friends.”

“Right,” Sofya nods, like she doesn’t know a total crock of shit when she hears it. “Well, Mister friend, would you like to help us set the table?”

“Sofya,” Ilya chastises half-heartedly, “he is a guest in this house.”

“Technically, I am also a guest,” Sofya jokes, turning back to her salad bowl to finish cutting up the remaining vegetables. Ilya crosses his arms and turns his nose up haughtily, the image softened by the frilly, white apron he’s wearing.

“You have your own room here. En suite bathroom and everything. We bought you new sheets and comforter set. I think is safe to say you are no longer a guest.”

“Right,” Sofya nods with false solemnity. “Of course. All the residents get their own rooms in this house. No guest bedrooms.” She side-eyes Ilya for the final blow. “All the guests must sleep with you.”

“Hey!”

Sofya ignores him, smiling at Shane with a glint in her eye.

“Wait,” Shane glares over at Ilya, “how many guests have you been having over?”

And— okay, it’s none of his business, it really isn’t. But Sofya is looking at him so knowingly, like this is a frequent occurrence. Like she and Ilya pan out dinner every night for each one of Ilya’s conquests.

She answers before Ilya can rebut.

“None, darling. You are our first. Welcome.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, flicking the burner off and turning to grab plates out of the cabinets above the stove.

“He was guest here long before you ever were, Miss Sofya. Show some respect.”

Ilya plates their food, then hands it over to Shane so he can set the half of the table that isn’t completely overrun with Lego pieces. Sofya says something to Sofya in Russian, to which the little girl says something whiny and high-pitched back. Ilya butts in, repeating Sofya’s words a little more sharply. Natalya grumbles under her breath, but leaves her spot at the table to go gather silverware from the cutlery drawer. She comes back, setting out a fork and a steak knife for everyone except herself. She gets a butter knife.

Shane and Natalya sit down for the meal while Sofya brings everyone water glasses. She then joins them; the only one they’re waiting for is Ilya.

Shane picks up his fork, ready to dig in, but Natalya makes a tittering noise, halting him in his tracks. He stares at her, fork half-buried in his baked chicken, waiting for the pin to drop.

“You forgot your prayers,” Natalya scolds, eyeing Shane’s fork like it’s personally offended her.

“Uhh—”

“Sorry,” Ilya says, plopping down into the seat next to him, “forgot to mention that part. Is okay?”

“Uhh, yeah. No, yeah, that’s totally cool. Sorry,” he says to Natalya, pulling out his fork and resting it on his plate. “I forgot about prayers.”

Natalya squints her eyes at him like she doesn’t quite believe him, but she lets it go, closing her eyes and holding out her hands. Sofya, sitting to Natalya’s left, takes her hand. Shane follows suit, reaching for Natalya’s open palm with his left hand, Ilya’s with his right. Ilya’s grip is warm and sturdy, Natalya’s loose and a bit clammy. Sofya grabs Ilya’s left hand and bows her head, asking Ilya to lead the prayer.

He begins, head bowed and eyes closed, saying a few sentences in Russian before switching to English partway through. He thanks the Lord for his food, for his home, for everyone at the table. He asks God to bless everyone gathered tonight, and sends his love to Sofya’s children and Natalya’s mother and father, who are in Heaven. He concludes with an “Amen,” everyone letting go of each other’s hands to eat. Everyone aside from Shane and Ilya. Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand, shooting him a quick wink, before unclasping their hands to reach for his fork and knife. Shane flexes his fingers, feeling as though he’s just burned himself on dry ice, his skin fingertips tingling with adrenaline.

Dinner is shockingly homely. Shane doesn’t contribute much to the conversation, as most of it is a mindboggling mix of English and Russian, but both Sofya and Ilya make sure to drag him into the conversation when it feels like it’s straying too far into a topic Shane knows nothing about. Sofya is polite, but witty, able to keep up with Ilya’s snarky little quips. Natalya talks more. No long monologues, not even in Russian, but she pipes up during conversation and speaks when spoken to. At one point during dinner, she must ask Ilya for something in Russian, because Ilya nods, forking over a few pieces of his own chicken. Sofya scowls at him, making a disapproving tisking noise. She turns to Shane to explain.

“She asks for more chicken, and he gives it to her knowing she will not eat her broccoli.”

“I am just happy she is eating,” Ilya says, not looking up from his task of forking out another large chunk of chicken breast.

“She needs her vegetables, synok.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, looking to Shane for support.

“You see the way my employees treat me?”

“She’s right,” Shane shrugs, stabbing at his own chicken. “She does need her vegetables.” He forks up a hefty portion of meat and places it on Ilya’s plate. “And you need at least two hundred grams of protein.”

“Oh my God,” Ilya buries his face in his hands. “I do not need two of you.”

Shane and Sofya smile at each other conspiratorially. Sofya then turns back towards Natalya, saying something sharp in Russian. Natalya whines, turning to Ilya for support, but Ilya shakes his head, saying something quick and pointing at her plate. She huffs, stabbing at her broccoli while wearing a little pout, but she puts it in her mouth and chews, sulking as she does so.

After dinner, Sofya takes Natalya for a bath while Shane and Ilya clean up the kitchen.

“We can go to bedroom soon,” Ilya says quietly, drying the dishes Shane hands him after they’ve been washed. “I need to read her bedtime story.”

“Oh,” Shane says, scrubbing at one of the spatulas Ilya used to make dinner. “You don’t let Sofya do that?”

“Sofya is her nanny, not her mother,” Ilya replies, his words carrying a certain bite behind them.

“Sorry,” Shane hastens, “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” Ilya says, taking the spatula from him a bit too forcefully.

“No, I just—” Shane sighs, letting his hands fall into the suddy water. He stares down at them as he tries to collect his thoughts. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. I just meant you don’t have to, like, do everything.”

Ilya has paused, too, just holding the spatula in both hands, rubbing his thumb over the ridges of the handle.

“Sofya will help me with many things, but she will not raise my child. That is still my job.” He lifts his chin, eyes meeting Shane’s in full force. “Be like my mother, yes? If I remember correctly, a little birdie told me this was probably the best path forward.”

Shane smiles, handing him the fork that he sort of washed in a half-assed manner.

“Your mother probably would have made you eat your vegetables.”

Ilya throws his hands up in mock frustration.

“Christ, Hollander, you cannot let a moment be, can you?”

“Oh,” Shane laughs, splashing him with soap suds, “we were having a moment?”

Which is how, ten minutes later, Sofya reenters the kitchen, only to find them making out against the kitchen island, T-shirts slightly damp with dish water. She clears her throat, and Shane jerks back so fast his head nearly slams into the kitchen cabinet. Sofya makes a disapproving tutting sound before addressing Ilya.

“Your little malyshka is ready for her bedtime story.”

Shane smooths out the front of his shirt, staring wide-eyed back and forth between Ilya and Sofya, but Ilya looks unperturbed. He waves a hand at Sofya with a “yes, yes, you’re off the hook,” then grabs Shane’s hand, dragging him past her and down the hall. Shane jerks his hand back once they round the corner, hissing out a sharp ”Rozanov,” stopping them in their tracks.

“Christ, Hollander, what?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’ How are you not freaking out about her knowing about— about—”

Ilya raises an eyebrow.

“About what?”

“This!” Shane gestures between them wildly. “Us! What the fuck, Rozanov!”

Ilya lets out a deep breath of annoyance, like Shane’s being purposefully obtuse.

“Shane, kotik, you think I, famous Russian hockey player, Ilya Rozanov, did not get my nanny to sign an NDA?”

“Well…”

“And you think maybe, just maybe, I did not ask about her discretion, her opinion of certain preferences during interview?”

Shane shuffles his feet, his nose twitching nervously.

“Things still get leaked… even with NDAs.”

Ilya gives him a reproachful look.

“You met this woman, yes? You honestly think she’s going to run to the press with big, gay hockey secret? I have not even mentioned how much I am paying her.”

“I’m sure they’d pay her much more for a leak…”

“Hollander.”

“Okay, jeeze,” Shane throws his hands up in defeat, taking a deep breath to steady his heart. “I just— fuck, so did you, like, tell her about us? Before tonight? Is that why she was teasing me about the guest room?”

Ilya’s answering smirk is revealing.

“Ah, no. She figured that one out on her own.” Ilya crowds him against the hallway wall, pressing his palms to the wall near Shane’s ears, trapping him. “She asks me if she needs to make up guest bedroom for friend who is coming over tonight, I tell her no.” He bends down, kissing Shane’s cheek. “She says, ‘Oh, so he is leaving after dinner?’ I tell her no. She puts two-and-two together.”

“Mmm,” Shane sighs, tilting his head to the side as Ilya noses across his cheekbone. “Smart woman.”

“Yes,” Ilya hums, kissing the underside of Shane’s jaw. Perfect, Shane doesn’t have to look him in the eye when he drops his catty, follow-up bomb.

“And where does Svetlana stay when she comes over?”

Ilya’s shoulders tense, and he pulls back to glare at Shane. Maybe for ruining the moment. Or maybe for questioning his morals… again.

“I saw the TMZ photos,” Shane explains, dropping his gaze to stare at the grip he has on Ilya’s shirt.

“Hmm, I don’t know, Hollander,” Ilya replies with a sneer. “Where does Miss Rose Landry stay when guest at your home?”

Shane’s head shoots up, eyes widening.

“I— what?”

“Oh, you think you are the only one with access to TMZ?”

“No, I just—”

“You cannot parade pretty little actress around Montreal for a month, then get mad at me for asking my best friend to babysit—”

“Dyadya!” A voice whines from down the hall, interrupting Ilya’s huffy tirade. He lets go of Shane, taking a step back from him and wagging his finger in his face.

“This discussion is not over.”

Shane lets out a petulant huff, watching Ilya leave him for Natalya’s bedroom. Ilya turns, craning his neck to call over his shoulder: “Coming?”

Shane didn’t think he was. He thought he’d wait for Ilya in the bedroom like last time, but he doesn’t question it, trailing after Ilya like a kicked puppy.

He enters Natalya’s bedroom, taking note of the decor that’s been added since the last time he saw it. Pink butterfly stickers are pasted on the windows; Shane assumes that when the sun’s up, it filters through the translucent wings. There’s a toy bin overflowing with toys, some left out on the floor and scattered around the room haphazardly. A small table, shin-height, is set up near the far corner of the room, a painting easel and a bin full of markers left on the tabletop. The comforter is colorful, sporting a tie-dyed pattern of different shades of pink and purple. She has a bedside lamp, its body a porcelain ballet dancer. It’s girly and mismatched and sweet; lived in the way a child takes up space.

Natalya is already tucked in, her head and shoulders just barely peeking out from beneath the comforter. Ilya joins her at the head of the bed, grabbing a book from the bedside table and flipping to a dog-eared page. Shane stands awkwardly at the foot of the bed until Ilya gestures for him to sit. He does, sitting at the edge of the bed near Ilya’s feet.

“We are a little far in the story, so you have a bit of catching up to do. Natashenka,” he turns his head toward his niece, who’s cuddled up next to his shoulder, “will you tell Shane what the book is about?”

Natalya blinks owlishly at him, clearly not understanding a word he asked. Ilya sighs, shaking his head morosely. “We have a long way to go with the English,” he tells Shane, before saying something to his niece in Russian, presumably the question he just asked.

“Ah,” Natalya lights up, nodding her head enthusiastically, her cheek rubbing against Ilya’s shoulder. She spits out quick, Russian words, looking at Shane with brightened eyes. Ilya translates for her.

“Is about a little boy who has just learned he is a wizard. He’s going to a new school. A big school. It’s a castle, with ghosts and other wizards. His family is not nice, but his friends are. My favorite character is Hagrid—” Shane hears Ilya say his name a few seconds after Natalya, a familiar word in a sea of Russian. “—Hagrid is very nice. I like the boy. He’s like me, he—” Ilya cuts himself off, letting her carry on while he turns to look at her, his eyes betraying the sorrow that’s suddenly overtaken him.

“What?” Shane asks, leaning forward and bracing his hands atop Ilya’s shins. “What did she say?”

Natalya’s gone quiet, but Ilya continues to stare at her. When he speaks, it is to her.

“He lost his mamma, just like me. Just like dyadya. And I am sorry for him, because he has his friends, but he does not have dyadya. And he likes chocolate frogs.”

Ilya’s voice is coming out a bit choked by the end of the monologue. He says something soft and comforting to Natalya, reaching up with his free hand to tuck her hair behind her ears.

Shane scoots his butt closer to the other side of the bed, leaning his back against the wall and pulling his legs up to sit criss-crossed. He pokes at Ilya’s big toe, a small warning before he grabs him by the heels of his feet and tugs them into his lap. Ilya smiles at him bashfully, not remarking on it, but not removing his feet either. He holds the book out in front of himself and begins reading.

The bedtime story is in Russian, so Shane isn’t able to follow along, but it’s no bother. Mostly, he’s invested in watching the scene play out before him: Ilya, one hand holding the book to his nose, the other mindlessly twirling Natalya’s curls around his fingers. Natalya squirms beneath his arm until her head is nestled against his chest. She’s fighting to keep her eyes open, heavy lids falling, her sleepy body hopeless to the soft cadence of Ilya’s voice.

Shane looks away from the pair of them, staring down at his lap full of Ilya’s feet. He reaches for one, tracing the edge of his pinky toe with his index finger. He then trails his finger down the arc of his foot until he reaches his heel. He cups it between both palms, staring down at it like it holds the secrets of the universe. Like it can somehow help him reconcile the fact that the man sitting before him, the one holding his niece like delicately blown glass, is the same man who can make Shane a shivering, aching mess within the timespan of three minutes.

He lifts Ilya’s heel, forcing the man’s ankles to cross atop his lap. He runs both thumbs up the center of Ilya’s foot, thinking of the times he’s watched Hayden do this for Jackie, especially during her pregnancy. He thinks it’s sweet, the way Hayden is able to intuit exactly what his wife needs, how to comfort her after a long day with the twins. He keeps this in mind as he applies a small amount of pressure with his thumbs, dragging them back down the calloused skin of Ilya’s foot until they reach his heel. Ilya’s voice stutters while he’s reading, and he shoots Shane a curious look over the pages of his book, but he doesn’t remark on it.

Blushing lightly, but committing himself to the cause, Shane tries again, running his thumbs up and down the underside of Ilya’s foot, pausing when he reaches the soft pad beneath his toes to rub circles into the skin there. He kneads at the muscles of Ilya’s feet, gentle at first, but allowing his thumbs to apply more pressure as his confidence grows. Ilya still doesn’t say anything, but he tilts his foot this way and that, directing Shane’s hands to spots that need a good rubbing. Shane smiles at the small win, circling those spots with diligence. Soon, he finishes with one foot, setting it back down on his lap before reaching for the other. He offers it the same treatment, diligent and firm with his hands. He’s so focused on his task that he doesn’t notice Ilya’s stopped reading. Not until he pauses in one of his strokes, realizing that the steady background noise of Ilya’s voice has died down. He glances up, seeing that Ilya’s set the book on his chest, just watching him. Natalya is tucked into his side, fast asleep.

Shane swallows, feeling a tad embarrassed.

“This is okay?” he asks quietly, running his thumbs up the low arch of Ilya’s foot.

“Mmm, is okay,” Ilya replies, his voice low and rumbly. He closes his eyes in contentment and rests his cheek on top of Natalya’s mop of curls. He stretches his foot out, toes poking playfully at Shane’s stomach. “You cannot keep that up, though. Will put me to sleep.”

“That’s okay,” Shane says, voice soft and thick with affection. “I don’t mind if you wanna sleep.”

“No, no, I want to fuck you.”

”Ilya,” Shane hisses, pinching his heal in retaliation. He directs a pointed look at the child currently zonked out in Ilya’s arms. Ilya rolls his eyes.

“What? She is asleep. And she knows a few dozen English words, at best.”

He’s smiling at Shane, his grin dopey and sickly sweet.

“What?” Shane huffs, letting his gaze drop back down to Ilya’s feet. He takes up massaging the one in his hands again, trying to ignore the way his cheeks are heating up beneath Ilya’s gaze.

“Nothing,” Ilya says. Doesn’t sound like nothing, not in the way he says it: sleep-soft and cloying, like he’s about to spill a secret. “Is just rare, you calling me by my first name. Makes sense that it would be to chastise me.”

Shane’s fingers halt in their tracks, his breath stuttering. No— surely this isn’t an infrequent occurrence, right? He’s called Ilya by his first name countless times…

Right?

He’s busy racking his brain for another instance when he’d called Ilya, well, “Ilya,” coming up blank; in the meantime, Ilya uses his momentary distraction to withdraw his feet from Shane’s lap, carefully maneuvering out from under Natalya’s tiny head. He cradles her, resting her shoulders against her pillow before easing up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stands, patting Shane’s cheek as he walks by him.

“Do not think on it too hard, kotik,” he waves his hand toward the door. “Come.”

They leave Natalya’s bedroom and walk mutely down the hallway. Sofya’s still up; Shane can hear the TV blasting a late-night sitcom from the living room. He imagines he’ll be grateful for the noise later.

Ilya tugs him into his bedroom, pushing him toward the bed eagerly, already mouthing at his throat. The backs of Shane’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and he sits, parting his thighs so that Ilya can stand between them. He rucks Ilya’s shirt up his stomach, planting open-mouthed kisses down his dark-haired happy trail. His arms rise, wrapping around Ilya’s upper thighs instinctively. He grips the backs of Ilya’s thighs, thumbs digging into the cusp of his ass. He pulls, dipping his head lower to nuzzle Ilya’s clothed cock, noting that it’s already half-hard. Ilya hisses, burying his hands in Shane’s hair, using the grip to hold him closer to his body.

It is here that Shane finally decides to speak.

“I’m not dating Rose.”

Ilya’s body seizes up, his hands stilling in Shane’s hair. It feels like he’s waiting for a follow-up blow, for the “but” that will inevitably leave Shane’s lips. Shane sighs, turning his head so that he’s speaking to Ilya’s flagging erection. It feels oddly appropriate, given that the next sentence to spill from his lips is:

“I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to. Even if she were perfect, which I think she might be. She’s funny, and kind, and so incredibly smart. She’s hard-working, and really fucking good at her job. She—”

“Right, Hollander, I get it. The woman you allegedly don’t want to fuck has everything going for her.” Ilya’s hands have twisted themselves up in Shane’s hair so tightly that his scalp has begun to sting. Shane lets out a low, unamused huff, pulling back just far enough so that he can meet Ilya’s eyes. However, Ilya won’t look at him; he’s staring ahead, and Shane’s at the perfect vantage point to watch the harsh flex of his jaw. He lets go of Ilya’s thigh with one hand, bringing it up above his head to settle it on Ilya’s tense forearm. He squeezes lightly, look at me. Ilya does, swallowing thickly beforehand. Shane watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down, slowly, like he’s gearing up for more suffering.

Shane thinks he’s probably suffered enough for one lifetime. When Ilya meets his eyes, Shane doesn’t smile, but he does tilt his head, tipping forward just far enough to kiss Ilya’s clothed cock.

“Ilya,” he says quietly, “I’m gay.”

Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up in shock, either from the statement itself or from the lack of a follow-up bomb Shane doesn’t plan on dropping. I’m gay, and I’ve met someone else. Or, I’m gay, but I still think maybe this might be too much for me. He says none of these things, waiting with a serene patience that feels unfamiliar to him when he finds himself anywhere else aside from in Ilya’s arms.

Ilya licks his lips, loosening the grip he has on Shane’s hair.

“Like, one-hundred percent, or…”

Shane can’t help himself, feeling the stupid, childish grin spread across his face.

“Yes, Ilya. A hundred percent.”

“Oh, good,” Ilya replies, expression dazed. “That’s good. I um,” he licks his lips, petting Shane’s hair back from his forehead, “I am not, I do not think. A hundred percent.”

Shane’s face falls slightly, his grip on Ilya’s thigh and forearm loosening. He swallows, forcing himself to hold Ilya’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit gruff. “I figured.’

Ilya must sense the shift in energy. His hands slide down from where they’ve knotted themselves in Shane’s hair to cup his cheeks, thumbs dragging over his constellation of freckles. Shane instinctively leans into his hold.

“Shane, I am not dating Svetlana.”

Shane closes his eyes, breathing out through his nose.

“Are you fucking her?”

Ilya lets out a disbelieving chuckle.

“Not anymore.”

Shane’s eyes fly open, his glare apparent. Ilya has the audacity to look amused.

“What?” he asks innocently, eyebrows raised.

“That answer doesn’t exactly instill confidence, Ilya.”

He feels a shiver run up Ilya’s body beneath his hands. Ilya plants his hands on Shane’s shoulders, using his grip as leverage to push his body back until he’s lying prone atop Ilya’s sheets. He crawls over him, knees straddling Shane’s hips. He kisses Shane’s chin, then nips at it playfully. When he speaks, he’s hiding his face in the crook of Shane’s neck.

“How about this,” Ilya sighs, pressing his palms to Shane’s sternum. “I will be honest with you. I will tell you when I fall in love, when the person I am fucking is the person I want indefinitely.” He slides his palms across Shane’s chest, thumbs brushing against both nipples suggestively.

“I will tell you these things,” Ilya whispers, hot and damp against the shell of Shane’s ear, “when you tell me first.”

”When,” Shane thinks dully. Not “if.”

Shane lets out a quiet moan, rolling his hips up to meet Ilya’s, brushing his erection against Ilya’s upper thigh. Ilya groans, dipping his head down lower, trailing kisses across Shane’s jawline, down the column of his throat, landing at the hem of his T-shirt, where he lets out a soft whine.

“Off,” he grumbles, tugging at the bottom of Shane’s shirt. Shane rises, forcing Ilya’s hand at leaning back. Ilya helps him rid himself of his shirt, then he tugs his own off with one hand to the back of his collar. Ilya steps back from the bed, wriggling off his sweats and boxers all in one go. Shane watches in rapt fascination as Ilya’s cock is revealed, pink and full and weeping. His mouth starts to water, a Pavlovian response to Ilya’s dick. Ilya saunters back over to the bed, reaching for the front of Shane’s slacks, tugging them down with more care than he’d treated his own garments. He holds Shane’s gaze as he folds the slacks along the ironed seam, then drapes them over the back of his desk chair. He then takes hold of the waistband of Shane’s boxers, tugging them down slowly, eyes widening at the sight of Shane’s leaking cock.

“See something you like?” The bite of the question stolen by Shane’s breathlessness. Ilya’s eyes meet his again as he folds the boxers into a little square, setting them on the corner of his desk.

“Socks on or off?” he asks, voice raspy and thick. He runs his palms down Shane’s outer thighs, the hard muscles of his calves. Shane swallows, trying to follow the path of conversation.

“On, please,” he croaks. “It’s cold.”

“Oh, baby,” Ilya coos, and Shane feels his mind melt out of his ears. “Then I must keep you warm, yes?”

Shane keens, shuffling up the sheets until his head rests on one of the pillows at the head of the bed. He bends his knees and spreads his legs, smiling when Ilya’s eyes zero in on his cock, his gaze travelling lower, lower—

Shane runs the palms of his hands down the insides of his thighs until he reaches his knees, pushing against his legs to spread them further apart.

“You gonna fuck me?” he asks, tilting his head in a way he knows drives Ilya absolutely insane.

“You’re going to kill me.”

Ilya’s voice comes out strained. He crawls onto the bed, walking hands and knees up Shane’s body like a predator. Shane’s legs butterfly open, knees almost touching the duvet. He cradles Ilya’s body between his spread thighs, tilting his pelvis until their erections rub against each other. Ilya bites down on the meat of his shoulder, stifling his groan. He grabs Shane’s hips with both hands, pressing his hips into Shane’s roughly, the head of his cock dragging down the length of Shane’s slowly, achingly so. Ilya groans again, this time into Shane’s neck. It sounds like relief.

“Long day?” Shane asks, hands running up Ilya’s flanks, nails digging into the strong muscles of his upper back.

“Mm,” Ilya presses into the skin of Shane’s neck. “Long life.”

Shane tightens his grip on Ilya’s torso, hiking his legs up so he can dig his heels into the backs of Ilya’s thighs. Ilya finally rises, just far enough to reach Shane's lips, pressing a soft, closed-mouth kiss to his lower lip. He then parts his lips, mouthing at Shane’s own, until Shane opens his as well, allowing for the kiss to grow deeper. He tilts his head, goes slightly dizzy when Ilya swipes the seam of his lips with his tongue. He will never get used to the way Ilya kisses him, hungry, like he's starving for it. He's so intense in everything he pursues: hockey, kissing, taking Shane apart with his fingers. He brings his hands to Shane’s jaw, cupping the back of his neck and angling his head just so, giving him full access to Shane's mouth. He kisses him long enough for Shane’s lips to feel bruised and puffy, for the tendons in his neck to feel taut and overused. Eventually, Ilya takes pity, their lips parting with an obscene, wet smack. Ilya's mouth is parted, cheeks pink. He bends down, teething at Shane's collarbone, sucking a bruise into the side of his neck. Shane would scold him if he had half a mind to remember why he cares about these sorts of things. He barely registers Ilya letting go of his body to reach for something in the bedside table, digging around blindly in the top drawer until he finds what he's looking for. He tosses it onto the bed, then licks a broad, wet stripe down Shane's sternum.

As he travels south and south and south, Shane forces himself to keep his eyes open, to keep watching as Ilya takes his cock into his mouth, hands digging beneath Shane’s thighs to lift them up and over his shoulders. He then clamps down on the sides of them and rolls their bodies onto their sides. He looks up at him through long, thick lashes. A silent request. Shane, being well-versed in Ilya’s bedroom eyes, curls his legs in, squeezing Ilya’s head between his thighs. He feels strong shoulders seated just beneath his upper thighs, large hands digging into his glutes, gripping him tightly. Ilya cannot bob his head, his mouth wrapped around Shane’s cock and completely at his mercy.

Shane buries both hands in Ilya’s hair and tilts his hips forward, fucking into Ilya's mouth slowly, delicately, testing the waters before breaking the ice. Ilya grunts, squeezing Shane’s ass twice, a nonverbal “get on with it.” Shane takes a deep, steadying breath, and pushes forward again.

And again.

He sets a steady pace, until he doesn’t. Until Ilya's making these choked-off, grunting noises around his cock, the vibrations of his grunts traveling through Shane’s dick and reverberating throughout his limbs. The grip he has on Ilya’s hair must certainly be painful, as he uses this hold to erratically grind against Ilya's face. But the dig of Ilya’s fingertips is equally bruising, his eyes closed in complete and utter bliss.

When Shane feels the first prodding of fingertips circling his rim, he hardly even notices. It's not until Ilya’s two knuckles deep that he begins to squirm, pressing his ass backwards into the illicit burn of Ilya’s hands, then forward into the wet heat of his mouth. When Ilya adds a third finger, Shane's mind blanks out, his body acting on pure, raw instinct. He chases the raw pleasure attacking him at all angles, hips finding an unsteady rhythm, fists clenching and unclenching around Ilya’s curls. He turns his head, biting down on the pillow next to him, croaking out, “Ilya I'm– Ilya I’m—”

He tries to tug Ilya off of him, to warn him to stop, but Ilya’s grip tightens, and he swallows Shane deep enough that he feels the tip of Ilya’s nose press against his pubic bone. He uses the pillow to muffle the cry he lets out when he comes, voice sharp at the peak, dying out into a wail as he comes down, euphoria spreading through his limbs like wildfire. Ilya stays where he is, fingers still half-buried in Shane and mouth slack and wet around his spent cock. Shane relaxes the muscles of his legs, spreading them to allow for Ilya to fall from the vice-like grip he had on his neck and shoulders. Ilya smiles up at him, sedated and happy, crawling up his body to kiss him, lips messy and slick. Shane can taste himself on Ilya’s tongue, and he moans quietly into his mouth.

“Ilya,” he whispers into his open mouth, reaching for the erection digging into his hip. “Baby, c’mon. Fuck me.”

Ilya’s answering groan is loud and telling, but he’s shaking his head.

“You just came,” he replies, kissing Shane’s cheek, his neck, the delicate skin of his earlobe. “Will be too sensitive.” He grabs Shane’s hand and directs it toward his dick. “Here, jerk me off.”

“No, I—” Shane cuts himself off, feeling the blush rise to his cheeks. Ilya pulls back, watching it bloom across his freckles. Shane hates how easy he is to read— at least, he hates how easy he is for Ilya to read. He stares down between them, looking at Ilya’s chest as he says: “I like it. When you fuck me like that. When I’m—” he swallows, glancing up at Ilya from beneath his lashes, feeling bashful. “When I’m sensitive.”

And he does like it. Has practically lost his mind on the few occasions that Ilya got him off first while fucking him, then pounded into him relentlessly until he felt tears gather in his eyes. It’s a liquifying sort of pleasure, painful in a sense. But it always leaves Shane feeling loose-limbed and come-drunk, thinking it can’t truly be physically possible for someone to feel like this, fucked out and raw and so so sick with longing that he has to bury it in pleasure.

Also, he is feeling exceptionally generous this evening. Even if the thought of Ilya fucking him post-orgasm didn’t make him feel like he’d just won the bedroom lottery, he still wants to make Ilya feel good. He’s not sure if the dry spell is still haunting Ilya, but from the looks of it, the odds really aren’t in his favor. Shane feels giddy at the prospect of being the one to offer him relief. To offer him comfort.

Ilya’s eyes darken at the admission, the rim of his irises barely peeking out from beneath the wide onyx of his pupils. He lets go of Shane’s hand, trailing his still-damp fingers down, down, past his spent cock, reaching beneath him to prod at his slick hole. Shane shudders, arching his back, eyes rolling back until he’s staring at the top of the headboard. Ilya’s fingers slip in, two of them, and Shane’s body jolts against the sheets.

“Christ,” Ilya grunts, twisting his fingers and scisssoring them slightly, the burn sending tingles up Shane’s spine. “You are so pretty like this.”

Shane tilts his hips up, rubbing his softened cock against Ilya’s own.

“Fuck me,” he says simply, raising his arms to grip two pegs of the headboard. He tilts his chin down, finding Ilya’s gaze and licking his lips slowly, with purpose.

“Please.”

Ilya stretches out, reaching inside the bedside table again. He pulls out a condom, ripping the package open and rolling it onto his cock with a speed and dexterity that only comes with many years of practice. He then crawls forward, grabbing onto Shane’s hips so he can manually tilt them up, canting them at the perfect angle for him to push himself inside.

“Oh,” he sighs, eyes closed in pure, unadulterated bliss. Shane watches him in rapture, completely in awe of the way his body appears to ease Ilya out of his own mind so quickly. “Oh, God.”

He seats himself inside Shane, rolling his hips minutely, but not thrusting yet, like he’s relishing the feeling of being held, of being warm. Shane uses the grip he has on the headboard to undulate his hips, forcing a drawn-out moan from Ilya’s lips.

“Oh, I—” Ilya gasps, eyes flying open and grip growing hard and bruising. He pulls out, almost to the tip, then slams back in, Shane’s oversensitive body jerking at the intrusion. “I—”

Ilya doesn’t finish his sentence. He pulls out, pushes back in, pulls out. Over and over, setting a steady rhythm for himself, slow and torturous. He nails Shane’s prostate a handful of times, causing Shane to let out a high-pitched keen, like his body can’t quite decide if the intrusion is hurting him, or if it wants more. Ilya eventually lists forward, laying his sweaty forehead on top of Shane’s sternum, pressing his lips to the place just above his heart. He turns his head, resting his cheek against Shane’s chest, the motion of his hips slowing at the awkward angle. Shane lets go of the headboard, reaching down to thread his fingers through Ilya’s damp hair. He cradles his head to his chest, trying to match Ilya’s weakened thrusts, but doing a half-assed job of it. Eventually, Ilya stops moving entirely, just sheathes himself inside Shane as much as the awkward angle will allow, and lets Shane hold him.

“Needed a break?” Shane asks, trying to make light of the very intimate, very exposed neediness Ilya is displaying. His vulnerability laid out before Shane, directly above his heart. Ilya appears too tired to feel shame. He breathes out a heavy sigh, digging his nose into the shallow cavity formed between Shane’s pecs.

“It feels nice,” is the only explanation Ilya offers, like the act itself isn’t totally gutting Shane emotionally. “Like this, it feels nice. Would be nice to stay here, I think. Just a little longer.”

As long as you wish, Shane does not say, tucking a stray curl back behind Ilya’s ear. He hugs Ilya closer to his chest, ignoring the tightness beneath his ribs, the rapid breaths he takes in, making Ilya’s head rise and fall at an accelerating cadence. He tries to steady his breathing, flattening the palm of one of his hands atop Ilya’s upper back, matching the deep, even breaths he’s taking. Ilya shifts slightly, pillowing his head directly above Shane’s heart.

Shane opens his thighs a bit wider, then wraps his legs around Ilya’s upper thighs, hooking his heels behind his knees. He sits up, jostling Ilya enough to make him grumble, and grabs one of the bed’s sparse decorative pillows so he can shove it beneath his lower back. There; Ilya slips inside him a bit further, their bodies melding together more comfortably. Shane settles back down into the pillows and curls his arms around Ilya’s body protectively. One hand cradles his cheek against his chest, the other rubbing circles into the heated skin of his upper back. His thumb traces back and forth beneath his high cheekbone, brushing over his eye once to feel that his lids have closed. Slowly, he feels Ilya’s breath deepen, his heartbeat slowing against Shane’s ribcage. He softens inside Shane’s body, until he eventually slips out, the limp condom falling off somewhere between them. Shane readjusts his position so that their legs are tangled and he’s eased some of the pressure off his pelvis. He reaches over to switch off the bedside lamp, then hugs Ilya close to his chest, pressing a close-mouthed kiss to the crown of his head.

Later, a few hours after he’s slipped into a dazed, dreamy sleep, he’s awoken by Ilya’s hands on him, roving over him eagerly, a silent request. Shane turns his body to face him, still half-asleep, but not so out of it that he can’t get hard with a few well-timed strokes. They face each other, side by side, and Ilya strokes them together. He comes first, spilling over his own hand and crying out weakly into Shane’s open mouth. He uses his spend to finish Shane off, then reaches past Shane’s head for the tissues on the bedside table. He cleans them both off perfunctually, throwing the used tissues over the edge of the bed and onto the floor (much to Shane’s distaste). Then, he pushes at Shane’s shoulder, a silent request for him to roll over so they can spoon. He presses his chest to Shane’s back and sighs, his breath tickling the little baby hairs at the back of Shane’s neck. He wraps his arms around Shane, one hand splayed out over his abdomen, the other fisted above his heart. Shane reaches up and squeezes the fingers above his chest. He falls asleep trying to match Ilya’s breaths.

***

Shane wakes before dawn, his internal clock never one to let him have a lie-in, no matter how late he stays up. He’s disoriented at first, his body tucked up against something warm and solid, something moving. Then, like the slow drip off a honeycomb, the evening returns to him. He shifts forward, away from the man breathing down his neck and clinging to his torso, stretching out his limbs. He aches, but in a good way, muscles sore and body loose-limbed, like Ilya truly had fucked all of the tension out of him, temporarily.

He extricates himself from Ilya’s tight hold, chest warming at the sight of Ilya turning over in bed to lie completely on his stomach, one hand curled into a loose fist next to his cheek. He mumbles something incomprehensible, but quickly settles back into sleep. Shane sneaks over to the dresser at the far side of the room, rifling through the drawers and pulling out a large hoodie and some sweatpants. The hoodie is, unfortunately, Raiders merch, but it’s not like Shane has any right to be surprised. Eighty percent of his closet is Metros merch, the other twenty percent sponsored-related attire. He throws on the clothes, not bothering with boxers, both because his are dirty, and he definitely feels some type of way thinking about wearing Ilya’s underwear. Feelings best to be left unpacked another day.

He leaves the bedroom, making his way toward the kitchen without any sort of plan. He still has a few hours before he needs to be back at his hotel to travel with his team to the airport. But, still, that doesn’t mean he’s been offered an open invitation to linger. He won’t overstay his welcome. He’ll grab something quick from Ilya’s fridge, shower, and try to be out before the rest of the house wakes up.

At least, that was the plan, before Shane heard the soft pitter-patter of socked feet round the kitchen corner.

Natalya stands at the kitchen’s entryway, looking at Shane with wide eyes. She’s wearing a nightgown and fuzzy socks, painting a pretty adorable picture.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentled. He steps around the kitchen island, smiling disarmingly.

“Hi,” she replies, eyes roving over his face like she’s checking for signs of hostility. She must not find anything overtly sinister, because she walks over to the kitchen island and crawls up onto one of the barstools.

“I’m hungry,” she tells Shane, point-blank.

“Oh, um, okay, what do you, uh—” He scratches the back of his head nervously. “What do you want?”

Natalya grins, showing all her baby teeth. Shane can’t help but notice how familiar that smile looks, grimly acknowledging he’s never been strong enough to say “no” when faced with it.

“Pancakes!” she exclaims, throwing her arms out with childlike enthusiasm. Shane figures he’s probably being taken advantage of; knowing Sofya, Natalya probably has something much healthier lined up for breakfast. But if Natalya is anything like her uncle, she probably takes every chance she’s offered to eat something sugary and carb-heavy.

Natalya’s smile doesn’t dim, and Shane, bless him, has always buckled quickly for that grin. He turns to the pantry and starts digging around for pancake mix.

***

Ilya wakes to cold sheets and empty arms. He groans, stretching his arms high up above his head, then throws the duvet off with a grunt.

Shane must have had an early flight.

He swings his legs over the bed, then rises and pads over to the dresser. He digs through the top drawer, frowning when he can’t find his favorite sweats.

Huh. They must be in the wash.

He grabs a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and tugs them on, then walks back over to the foot of the bed to slip on his houseshoes. He exits the bedroom, the smell of bacon wafting throughout the hallway. Interesting, Sofya usually sticks to making oatmeal and eggs for breakfast.

But that doesn’t make sense either, because a few meters down the hall, Sofya is standing at the corner of the archway separating the bedrooms from the rest of the house. She’s still in her slippers and nightgown, peering around the archway like a child waiting for Santa. Ilya walks up behind her, starting to ask, “What are you—” but she turns and shushes him, then waves him over with mirth. When he approaches, she puts one finger to her lips, the other pointing at something inside the kitchen. Ilya crowds up next to her, peeking around the corner and following her line of sight.

“This one!”

“Pan.”

“Hmm, this one?”

“Countertop.”

“Kown-ter-top.”

“Yes.”

Ilya’s heart must skip a beat. He watches as Shane Hollander mans the griddle, flipping pancakes and keeping his eyes on bacon he’s got frying on a separate burner. Natalya is sitting at the kitchen island, swiveling around atop one of the barstools, pointing at things at random and asking (demanding?) their English names.

“This one?” She points toward the spatula Shane holds in his hand. Shane’s eyes flicker up briefly from his task to gauge what she’s pointing at.

“Spatula.”

“Spah-too-lah!”

Shane shakes his head, repeating the word slowly.

“Nyet, spatula.”

Natalya throws her head back, sing-songing, “spah-tew-lah,” back to him.

Shane nods.

“Good.”

“Khoroshiy.”

Shane sucks at his teeth like he’s prepping his mouth for the foreign syllables.

“Kha-roh-shoh.”

Natalya shrieks into giggles, bending over the kitchen island in a fit.

“Aha, nyet, nyet, Shanya. Kha-rah-shoh.”

He tries again, slower this time, and she smiles.

“Khoroshiy. Good, Shanya. Good job.”

Shane smiles at her softly. Ilya feels as though his heart has melted straight down into his stomach, joining the butterflies that have taken up residence there since 2008. He must have been leaning too far forward, trying to get a better look at the scene playing out inside his kitchen, because he’s suddenly tripping over Sofya’s slippers and stumbling into the kitchen.

“Ah!” Natalya bolts off the barstool and races toward Ilya. He scoops her up, kissing her forehead and telling her good morning in Russian. She pats his cheek playfully, turning in Ilya’s arms to address Shane.

“Shanya, ah?” She points at Ilya, digging the pad of her fingertip into the puffy skin of his cheek. Shane’s answering grin could rival the fucking sunshine, as far as Ilya’s concerned. He puts his finger to his chin, pretending to think hard. At the same time, he sets down the spatula and flicks off the burner.

“Hmm, Sofya?”

Natalya laughs, patting Ilya’s chest like he’s in on the joke.

“Nooooo.”

Shane rounds the kitchen island slowly, catching Ilya’s gaze and holding it with uncharacteristic ease.

“Is it… Natalya?”

Natalya shakes her head enthusiastically, catching onto the game.

“No, Shanya, no!”

Shane makes it over to Ilya in three strides. Ilya reaches out with his free hand on instinct, and Shane takes it, guiding it to his cheek. Ilya brushes his thumb over his high cheekbone, sure to himself that he will never get over how handsome this man is in the early morning light.

“One more guess,” Natalya scolds, staring Shane down with a small pout to her lips.

“Okay, one more,” Shane agrees easily, stepping in closer and turning to kiss the palm of Ilya’s hand. He doesn’t drop his gaze as he says:

“Ilya.”

It comes out nearly a sigh, not a question, and Ilya finally has to break eye contact to bury his blush in Natalya’s hair.

Naturally, she has to ruin the moment before it’s even begun.

“Nooooo,” she makes a buzzing noise, not unlike those played during hockey games. “Dyadya. This,” she slaps Ilya’s chest like he’s a prized pony, “is dyadya.”

”This is adorable,” Sofya pipes up from behind them. Ilya had totally forgotten she was there, if he’s being completely honest. “But, I’m starving.”

“I made pancakes,” Shane replies, gesturing toward the kitchen island.

“I can see that,” Sofya’s answering smile is warm. “Spasibo.”

“Spasibo,” Natalya parrots, turning bodily in Ilya’s arms to pat Shane’s cheek. “Spasibo, Shanya. Spasibo.” She wiggles her hips around in Ilya’s hold, forcing him to wrap both arms around her to keep her from falling. “Spasibo, Shanya,” she sings to a made-up tune she’s pulled out of thin air. “Spasibo, ah? Thank! You!” She bobs her head with the English words, giggling when her forehead bumps into Ilya’s nose.

“My, someone’s excited this morning,” Ilya teases, setting her down and telling her to go wash her hands before breakfast.

“Yeah, I’m sure all the sugar’s gonna help with that,” Shane replies, staring across the room at the pancakes he made with a hint of scorn.

“Come now,” Ilya says, overly fond, grabbing Shane’s hand again and dragging him toward the kitchen island. “Your fancy diet will survive this one breakfast.”

He smiles over his shoulder at Shane, then stares past him to catch Sofya’s eyes. He winks.

“After all,” he turns back to the food, grinning to himself as he finishes with, “we cannot send our Shanya off on an empty stomach, no? What kind of hosts would we be then?”

***

Two days after Shane gets home from the Voyager’s two-week stint on the road, he calls his mom.

“Sweetie, hi!” she says brightly. There’s a noise in the background, the sharp clang of a pot, or maybe a frying pan being set on top of the stove. She must be making dinner.

“What’s up?”

Shane takes a deep breath, staring down at his kitchen countertop, eyes tracking the odd shapes of the marble pattern.

“What if it were a Swedish prince?” Shane asks, feeling breathless after getting such a short sentence out. He hears his mom pause on the other end of the phone, setting down whatever utensil she’d been using to cook.

“I— what?”

He takes in another breath, letting it out through his nose. He’s not thinking at all, body feeling totally numb when he repeats himself.

“If it— If I wanted a Swedish prince—” He stops, licking his dry lips and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Would that be okay?”

Another pause on his mom’s end of the call. It feels like it lasts an eternity. An eternity for Shane to imagine every way this phone call could go south. How he doesn’t think he can afford to lose his mother, both financially and emotionally. How he needs her to love him, all of him, more than he thinks he needs air to breathe. If his parents can’t hold him through this, he’s not entirely sure what he’ll do. Die, probably.

He’s saved from his spiraling thoughts when his mom says, “Oh, Shane, oh—” her voice coming out choked and crackled, soap suds for vocal cords.

“Oh, honey, of course.”

Shane opens his eyes, his lashline damp. He stares at that same marble pattern, his vision of it a little blurrier than before.

“Of course.”

Chapter End Notes

this chapter was getting waaaay too long and had to split it up.

also sorry if the church scene felt like a jump-scare to anyone lol im not like pushing russian orthodox church propaganda or anything, i just thought exploring ilya's ties to his mother via religion is an interesting concept.

Chapter 3: "not i" said the golden wheat

Chapter Notes

“Sometimes she did not know what she feared, what she desired: whether she feared or desired what had been or what would be, and precisely what she desired, she did not know.”

- Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Mid-November, there’s a three-day lull in Shane’s schedule. He decides to use this time to visit his parents down in Ottawa. When he calls to let them know he’s coming down, they’re ecstatic, his mom promising to make up his childhood bedroom. It’s not like they haven’t seen him recently— they try to attend as many home games as they can, bunking at Shane’s apartment when the games run especially late— but he hasn’t offered them a lot of genuine quality time since the start of the season. A lunch meet-up when their schedules align, and many, many Facetime calls. Still, he’s close with his parents, and he doesn’t enjoy being away from them long enough to miss them.

When he arrives home late on a Thursday afternoon, his mom is there to greet him. It’s the first time he’s seen her since that nerve-wracking phone call, and he’s not exactly sure how he’s supposed to act. Luckily, she saves him from his own spiraling thoughts by pulling him into a warm hug, holding on for longer than seems necessary for a simple “hello.” She’s been very kind to him over the phone, promising she’d break the news to David for him. That he wouldn’t have to worry. That they’d always suspected, but hadn’t thought it appropriate to bring it up. When Shane had frozen up over that last statement, asking if he was really that obvious, she reassured him that, no, he is not. That he is their son, and if anyone were to know what to look for, it would be them.

“What were some of the signs?” he’d asked, chewing at his thumbnail, an old habit he thought he’d kicked, but reared its ugly head at the worst of times.

“Oh, honey, nothing in particular…”

“Right,” he’d agreed, nodding his head like he believed her. “So, what, I just give off, like, gay vibes?”

Yuna laughed, not unkindly.

“No, Shane, like— well, it’s just a certain way you approach things. Situations. Or, relationships really. You remember that summer your junior year of high school? When you dated Jenni Freedman for, like, two months?”

Vaguely. Mostly, he remembers that being the summer when he finally scored his first hat trick against the team led by Jack Saunders during a scrimmage at camp.

“Uh, yeah. Kinda.”

“Kinda,” his mom sighed, like he’d just confirmed the point she was trying to make. “Well, you kinda forgot you told her that she and a few of her friends could come over to play video games for a few hours, remember?”

His stomach dropped at the mention of that evening. Yeah. He remembered. Remembered Jenni bringing her older brother, Josh, and his buddy Steven. Steven, who was eighteen and had his own car, and who worked at the mechanic shop on Main Street. He talked Shane’s ear off that night about how catalytic converters worked. How he should come down to the shop sometime so he could show him the little beater he’d been working on, a ‘79 Chevy LUV he found on Craigslist for under a grand. Shane would have agreed to anything, to licking the grease off the stained asphalt of the shop if it had meant Steven would keep looking at him like that.

“Okay,” Shane said over the phone after a brief moment of recollection. “I can maybe see your point.”

The point had stuck with Shane for weeks. As he follows his mom into his familiar childhood home, he wonders when the interrogation will commence.

It doesn’t. Not through making dinner with his mom in the kitchen. Not through the game of Phase Ten they play together as they wait for his dad to arrive. And not after, when David’s stepped through the front door, hugging both his wife and his son to his chest like a cartoon father stomping home from work. They all sit down for dinner together, laughing over anecdotes David’s brought home from work. Yuna asks Shane about the season, and Shane tells his parents about his worry that their defense isn’t as strong after last year’s trades, how Theriault has been hampering his power play by moving Hayden to the second line more frequently. Yuna agrees with him, pulling David into the conversation by asking how he’d go about playing this year’s lineup. After dinner, they watch a movie together, Shane’s parents cuddled up on the loveseat, Shane in his dad’s recliner. His mom falls asleep halfway through the movie, and he’s quick to follow. He’s woken by his dad shaking his shoulders, telling him he should probably head to bed if he wants to avoid a stiff neck in the morning. He then smiles, kissing the top of his head with a quick “goodnight” before hauling a half-asleep Yuna off with him to their bedroom.

Shane’s in the middle of brushing his teeth when he comes to the realization that, not once, during the entire evening, did they ask him about the gay thing.

He spits out his toothpaste, wondering if that’s a good or bad sign.

***

The next morning, over a healthy breakfast of egg white omelets and gluten-free toast, he finally caves to his own inner turmoil.

“So are you guys gonna, like, ask me about it?”

Yuna had been distractedly typing something on her phone, so he can’t really blame her for not catching onto the change in atmosphere when she asks, eyes still glued to her phone screen, “About what, honey?”

Shane and David make heavy eye contact across the table. Shane swallows down a lumpy bite of omelet and says, unceremoniously, “Umm, about the gay thing.”

Yuna immediately stops typing and directs her full attention toward Shane. It’s a little intense, as most things are with his mother. He stares down at his fork with an attentiveness he does not feel.

“Shane,” David says, his voice calm and reassuring, the steady rock in the turbulent waters of his wife and child’s anxieties, “buddy, we don’t have to talk about it. Not if you don’t want to.”

Shane could take the out. Could nod his head and smile politely and ignore the tight feeling in his chest. They could never bring up the gay thing again. And maybe they’ll never have to face it. Maybe Shane is an anomaly hockey player whose career will last him until he’s in his late eighties, lying on his deathbed as he thinks about his lifetime of achievements, none of them involving something as intimate and revealing as marriage. He will die alone, surrounded by his hefty collection of Stanley Cups and dust-covered medals. His parents will have died knowing they raised a legend, and nothing less, but nothing more than that.

He shakes his head, clearing away a vision that, for the first time in his hockey-loving life, looks very sad.

“No,” he says, his voice quiet but resolute. “I want to.”

He looks up at them, taking in their shock, followed by their warm expressions of, well, love. Because they love them. Because they’re his parents, and they love him.

Yuna reaches for his hand, holding it firmly in her’s.

“Okay,” she says, a watery smile dawning on her lips. “What would you like us to know?”

Shane shrugs, fighting against his fight or flight instinct to break off eye contact.

“I don’t know,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand. “What would you guys— I mean, is there anything you’d like to know?”

His parents share a look before his dad clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back like he’s preparing for battle.

“Can we ask how long you’ve known?”

Oh jeeze. What should be an easy question is muddled within itself. Shane winces, and his dad instantly backtracks.

“Unless you don’t want to tell us! Really, son, it’s okay—”

“No,” Shane interrupts him, shaking his head. “No, it’s not that. I just—” he chews at his bottom lip, staring down at the grains of wood making up the pattern of his parents’ tabletop. “I don’t really know. Maybe 2008? But, even then, I wasn’t— I mean, I just didn’t—”

“Hey,” his mom interjects, tilting her head down to match his gaze. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay if it’s a little complicated.”

Shane lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he thinks about all the times he’s hooked up with Ilya. The hotel rooms, the penthouse, the fucking sex loft. Complicated is putting it mildly.

“Can we ask how you knew? When you came to the realization that this may be a bit more than…” Yuna waves her hand around, reminding Shane of Ilya when he’s trying to find the proper English word. David comes to her aid.

“Than maybe a one-off thing?” David supplies.

Shane’s mind flashes to Ilya again, to the night he’d brought him over to the empty condo. He thinks of Ilya kneeling over him, the crucifix on his chain brushing up against Shane’s heated skin. He thinks of him asking, repeatedly, “This is okay?” like the gentility of his fingertips wasn’t carving paths of aching desire into Shane’s spine. Like Shane would ever have any hope of coming close to this feeling with anyone else.

Shane meets his dad’s eyes. With a steadiness he does not feel, he simply responds with: “A while.”

His parents take that in stride, taking sips of their coffee, their movements so in sync it inspires an uninvited ache beneath his breastbone. His parents are always on the same page. His mother plowing her way through whatever unmarked territory she deems hospitable, his father helping her make it comfortable. Yuna runs their household, but David makes it feel like a home. Shane knows that when he came into the picture, when Yuna now had all the sources of her anxiety walking around on two legs, unsupervised at school, on the ice, David had cushioned the blow of her fears. When Shane became old enough to recognize those same fears in himself, his father had made it very clear that the solace found in his embrace could accommodate two. Shane feels a pang of jealousy for the easy way they love each other, that they’ve always loved each other, long before Shane ever entered the picture.

“What made you want to tell us now?”

Another hard ball. Shane stares down at the table, shoulders tense. He pushes his plate away, having lost his appetite to the conversation he insisted on having.

His father, ever the intuitive man, prods deeper.

“Is this Swedish prince, perhaps, not a hypothetical?”

Shane freezes up, his breath coming out shallow and rough. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears. He thinks of Ilya. Ilya turning him over in bed to mouth sloppy kisses down his spine. Ilya smirking at him during face-offs, tapping his stick playfully as he calls him “Hollander,” half a jeer, half an innuendo. Ilya, head tucked beneath his chin, body soft atop him, inside him, feeling safe enough in Shane’s arms to fall asleep soundlessly. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya—

Yuna lets go of his hand, only to push her chair closer to Shane’s, rubbing her palm up and down his back in a soothing gesture.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to say anything. If you— if he’s—” She hesitates, clearly trying to compose herself. She kisses Shane’s shoulder, landing on: “Well, it’s just not our business, if you don’t want it to be.”

And that’s big, coming from his mother, whose entire job is to make Shane’s life her business. He knows he can’t tell her everything, that there isn’t actually really anything to tell. That all of this is so nebulous; and just because Ilya called him “baby” and made him dinner and let him rub his feet while he read his daughter a bedtime story, it doesn’t actually mean anything. Not if Ilya is comfort-seeking. Not if Shane will always allow himself to be that comfort, even to his own detriment.

That doesn’t mean he can’t seek out his own comfort. Not when it’s being offered to him so readily.

“There is… a person,” he finally says, voice coming out tight, the words guarded. “It’s complicated.”

Yuna nods her head against his shoulder like she gets it. Like she too has been fucking a world-class hockey star for the better part of seven years and can’t tell anyone about it because it will destroy both parties’ careers. Still, her sympathy isn’t unwelcome.

“Complicated like… he’s not out?” his dad prods tentatively. Shane chews at his bottom lip and nods his head. Then shakes it.

“Um, kinda. He— I mean, he’s definitely not out. But, we’re also not, like, exactly together. I don’t— God, I don’t—” He slides his plate forward so he can fold his arms over the tabletop, resting his forehead on his folded forearms. “I don’t know what we are,” he says to the wooden grains directly in front of him. “I don’t know what he wants from me.”

Yuna continues to rub his back, soothing him in the only way he knows she can.

“Do you know what you want, Shane?” his mother asks softly.

Him, is the first thought to pop into Shane’s mind. He doesn’t know what that means, though. Him in my bed? In my home? In my life? How much more can I ask of him, when he’s already had to sacrifice so much for someone else? Someone he didn’t have much of a choice in loving, but he does it so perfectly. How can he ask to impede on that, when the situation between father and daughter is already as tenuous as it is.

“I guess,” Shane sits back up, stretching his arms out in front of him, flexing his fingers, “I just wanted you to know.”

The three of them sit with that sentence in silence, each of them feeling the weight of it in their own ways. David scoots his chair around to Shane’s other side and pulls him into a warm, tight embrace. His mother joins from behind, cocooning his body between the two of them like he’s a small child, and not a two-hundred-pound professional athlete. Shane hugs his dad back, feeling something inside him uncoil, like a spring that had been a hair’s width away from snapping be reset. He never thought he’d be able to understand the depth of his parents' love, not until he watched Ilya rock his little girl to sleep, fighting his own bone-deep exhaustion to make her feel loved. He thinks he understands it a little better now, and thus finds himself appreciating their unending support even more. He is so blessed, he thinks, to be so loved.

Thank you for my mother and father, he imagines saying over a plate of food, one hand held by Ilya’s, another by his daughter. Thank you for their kindness. For their love.

***

Later, Shane finds himself lounging in his old bedroom, mindlessly scrolling Instagram as he ponders the pros and cons of an afternoon nap. When he's halfway to dozing off, the special ringer he's assigned to Ilya’s texts goes off.

Lily: curious. were you picky eater when you were a kid?

Before Shane can even think to respond, a follow-up text rolls in.

Lily: nevermind.

Lily: no idea why I am asking.

Lily: you are a picky eater NOW

Shane smiles, despite himself.

Jane: wow.

Jane: rude.

He pauses, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. Then:

Jane: what's she not eating?

They chat for a bit, discussing Natalya’s food preferences (or lack thereof). Shane says it might be a texture thing. Ilya insists that whatever “thing” it is, she'd better get over it fast. Sofya has very little sympathy for children who won't eat their dinner, and Ilya’s inclined to agree with her.

Lily: I can't just let her get away with eating carrots and cake every night.

Shane bites at his thumbnail, wondering if what he's about to say is considered overstepping. However, he figures Ilya wouldn't have reached out if he weren’t ultimately seeking a third party's opinion.

Maybe an opinion that isn't so… Slavic.

Jane: well. no. but if there's enough foods she'll eat that offer her a well-balanced diet, I don’t see the issue with just feeding her those choices

He fires off the text with a nervous feeling settling in his gut, hoping Ilya's receptive. Hoping he won't take it the wrong way, like Shane’s trying to tell him how to parent. He can't forget how defensive Ilya got over the bedtime story thing a few weeks back. He's clearly taking this whole “dad” thing very seriously.

Lily: but if I do this, she will never get used to other foods

Shane breathes out a sigh of relief, happy to see Ilya’s on board with discussing options.

Jane: not necessarily. kid's taste buds are constantly changing. You can introduce something one week that she absolutely hates, then the next, suddenly it's like her new favorite food. don't stop introducing new foods to her diet, but maybe don't force her to eat it if she doesn't like it.

Lily: and what if she never likes it? what if it's only cake and carrots the rest of her life?

Jane: well a.) when's the last time YOU ever ate something you didn't like? adults like to make this big stink about kids being picky, but we never make meals with ingredients we hate

Jane: and b.) even if there are only a few foods she likes to eat as an adult, isn't that okay? I mean, there's still a lot of foods I won't eat, and my mom was very much so on the “make my kid eat all their food” team. until my dad finally convinced her to take mercy on me after I threw up canned corn all over the carpet in third grade.

Lily: charming.

Lily: but maybe I see your point.

They talk about Natalya a bit more. About how far she's come in her English. How Ilya’s been helping her read children's books at bedtime, all in English. How she can now tie her own shoes (Ilya sends a video, one Shane immediately saves to his camera roll and watches on loop). They eventually land on the upcoming game in Montreal. Apparently, Ilya's having a tough time booking Sofya's hotel room.

Lily: hotel is telling me they're all booked up evening of match

Lily: what fucking hotel is completely booked on a Tuesday??

Lily: I know we usually get those double queen rooms when traveling, but I still hate to ask her to room with us. still like to give her privacy, you know?

Shane rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as he chews at the inside of his mouth. He gives himself a solid five seconds to think through what he types up on his phone before hitting send.

Jane: you guys could stay with me

He watches the “read” indicator show up beneath his text bubble, nerves churning in his gut. Ilya’s speech dots appear, disappear, then reappear. Then:

Lily: you want me to bring my daughter to your sex dungeon?

Shane’s nerves instantly settle, and his shoulders lose the tension they’d been holding. He rolls his eyes, firing back with:

Jane: no like. come to my apartment. My real one.

Jane: and don’t call it a sex dungeon. it’s just an investment property.

Lily: sure

Lily: can’t believe all it took to get promoted to real apartment was to bring a toddler

Lily: I’ll remember this next time

Jane: so.. yes?

Shane balances his phone on his chest. He stares at the screen intensely.

Lily: you have enough bedrooms?

Jane: i have two guest beds, ya. one for Natalya and Sofya

Lily: and where will I be sleeping ;)

Shane smiles despite himself.

Jane: you can take the couch i guess

Lily: :(

Shane rises from bed and pockets his phone. He promised his mom he’d help her with a few patches in the garden gate during this trip. He’s grateful for the distraction, unwilling to think too long on the fact that he just invited Ilya and his family to stay with him at his real home. He doesn’t want to think about the insinuations or potential repercussions of the offer. He wants to think about—

“How the hell did the raccoons even make a hole that big in the fence?”

***

The next day, Shane and his parents are hanging out in the living room. They’ve got an old eighties movie playing in the background, volume turned down low enough that Shane doesn’t feel too overstimulated. His mom’s working on something on her laptop, fingers dancing across the keyboard and feet tucked into David’s lap. He’s sitting at the opposite end of the couch, mindlessly rubbing the arches of her feet with one hand, the other holding out an old, paperback novel. The spine’s practically rotted off at this point, but he doesn’t appear concerned. Shane’s reading his own novel in the recliner. Surprisingly, not a hockey-related book, but it’s still a biography. A biography written about a famous American quarterback from the nineties. So, sports-adjacent.

A few hours into this quaint cohabitation, Shane gets a call. He grabs his phone off the side table, eyes widening when he sees Lily flashing at him, bright and insistent right there on his phone screen.

“Who’s that, honey?” his mother asks, eyes not leaving the screen of her laptop. Shane shakes his head, ridding himself of his momentary shock.

“Uh, just Hayden,” he lies smoothly, rising from his perch and speed-walking toward the kitchen. “I’m just gonna—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, swiping his thumb to accept the call and rounding the corner to his parents' kitchen. He leans against the counter, taking in a deep breath before answering with a timid, “Hello?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Ilya sighs, his voice coming through low and strained.

Shane pauses, glancing over at the kitchen entryway nervously, but he doesn’t think his parents are listening in. He settles back against the counter.

“Ilya?”

“I don’t—” he hears a sniff, not subtle in the slightest and just a tad bit heartbreaking. “Fuck, Shane. What am I doing?” The sentence is cut off by a muffled sob, quickly buried in what Shane assumes to be the collar of Ilya’s shirt. His heart absolutely aches, his fingers flexing over the countertop in a futile gesture.

“Hey. Hey, hey, Ilya. Ilya.”

“I can’t do this,” Ilya continues, his voice raw, gravelly and interspersed with hiccups, the way people who are speaking around sobs sound. “Shane, I can’t— I am so bad at this.”

“Bad at what?” Shane stands, starting to pace nervously in front of the kitchen counter. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Natasha, she— Oh, she lost it. I don’t know. I don’t know what is— fuck, sorry. I am having difficult time with English right now.” The words come out sharp and cruel, like Ilya’s berating himself.

“Hey, no, that’s okay. It’s okay. Take your time. Just— just take your time.”

He bites at his thumbnail, listening to Ilya take a few deep, steadying breaths on the other end of the line. He tries not to catastrophize, knowing that if someone were truly hurt, then Ilya would absolutely not be on the phone with him right now. He’d be taking care of Natalya, driving her to the hospital, or urgent care. He’s a good father, he knows how to act in critical scenarios…

Right?

“Sorry. I— sorry. She is just—” he sighs. Shane hears a soft “thunk,” imagining Ilya’s leaned his head back against his headboard, or maybe the wall. Is he sitting down? Where is he?

“I don’t know what happened. One minute, Sofya is walking her through her vowels, the next she is screaming like a banshee. Screaming that she hates English, hates America, hates this house and Sofya and me. Hates everything.” He sighs again, saying something in Russian under his breath. “Wants her mamma, wants to go home. Back to Russia. Does not want to play with stupid English toys or learn stupid English rules.” He pauses again, his breath sounding crackly and heavy on the other end of the line. “She ran away from us after that. Locked herself in the bathroom.”

“Ilya…”

“I don’t know,” he repeats, another sob bursting forth. “I don’t know, Shane. I just don’t know. What am I doing here?”

“Your best,” Shane offers, a poor consolation, if Ilya’s bitter, choked-out laugh is anything to go by.

“Oh, yes. Is clearly going so well. My best.”

“Ilya—”

“No, really. Father of the year, over here. Can’t even get my kid to learn stupid English vowels without having her go absolutely ballistic.”

“Ilya, c’mon.”

It’s silent on the other end, just the sound of Ilya’s heavy breaths.

“Where are you now?” Shane asks tentatively, moving on to biting at the nail of his index finger.

“Sitting out here on the hallway floor. Listening to her cry.”

“Ilya,” Shane says again, trying to make his voice sound soothing. He knows he just keeps repeating the other man’s name, but it’s the only thing he can think to say. He’s never raised a child. He’s not even sure why Ilya’s called him in the first place. Still, he clearly trusts him with this, clearly needs him for this. If all he needs to do is be here, then he’ll be here.

“I just don’t understand,” Ilya sighs, and it sounds like a defeat. “I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. I do not want to punish her, you know. I cannot punish her for feeling this way.” More shuffling from his end of the line. Then, in a small voice, he says, “But I do not want her to feel this way.”

Shane swallows, letting the silence settle between them for a moment, letting the words settle in.

“You can’t control how she feels, Ilya.”

Ilya doesn’t respond, so Shane tries again, approaching from a different angle.

“Didn’t you ever throw fits as a kid? I’m sure there were things you remember crying over that, in retrospect, weren’t all that important.”

“Ah, maybe, when I was very little,” Ilya replies, his tone sounding more guarded than it had been before. “But my father did not stand for that kind of behavior.”

“What behavior?”

“Tears.”

Shane stops pacing, staring unseeing at the lacy drapes covering his parents’ kitchen window.

“Oh, that’s—” Shane swallows thickly, tries again. “Maybe don’t—”

“Don’t worry, Hollander. I am not so cruel.”

Shane walks a little closer to the window, moving the curtain aside so he can look out at the front lawn. It’s still bright out, a nice day. The neighbors’ children are outside, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.

“Did I ever tell you about the meltdown I had on the ice in second grade?”

“No,” Ilya answers, his voice going soft. “What is this?”

“I was like seven or eight, I think.” Shane tilts his head, watching one of the kids lose their balance and face-plant into the grass lining the sidewalk. “My team lost the scrimmage because the shot I made missed. It flew past the net. I sat down right there on the ice and started wailing.”

A long pause, followed by a very tentative:

“What did your parents do?”

The kid who fell gets back up, looking dazed but fine. Her sibling is cracking up, pointing and laughing at her grass-stained cheeks.

“My dad had to come out and carry me off the ice. I cried the whole way home. When we got back to the house, they plopped me in my room and waited it out downstairs. I think I eventually passed out, because the next thing I remember was waking up to a plate of dinner waiting for me on my nightstand.”

“Hmm,” Ilya responds, clearly listening intently. “And were they mad at you? After?”

“I don’t think so,” Shane finishes, stepping back from the kitchen window to lean against the counter again. “I was pretty embarrassed over the whole thing. I think I must have apologized to my coach at some point. And I kind of remember them sitting me down later and explaining that that kind of reaction wasn’t really appropriate for that scenario. But at the time, I really wasn’t thinking about any of that. How it’s embarrassing to cry in front of strangers, to make your parents go after you like that. Mostly, I was just really sad I had lost.”

“I see,” Ilya says after a while. “They just let you, eh, feel the loss then? They were letting you lose.”

“Exactly,” Shane answers, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “They were letting me lose.”

He thinks about it longer, thumbing at the edge of the counter mindlessly.

“I think your niece has lost a lot. A lot more than a hockey game.”

Ilya breathes out through his nose, the “woosh” of it sending static into Shane’s ears.

“I think maybe you are right,” he says eventually. “I think I let her lose today.”

“Feel the loss,” Shane corrects, his smile growing.

“Da, feel the loss.”

They sit together quietly on the phone, just listening to each other breathe. Shane pictures Ilya sitting on the other end of the line. Maybe his knees are drawn up, his forearms thrown over them so he can hang his head. He wishes he were there sitting next to him, close enough to drape his arm over his hunched shoulders.

“It’s okay for you too, I think,” Shane says in a near-whisper. “To feel the loss.”

Ilya doesn’t respond, not that Shane really expected him to. They sit a bit longer, until Shane’s mom eventually ventures into the kitchen, eyeing him curiously as she refills her water glass at the sink.

“Ah, you are not alone?” Ilya pipes up. He must hear the shuffling on Shane’s end.

“At my parents’ place.”

They hang up quickly after that. Ilya thanks Shane for talking him down, Shane tells him it’s no bother, really. Really. He tells him goodbye, that he’ll see him in a few weeks. That he—

The line is dead, and he doesn’t really know what he is.

When he steps back into the living room, his dad asks him how Hayden’s doing, that knowing smirk he likes to wear peeking over the edge of his novel. Shane can feel his face heating up, and he stumbles his way back over to the recliner.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, hiding his blush behind the pages of his own book. “Just don’t.”

His parents, bless them, do not.

***

Natalya does, eventually, come out of the bathroom. It takes a few hours, and in the meantime, Sofya gets started on dinner. Ilya paces the hallway after his call with Shane, then the living room, until he finally gives up on her coming out anytime soon and decides to go work out. Two hours later, when he comes back up from the basement gym, the bathroom door is open and so is the door to Natalya’s bedroom. Light spills out of the doorway and into the hall. Ilya follows it, knocking softly on the doorframe, even though the door is cracked open.

“Malysh,” he says to the door, not daring to step in any further without her explicit permission. “May I come in?”

He hears a quiet sniffle, followed by an equally quiet “Dyadya?” The title comes out cushioned between two hiccups, and Ilya’s heart absolutely aches.

“I’m coming in now, baby, okay?”

He takes a tentative step forward, then another, rounding the edge of the door. He spots his niece instantly, her little body coiled on top of the sheets. She’s hugging a stuffed monkey to her chest, a relic saved from Russia. Her cheeks are tear-stained, eyes rimmed red and hair in absolute disarray.

“Oh, Natashenka.” Ilya rushes to her bed. She drops her sock monkey, reaching for him instantly, repeated cries of “dyadya, dyadya,” leaving her lips. He picks her up, cradling her to his chest as he lies back down on her bed. He holds her, rocking her gently and letting her wet the collar of his shirt with a fresh set of tears.

“I—” hiccup. “I’m sorry, dyadya,” she cries, wiping her snotty nose on the logo of his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“No, baby, no,” he shushes her, holding her tighter, dipping his chin so he can kiss the crown of her head. “No, it’s okay. You’re okay, my love. Don’t be sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything else, crying herself to sleep in his arms. He stays there in bed with her, long enough for Sofya to tiptoe in, take one long look at the two of them, and promise to box up dinner for leftovers. She leaves, only to return ten minutes later with a large ham sandwich, sliced into triangular pieces so Ilya can reach over to the bedside table and eat them with one hand. She sits beside his knees on the bed, offering him a consolatory smile. She pats his ankles, then reaches further up to rub at one of Natalya’s exposed calves. Ilya tracks her movements with hooded lids, his exhaustion finally creeping up on him.

“You are a good father, Ilyusha,” is all she offers, a sucker-punch to the gut. She does not look at him as she speaks, probably aware that the embarrassment would overwhelm him. “Children are very hard, but you are doing well.”

If he tears up at her words, she does not acknowledge them.

***

The text comes from Shane the next morning.

Jane: I spoke to my mom last night.

Jane: obviously no details or anything but

Ilya smiles down at his phone. He can almost see the way Shane is texting him, thumbing at his screen nervously, chewing at his lower lip like he’s calculating which wire to cut to keep a bomb from going off, and not just trying to offer some general parenting advice (all of which has been surprisingly perceptive).

Jane: my mom said it might be helpful if Natalya had more interactions with other kids. Might help her catch on to social cues.

Lily: yes.

Lily: psychiatrist has mentioned this

Lily: said she probably needs to learn how to make friends

He waits for the follow-up text, sitting up in bed and scrubbing his hands through his hair.

Jane: i was thinking maybe

Jane: only if you want, that is..

Jane: well, I thought maybe you’d like to come a day earlier. I was gonna go to hayden’s place afternoon before game day. Would you like to come? Hayden has 4 kids so.. And the twins are about Natalya’s age

Ilya sinks back into the sheets, pulling the covers up and over his shoulders, cocooning himself in the warmth of his own bed. He tries very hard to avoid giggling and kicking his feet like a giddy teenage girl. It’s nothing. It’s for Natalya, an invite to help Ilya after the shitshow he put Shane through yesterday. Still, still—

Lily: okay

Lily: I would like this

Shane’s reply is instant.

Jane: okay

Jane: :)

Ilya turns his face into his pillow and absolutely does not squeal.

***

Asking Ilya had been one thing.

Asking Hayden, well…

“You wanna bring some fuckin’ rando over to our house to meet the kids?”

They’ve just finished up practice, the two of them walking out to the parking lot together. A good a time as any to ask, well, what Shane’s been bracing himself to ask.

“Not a rando,” Shane corrects, hitching his gear bag up further onto his shoulder. “He’s my friend.”

“Right,” Hayden huffs. “Your friend. Your friend who has a kid, and who I’ve somehow never heard about until this day.”

Shane stops in his tracks, tilting his head up to the sky and letting out a long-suffering sigh.

“Hayd…”

“C’mon man, you gotta at least tell me his name.”

Shane closes his eyes, bracing for impact.

“You’re not gonna believe me.”

“Try me.”

“It’s Rozanov.”

A heavy silence settles between them before Hayden starts chuckling nervously.

“Hey, now, c’mon man. Not funny.”

Shane opens his eyes, tipping his head forward to meet Hayden’s gaze. He doesn’t say anything as he watches the horror dawn across Hayden’s face.

“Oh shit,” Hayden eventually chokes out. “You’re serious.”

Shane shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, shrugging his shoulders.

“Yeah.”

“When did this—” Hayden clears his throat, glancing nervously around them like he’s waiting for Ilya to pop out of the bushes. “I mean, like, how long have you guys been friends?”

“A while. Listen, Hayden, that part’s not really important—”

“Right,” Hayden mumbles under his breath, “not important.”

“Anyway,” Shane barrels on, “it’s not really important because this is about his kid. Not him.”

“Right,” Hayden nods, then he pauses, nodding more furiously. “Oh, shit. Right! I forgot he like… has a kid now. Jesus.” He scrubs down his face with one hand, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Rozanov as a parent. Fuckin’ wild.”

“It’s not that crazy…”

“It’s pretty nuts,” Hayden laughs, jostling Shane’s shoulder. “I mean, hell, you gotta admit, he’s not exactly who I would peg as ‘dad material.’ You know who the mom is?”

Shane’s glaring at him now, knowing exactly what he’s implying.

“His sister-in-law.”

“His— oh,” Hayden’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back from Shane. “Oh, shit, yeah. His brother and stuff.” He swipes at the side of his nose, staring down at the ground in quiet sympathy. “So it’s true then? He’s got his niece?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, also refusing to meet his eyes. “And he’s been having a bit of a rough go of it, so.”

“No shit,” Hayden bumps his shoulder, angling them toward their vehicles as he starts walking again. Shane follows.

“Yeah, man. I guess in that case… yeah. He can come. Raising a little girl like that, gotta be tough.”

“Mmm,” Shane breathes out. “Understatement of the century.”

They offer each other a few parting words about the day’s practice, then head toward their respective vehicles. When Shane gets to his, he grabs at the car door handle, but doesn’t tug at it. His arm hangs there limply, and he rests his forehead against the cool metal of the doorframe, just breathing.

One step down, he thinks.

About a million more to go.

***

The day Ilya is set to arrive, Shane shows up at the Pikes’ an hour early. Arthur’s still in the bath, the twins having just had theirs, racing around the house half-naked. Shane helps Hayden wrangle his kids together, tugging a shirt over Ruby’s head and tossing Jade’s folded socks Hayden’s way. Hayden had warned Jackie about the visit a few days prior, and she’d gone on a shopping spree to Craft De Ville with the girls. Markers, paper, pipe cleaners, and a plethora of paints are spread out atop the Pikes’ large coffee table. Shane helps Jackie prepare a fruit tray while Hayden makes sandwiches, cutting them up into four-by-four squares for the kids. He then gets crackin’ on margaritas for the adults, the sound of the blender making Shane’s jaw ache.

Neither of the Pikes grills him on this seemingly out-of-the-blue friendship that’s popped up with Rozanov, for which Shane’s grateful. The three of them finish getting the kids ready, explaining to the twins and Arthur (again) that they’ve got a playdate planned, and that they should be on their best behavior, and “could you please keep your shirt on, Ruby? I know you hate wearing clothes, but, Jesus, sweetie, we have guests coming over.” Jackie manages to get a movie going and the kids settled at the craft table by noon.

Ilya texts Shane five minutes out from arrival. Shane leaves the small party of Pikes to go meet him outside, and he waits beneath the eve covering the entryway. He watches Ilya roll up in a rented SUV, parking and exiting the vehicle just as Shane reaches the driver’s side door. Ilya doesn’t hesitate, pulling him in for a hug, burying his face in Shane’s hair. Shane matches his enthusiasm, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s waist, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders. It’s been three weeks, and he’s missed Ilya dearly.

“Shanya!” he hears a high-pitched voice call to him from the back seat. He tilts his head to the side, peering around Ilya’s broad shoulders to catch Natalya smiling at him from her car seat. Her lips are bright red, sticky and smart from the ring pop she’s sporting on her right thumb. Shane smiles at her and lifts one of his hands from its grip on Ilya’s waist so he can wave. Ilya finally pulls back from the hug, turning in Shane’s arms and speaking to him out of the corner of his mouth as he grins at his daughter.

“I told her today was a surprise.” He pats Shane’s arm affectionately and heightens the pitch of his voice. “Is good surprise, malysh?”

“Shanya! I missed you!” Natalya wiggles in her seat, tilting her head down to frown at the straps across her chest. “Dyadyaaaaa—”

“Okay, okay,” Ilya unravels himself from Shane’s embrace, walking around the car and opening the side door so he can start unlatching her carseat belts. She’s no help, squirming and reaching out for Shane with grabby hands. When the last of the buckles is unlatched, she bolts from her seat, racing around the car and lifting her arms just as Shane bends to pick her up. She wraps her arms and legs around him tightly, like a small, sticky octopus.

“Surprise!” she yells into his right ear, pulling back and letting go of Shane’s shoulders with both hands so she can spread her fingers like fireworks. “Are you surprised?”

Shane laughs, kissing the tip of her nose.

“I think the surprise is supposed to be for you, baby.” He glances over her shoulder at Ilya, whose leaning against the side of the car, watching them with a goofy smile on his face. “Where’s Sofya?”

He waves his hand in a dismissing gesture.

“Ah, told her she is off duty this afternoon. Sent her on a little spa day.”

“That was thoughtful of you.”

“Bah,” Ilya shakes his head, approaching Shane with another wave of his hand. “She needs it, what with this little one taking up all her time.” He ruffles Natalya’s hair as he says it, and she whips her head around to stick her bright red tongue out at him. Shane sets her down, only for her to immediately reach for his hand. He takes two steps toward the door before he feels Ilya take his other hand. He has less than a second to feel his warm, calloused palm press against his own before he remembers where they are. He jerks his hand out of Ilya’s like he’s been stung. Shane glances up, catching the tail-end of Ilya’s wounded expression before he smoothes it over with a blank stare.

“Sorry, I—” Shane starts, but is cut off when Ilya says:

“No, I shouldn’t have—”

“Hayden doesn’t know.”

“No, yeah, that’s—” Ilya shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Right, that’s— sorry. I get so used to the touching. You know, with—” he jerks his chin toward Natalya, who’s blinking up at them with large, innocent eyes.

Luckily, children don’t allow awkward silences to linger.

“You can hold my hand, Dyadya,” she says, her voice oddly placating. Shane feels his heart lurch, feels like a massive dick watching Ilya leave his side so he can reach down and take Natalya’s free hand in his own. Ilya doesn’t meet his eyes as they walk up to the front entryway, and Shane has to let go of Natalya’s hand to open the door, shepherding the two of them inside. As Ilya slides past him, Shane tilts his head forward, bravely brushing his lips against Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya turns his head by a fraction, his eyes seemingly softened by the soothing gesture. It’s the best “sorry” Shane has to offer, given the circumstances.

When they round the corner of the entryway and make their way into the living room, Natalya visibly tenses up when she sees the Pikes all standing to greet their guests. She hides behind Ilya’s legs, peeking around his upper thigh like a curious, but very nervous, meerkat.

Shane takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and stepping forward.

“Guys, this is um— This is Ilya,” he spreads his hands out before him, one waving in Ilya’s direction. “Ilya, this is Jackie, and this is— well, you know. This is Hayden.” Both men smile tightly, swallowing down whatever insults they no doubt feel like hurling at each other, instead, reaching for one another’s hands. Jackie’s introduction is sweeter, her genuine smile easing Ilya into her home.

“Welcome, Ilya, these are my kids: Ruby, Jade, and Arthur.”

Ilya sinks into a squat to shake each of the kids’ hands. He then reaches behind himself, drawing Natalya forward by both hands, pulling her between his knees so she’s facing forward, but her back is pressed to his torso.

“Ladies, Arthur, this is my daughter, Natalya. Natalya, sweetheart, can you say ‘hi?’”

Natalya looks at the girls, then at Shane, like she’s seeking out some sort of confirmation that this is safe. That they’re not going to, like, eat her or something. Shane offers her an encouraging smile, tilting his head minutely in the Pike kids’ direction.

“I like your hair!” Ruby blurts out, blunt and sweet the way most children are. Natalya smiles shyly, dipping her chin down to stare at her shoes.

“Spasibo,” she replies, her voice subdued but not nervous. “I like yours too.”

“Thanks! My mom braided it!” Ruby beams, looking up at her mom with bright eyes. “Mom knows all the braids. She gets them on her iPad and practices on me and Jade. Do you want to see?”

And that’s that. Jade and Ruby reach for Natalya’s hands, tugging her out of Ilya’s arms and leading her toward the couch. “I like your ring! I have a blue one in the candy drawer,” Jade giggles, just as Natalya shoots a parting, wary smile over her shoulder as she’s herded around the edge of the couch. Ilya sends her a double thumbs up, and Shane tries not to look too fond in the way he watches him.

Judging by the curious glance Jackie sends his way, he’s failed miserably.

“Well, margaritas anyone?” Hayden claps his hands together, leading the adults toward the kitchen. The house is an open floor plan, so they have a clear view of the kids bouncing around together on the couch. Jade’s got a video pulled up on the iPad, and Ruby’s sitting behind Natalya, trying to follow along as she braids her thick, curly hair. Ilya and Shane sit at the stools set up at the kitchen island while Jackie and Hayden prep the margaritas.

“Didn’t know hummingbird feed was part of your fancy diet,” Ilya teases, bumping his knee against Shane’s. Shane huffs out a laugh, clasping his hands together in front of him on top of the bar.

“It’s not, really.”

“Shh, don’t remind him. If we slip him a few, he might be tipsy enough to eat the pizzas we plan on ordering later on,” Hayden teases, pouring out everyone’s drinks into mason jars. Ilya gasps, mockingly bringing a hand to his chest like he’s been physically wounded.

“Hollander? Eating a simple carbohydrate? I did not think I’d see the day.”

“Oh, shut up, both of you,” he groans, burying his head in the triangle formed by his forearms.

They sit like that for a while, the adults chattering away, sharing trivial anecdotes over drinks while keeping an eye on the kids’ shenanigans in the living room. Ilya and Jackie get on shockingly well, exchanging tricks on how to get the kids to sleep faster, to eat vegetables, to do other menial tasks that both children and adults dislike. Ilya subconsciously leans into Shane’s space, turning to him at some point in the conversation to ask for a word. It’s only then, when their noses are a mere five inches apart, that he seems to realize what he’s done, scooting back into his seat to reestablish an appropriate, friendly distance between them.

Ilya teases Hayden, but he’s not cruel. And Hayden’s quick to dish out his own quips. Shane breathes out a relieved sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in when they manage to land on the topic of hockey (of course) without either party reaching out to strangle the other. Hayden remarks on Philadelphia’s shitty defense, Ilya compares it to North Carolina’s from two years ago, ect. ect. Even Shane grows tired of it, joining Jackie at the far end of the counter so he can ask after her siblings.

Thirty minutes into the playdate, Natalya comes bounding up to Ilya, tugging at the hem of his shirt to get his attention. He swivels around on the barstool, staring down at her and waiting patiently for her question.

“Dyadya, how to say—” She says something in Russian, holding her hands up to her ears and scrunching her nose up, acting out whatever it is she’s asking. Ilya laughs, replying with, “Bunny,” before holding his own hands up and bending down to rub his nose against her’s. “And this, they call ‘bunny kisses.’”

“Bunny kisses,” she giggles, rubbing her nose on Ilya’s cheek, then his knee once he sits back up. He ruffles her hair, and she bunny kisses his knuckles.

“Yes, yes, you make a very cute bunny, now go show your friends,” he tries to wave her off, but she hops over to Shane. Two hops, on her tiptoes, like a little bunny.

“Shanya,” she tilts her head up to him, scrunching her nose up and twitching it side to side. “Bunny kisses.”

Shane shoots Ilya a look before bending down to rub his nose against Natalya’s. She squeals in delight, tilting her head up for another, then another, giggling each time Shane meets her halfway.

“Wait, wait! Uncle Shane, show me!” Jade and Ruby hop over the back of the couch and run into the kitchen area, tilting their heads up toward Shane alongside Natalya, twitching their noses just as she had done. “We wanna be bunnies too!”

Shane shoots an exasperated look Hayden’s way, rolling his eyes at the “what can you do?” eyebrow dance Hayden shoots him. He bends back down, rubbing his nose against Jade’s, then Ruby’s, then Jade’s again, peals of laughter echoing around him.

“This is how a dog kisses,” Jade says proudly, promptly licking her sister’s cheek.

“Oh! Yuck!” Ruby rubs at her cheek in disgust, wiping off her sister’s spit with her sleeve. Meanwhile, Natalya has turned to Ilya, mouthing “yuck” like a question. He pulls out his phone and navigates to a translator app. He then hands the phone to her and she presses down on one of the buttons in the app, saying “yuck” to it with a serious face. It repeats something back to her in Russian, and her answering “aaahhh,” is telling. She goes to hand the phone back to Ilya, but he waves her off.

“Keep it,” he says dismissively. “You’ll need it more today, I think.”

Natalya cradles the phone to her chest, racing back toward the couch to join the twins in whatever game they’ve concocted. It sounds a lot like “princesses” or “farm animals.”

“Where’s the little boy?” Ilya asks, tuning back into the adult conversation after their adorable disruption. “Ah, Arthur?”

“He’s probably outside,” Jackie supplies, shooting a quick glance toward the sliding glass door that leads to their backyard. “He gets pretty overwhelmed when the girls get too loud. Likes to go look for bugs and stuff.”

“Shane likes to help him,” Hayden butts in, grinning. “They were out there for two whole hours last weekend. Caught like three frogs.”

“Shane is his favorite,” Jackie nods along in agreement, causing a light blush to rise to Shane’s cheeks. He can feel the heat of it, and he ducks his head down into the collar of his shirt, embarrassed.

“I understand,” Ilya turns to him, his expression impossibly soft. “The quiet ones must stick together, no?”

They chat a bit longer, eventually moving to the table. Shane’s phone is sitting on the tabletop, lying face-up. So, of course, everyone has a perfect view of the texts lighting up his screen, a slew of nonsense coming in from Lily. Ilya catches sight of the texts, patting Shane’s shoulder good-naturedly and leaving the table with an apologetic “oops.” Once he’s left, no doubt wrangling the phone out of Natalya’s hands, the Pikes level Shane with a look. He winces, holding his hands up in a placating manner.

“Look, I—”

“Shane—”

“Not now, please,” he stops them, eyes pleading. He can’t afford this discussion now, not when things are going so well for Ilya, for Ilya’s niece. They’ve been having a pleasant afternoon, and he’s hoping it’ll carry over into a pleasant evening. Quite frankly, he doesn’t really want to deal with the Lily situation until Lily is out of town. He gets such little time with Ilya, especially now that he has a daughter. He doesn’t want to spend it explaining the gay away to his friends.

Hayden huffs, sending him a glare lacking any and all heat, but he can’t maintain it for long; Ilya’s coming back, and he’s got a sleeping toddler in his arms.

“Twins had the phone,” he says, rolling his eyes affectionately. “Found Natasha asleep at the table. She was still holding the markers.” He hikes her up further in his arms, and Natalya subconsciously buries her head in his chest. Shane tries to school his expression into one that is not complete adoration, tries in vain not to melt right there on the spot.

“I forget it is her nap time, do you have a place for her?”

“Yeah, of course.” Jackie stands, walking toward the twins’ room and waving for Ilya to follow. When they’re gone, Hayden’s eyes are back on Shane, knowing.

“So,” Hayden says, voice unwavering. Shane swallows thickly, matching his stare with an expression far less intimidating.

“Um,” Shane tries, twisting his fingers together. “So.”

Hayden holds his gaze for a beat longer, then rolls his eyes. He bumps his foot against Shane’s beneath the table.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he says, his voice a bit wooden. “Just, like, promise me you’ve never thrown a game for him or anything.”

Shane promptly chokes on his own spit.

“I’d rather die.”

Jackie and Ilya return just as Hayden grins, standing to lean over the table and pat Shane on the shoulder, an amicable “that’s all I needed to hear” accompanying his friendly pat.

With Natalya asleep, the twins need a new source of entertainment. They shepherd the slightly tipsy adults outside, where they decide they’d like to play “pool party.” Jackie tries to explain that “pool party” doesn’t have to be a game, that they can literally just have a pool party, but the girls aren’t hearing it. They strip down to their underwear (much to their parents’ chagrin) and jump into the pool. Jackie tells them “pool party” will only last fifteen minutes unless they put on sunscreen. The girls groan, but crawl out of the pool and towel off with their shirts, letting their mom spray them down with the sunscreen she keeps stored beneath the awning.

“Little heathens,” she grumbles, spraying down their backs and chests. Shane wonders at what age children start to understand what being naked actually means. For now, he just watches Hayden’s kids get hosed down with chemicals before they run around chasing each other, waiting the obligatory five minutes for the chemical sunscreen to settle in before they jump back into the pool. In the meantime, Hayden and Shane stretch out on the lawn chairs, letting Jackie stalk over and roll the beach umbrella out, grumbling about skin cancer.

“Shane has already put on three layers of SPF,” Ilya grins, sitting at the end of Shane’s chair, his butt brushing up against Shane’s feet. He sheds his shirt, spraying down his chest with Jackie’s sunscreen.

Shane scrunches his nose up at the smell.

“Where are you going?” he asks, watching Ilya spray the SPF onto his fingertips, then rub it on the tips of his ears. His answering grin is cheeky.

“Where do you think, Hollander? I am playing ‘pool party.’”

Shane’s nose is still scrunched up, and Ilya leans forward, like he’s about to rub his nose against Shane’s, but stops himself last minute, glancing over at the Pikes, who are both pointedly looking in the opposite direction. He clenches his jaw and pulls back. Shane feels, surprisingly, like he’s just lost some sort of game, but he doesn’t know how, or even what he’s lost.

“I’ve got some swim shorts you can borrow,” Hayden offers. “You don’t have to strip down to your undies like my four-year-olds.”

“Please,” Shane wheezes, drawing all eyes toward him. “Please don’t do that.”

Ilya wiggles his eyebrows at him suggestively, but ultimately accepts Hayden’s offer. Five minutes later, Shane finds himself squatting beneath the shade of the Pikes’ large oak tree, searching for ants with Arthur and watching Ilya play “pool party” with the twins, a game that, thus far, appears to entail Ilya squatting down into the water so one of the girls can stand on his shoulders. He then jumps up, using his body’s momentum to throw whoever’s on his shoulders into the deep end. The game lasts thirty minutes, long enough for Shane’s knees to start aching from squatting, and for the Pikes to grow bored of the sun. He pats Arthur on the back, then stands, joining Hayden and Jackie beneath the large umbrella.

“Could use another margarita,” Jackie bemoans, tipping her mason jar dramatically to show how empty it is.

“Same,” Hayden agrees. “Ilya,” he calls out, louder. “We’re gonna head inside.”

Ilya doesn’t even look at them, sending them a double-thumbs-up as he dunks his head beneath the pool water.

Shane and Jackie stand around the kitchen island uselessly, like their presence will somehow fuel the speed of Hayden’s margarita-making. When he turns on the blender, high-pitched cries start up from the direction of the twins’ bedroom.

“Ah, shit,” Hayden scrambles to turn off the blender, but it’s too late. Natalya’s awake.

“I’ll go get her, don’t worry,” Shane reassures them, hopefully before the guilt settles in. He rushes to the bedroom, bending down to scoop a teary-eyed, bed-headed Russian toddler into his arms. She hiccups into his neck, burying her wimpers in the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, baby, it’s okay,” he soothes, bouncing her up and down as he carries her back into the kitchen. “Everything’s okay.” She’s still sniffling when he gets back to the Pikes. Hayden has the fruit tray from earlier spread out in front of him. He nicked it from the coffee table while Shane was out of the room. He’s got a can of whipped cream out, and Natalya lifts her puffy eyes from Shane’s chest to watch him spray a dollop of whipped cream onto a strawberry before popping it into his mouth. Natalya lets out a wet giggle, squirming around in Shane’s arms as she tries to turn bodily to watch Hayden eat another strawberry. Hayden smiles at her, decorating another strawberry with whipped cream before plopping it into Jackie’s mouth.

“Cupcake,” Natalya squeals, wiggling her way out of Shane’s arms so she can race to the other side of the counter. “Cupcake, cupcake!” She opens her mouth and holds out her tongue like a baby bird. Hayden laughs, spraying whipped cream on another strawberry and placing it on her tongue. She chews it, smiling up at Hayden in delight.

“Why’s she calling it a cupcake?” Jackie asks.

Shane shrugs.

“Maybe because the way the whipped cream swirls? It does look like the frosting on top.”

Hayden hands the can of whipped cream over to Shane and pushes the tray of fruit to his side of the counter.

“Here, you take it. I gotta piss.”

“Charming,” Jackie comments, turning back to the blender to finish with the margaritas. Meanwhile, Natalya rushes over to Shane’s side of the counter, tilting her head back and letting her tongue loll out. Instead of putting the whipped cream on a piece of fruit, he just sprays the cream directly into her mouth, an act that elicits a whole new round of giggles. Ilya chooses that moment to traipse back into the living room, the twins hot on his tail. They’re all wrapped in towels, but their feet are still damp. The twins leave footprints on the kitchen tiles as they race toward Shane, begging him for whipped cream and hopping up and down with their mouths open. Ilya at least has the decency to towel off his feet before joining them.

All three girls take turns opening their mouths for a dollop of whipped cream, laughing around full mouths. Ilya joins Shane at the counter, then dips his head down where Natalya’s is, intercepting her turn at getting whipped cream.

“Noooo, dyadya, you stole mine!” Natalya laughs, pushing Ilya’s face away with both hands. Ilya sits back up, laughing around a mouthful of whipped cream. A bit of it puffs out at the corner of his lip, and he licks at it with the tip of his tongue. Shane tries not to openly stare. He fails miserably; his attention only pulled away when the girls start poking at him for more cream.

“Ladies,” Jackie chastises, “can you please go put some clothes on?”

Later, after the second round of margaritas have been made, and the twins are bundled up in their pajamas and snuggies, Shane finds himself sandwiched between Ilya and Arthur on the couch. Ilya has Natalya in his lap, and Jackie and Hayden are holding the twins on their side of the couch. Hayden brings up Frozen, a movie the twins have seen at least a hundred times, yet still insist it’s the “must-watch” of the evening, as Natalya has never seen it. Halfway through the movie, Arthur sneaks his way into Shane’s lap, and Shane leans against Ilya’s shoulder, settling into the couch cushions more comfortably. When everyone’s focused on Elsa breaking out of her ice castle, the twins (and Hayden) belting out the lyrics to Let It Go, Shane spider-walks his hand over to Ilya’s, tangling their fingers together. He feels Ilya stiffen for a fraction of a second before he melts back into the couch cushions. He squeezes Shane’s hand in acknowledgment.

Near the end of the film, he tilts his head to the side, letting his cheek rest against the crown of Shane’s head. Shane meets Jackie’s eyes across the couch and blushes profusely when she winks.

He turns his attention back to the film, pretending he’s not hyperfocused on the joy he feels in listening to Ilya’s steady, slow breaths.

***

Leaving the Pikes’ is a major performance, complete with fanfare. Natalya and the twins take turns hugging each other goodbye. Over, and over, and over again. As Ilya walks toward the car, Natalya in arms, she waves goodbye with both hands, promising her new best friends that she’ll be returning soon. Shane walks them out, and Ilya leans out the side of the rolled-down passenger window, kissing him goodbye and promising to meet him at the apartment later on.

“I texted you the address, right?” Shane double-checks. Ilya rolls his eyes, patting his cheek and sitting back down in the driver’s seat.

“Affirmative,” he answers, shooting him a wink. “But will not be there for an hour or so. Few errands to run.” Shane steps back, letting him roll out of the driveway. Natalya waves at Shane through her window, and Shane waves back. She blows him a kiss as they drive away, for good measure.

Hayden comes and stands beside him as he watches Ilya drive away. He reaches up, clasping Shane’s shoulder with a sturdy hand.

“Don’t,” Shane says without looking at him.

“Wasn’t gonna,” Hayden answers honestly, squeezing his shoulder. “Here when you’re ready, though.”

Shane doesn’t answer, but he reaches up with his own hand to place it over Hayden’s. He wonders what he’s done to deserve such a terrific friend.

***

Shane gets back to his apartment an hour before Ilya’s set to arrive.

picking sofya up from her spa day, Ilya had texted. we’ll head over after that.

Shane readies the guest bedrooms and bathroom, gets sushi rice started in his Zojirushi, and wipes down the already immaculate surfaces in the kitchen. By the time there’s a knock at his apartment door, he’s got all the ingredients out for onigiri and is halfway through chopping up bits of kimchi for the tuna filling.

“It’s unlocked!” he yells out. He doesn’t want to answer the door, as his fingers are caked in red chile and ginger. Natalya’s the first to make it to the kitchen, smiling at Shane like she hadn’t just seen him two hours ago.

“Shanya!” she yells out in delight, racing around the kitchen island to hug his knees. He bends down, curling his arm in awkwardly so he can acknowledge her hug by patting the crown of her head with his elbow. Ilya enters next, followed by Sofya. Sofya’s dressed down, wearing a long maxi skirt and a linen top. Her hair is down, slightly oily— probably from the residual massage oil. She approaches the counter, surveying the spread before her with keen eyes.

“You did not have to make our dinner,” she says, though it does not come out ungrateful.

“Well, you still get to help with putting it together, if that makes you feel better,” he jerks his chin toward the edge of the counter where a stack of plastic onigiri presses lay waiting to be used.

“Oh!” Sofya claps her hands together, then hurries around the kitchen counter to wash her hands at the sink. “I’ve never had this before.”

“I used to make them with my grandma,” Shane replies, meeting Ilya’s eyes from across the kitchen. “I thought they’d be fun to try.”

He finishes chopping the kimchi, mixing it in with the bowl of tuna salad. He then shoos everyone toward the dining room table, grabbing the bowl of sushi rice out of the rice maker and a container of pickled plums from the fridge. He lays everything out on the table, sets a placemat down in front of each of his guests (kissing Ilya’s cheek “hello” when he gets to him), and gives everyone a plastic onigiri press. He then walks them through using it, showing them how to fill the bottom with a layer of sushi rice, then a small dollop of tuna or pickled plum, topped off with another layer of rice. He presses down on the top layer with the plastic seal, then pops the onigiri out and wraps it in a layer of seaweed.

“Voila,” he grins, placing the first onigiri down on a large platter at the center of the table. “I think we can do this.”

He only has three onigiri presses, so he hands his to Ilya. He then scoots his chair over to help Natalya. Sofya’s first onigiri comes out good, if not a bit overstuffed. Both Ilya’s and Natalya’s first rounds fall apart, but Ilya gets the hang of it by the second try.

In the end, none of Natalya’s come out very shapely, but Shane salvages most of them, padding them each with more rice and shaping them easily with his hands.

“You can do this without the little triangle pieces?” Ilya asks, nodding at Shane’s hands, where he’s currently fixing Natalya’s fifth batch. Shane nods, not looking up from his work.

“Mom, gamma, and I used to be on dinner duty for family gatherings,” he supplies. “Got good with my hands.”

“Mmm, did you now?” Ilya purrs, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Sofya slaps his chest with the back of her hand.

“Little ears are present,” she scolds. Shane chuckles under his breath, setting Natalya’s now oversized onigiri on the platter.

Before they eat, they each wash their hands, and Shane wipes down the table before handing out plates. When they sit, he reaches instinctively for Ilya’s and Natalya’s hands.

“Oh, Shane,” Sofya scolds gently, “you do not need to pray at your own table.”

Shane looks up, feeling just as confused as Natalya looks.

“But Sofya,” Natalya rebuts, “we always pray before our food.”

“Yeah, it’s okay. I don’t mind,” Shane says, tightening his grasp on Natalya’s and Ilya’s hands, but Sofya’s shaking her head.

“We are your guests; we cannot ask you to adhere to our traditions.”

Shane looks at Ilya in desperation, trying to relay with eye contact that it’s really, really okay. Ilya clears his throat, turning to speak to Sofya.

“I don’t think it makes him uncomfortable, Sofya.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, “I love having you guys here. It’s my home, and I want you to feel comfortable. It really doesn’t bother me.”

Sofya squints her eyes at him, but jerks her head in a sharp nod of acquiescence. Ilya asks Natalya to please say the prayers.

“Dear Lord,” she begins, bringing her chin to her chest and closing her eyes. Shane follows, as does Sofya. As does Ilya.

“We thank you for this food. And thank you for Dyadya, and Sofya, and Shanya, and Ruby and Jade…” She proceeds to thank God for twelve other people, including her sock monkey, before saying amen. Shane does not believe in a God; he probably never will, but he finds the act of showing gratitude for his meal rewarding. It may just be his imagination, but he thinks it makes the food taste more flavorful.

They chat amicably over dinner, Natalya telling everyone about her new friends, Sofya describing the spa treatment Ilya sent her off to for the day. Shane and Ilya sit back, letting the girls dominate the dinner conversation. At one point, during a lengthy explanation about princesses, choppy English words mixed in with a slew of Russian, Ilya reaches over for Shane’s hand, squeezing it as he catches his eye. He winks, causing Shane to blush into his next bite of onigiri.

After dinner, Ilya washes the dishes while Shane dries and puts them away. They listen to Natalya walk Sofya through a card game the twins taught her. “Go Feesh,” she elongates the “i” and Shane smiles when he hears her laugh in delight over winning the first round. After dishes, Shane and Ilya join the girls around the coffee table, quickly catching onto the rules of “Go Feesh.” Shane pulls a throw blanket down off the arm of the couch, spreading it over his and Ilya’s laps. After a few rounds of the game, he gets up to make them all a pot of chamomile. Sofya joins him when she hears the kettle whistle, helping him carry all four cups of tea back into the living room. When Shane settles back down next to Ilya, under the blanket, he sits closer than before. His thigh presses up against Ilya’s, warmed by the blanket and the day’s sun. Ilya leans back against the couch, spreading his arm out across the cushion and draping it over Shane’s shoulder. Shane leans into him, scolding him for using the cuddle tactic to cheat and look at his cards.

As Natalya’s bedtime approaches, Shane glances around the table, watching Natalya purse her lips and furrow her brow. Watching Sofya glare at her hand, twirling a lock of Natalya’s hair between her fingers. Watching Ilya watch him, the distance between them so small he has to cross his eyes while staring at him. Ilya lays his hand down on the table and leans forward, turning his cheek at the last minute to kiss the corner of Shane’s eye. Shane ducks his head down, smiling shyly. He wonders when they became this. This, this nebulous this, sitting around his coffee table, sharing space with one another without the promise of sex. He thinks he could get used to this, tucking his head beneath Ilya’s chin and cuddling in closer. Ilya wraps both arms around him and picks his hand back up, drawing a card when his turn comes around.

Sofya calls the final round at eight, and Shane shows her where the guest bathroom and her bedroom are. She waves goodnight to all of them, bending down to kiss Natalya on the cheek, and turns in for the evening. Ilya asks if he can take Natalya to shower in the other bathroom, and Shane leads them upstairs, grabbing towels from the supply closet on the way. When the door to the en suite bathroom closes, and he hears the muffled sound of the shower head running, he strips down to his boxers and changes into sweats and a T-shirt. Twenty minutes later, Natalya comes out of the bathroom wearing one of Ilya’s Raiders T-shirts like a dress, the collar hanging off her shoulder. Ilya’s just in a pair of low-hanging sweats. Shane tries very hard not to sit there oggling his damp chest.

“Bedtime story, then I will be back up, yes?” Ilya asks with a pointed look. Shane nods, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, and Ilya’s swooping Natalya up into his arms. But Natalya wiggles out of his grasp, rushing over to Shane to hug his legs.

“Goodnight, Shanya,” she says, staring up at him with those wide, hazel eyes, mischievous and bright like her uncle’s. Shane is smitten. He kneels so he can hug her goodnight properly, and he wishes her sweet dreams. After they’ve gone back downstairs, Shane’s left to his own devices. He decides he should probably shower after all, cleaning as thoroughly as he can without his normal prep routine, and crawls into bed wearing a pajama set his mother bought him two Christmases ago.

Ilya returns half an hour later, his eyes sleep-soft, his body so beautiful in the low lamp light that it makes Shane’s chest ache. It’s been a perfect day, he thinks. A perfect, perfect day. He doesn’t bother with hiding his need for Ilya, reaching out with both hands and making grabby motions with them like he’s seen Natalya do countless times. Ilya lets out a shock of laughter, joining Shane in bed and rolling on top of him above the covers. Shane pouts.

“No,” he whines, kissing Ilya’s jaw, his cheek. “Under here.” He tugs at the edge of the blankets, hoping Ilya will take the hint. He does, pulling the covers back himself and replacing the duvet with the warm drape of his body.

“Mmm,” he hums contentedly into the crook of Shane’s neck. “So eager.”

“Yes,” Shane agrees. Easy. So easy for him. He’d feel embarrassed if he didn’t know Ilya’s just as hard as he is right now. “Please.”

“Please,” Ilya repeats, a groan. The word shoots straight to Shane’s groin, and he bucks up against Ilya in a half-formed gesture. “‘Please,’ he says,” Ilya teases against his mouth, biting at his lower lip in a playful manner.

“Please,” Shane sighs, too happy to fight Ilya’s mockery. He offers Ilya sleepy, open-mouthed kisses, letting his hands wander across the naked skin of his back. His fingers dance over the uneven bumps caused by his moles. He has all of them mapped, a mental layout of Ilya’s body seared into his longterm memory. He brushes his fingertips up Ilya’s flanks, touch featherlight, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Ilya continues to kiss him, lazy and a bit sluggish in his movements. They roll to their sides, and Shane hitches a knee up over Ilya’s hip. He curls both arms in so that his loose fists are trapped between their bodies. Ilya tucks one arm beneath Shane’s head, so that Shane is cradled in the crook of his shoulder. With his other hand, he reaches down, gripping beneath Shane’s knee and tugging at his thigh so that their hips are pressed together. They make out for God knows how long. Long enough for Shane’s lips to feel numb. Long enough for his neck to ache, forcing him to tip his head back so he can rest against Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya dips his head down, mouthing at Shane’s Adam’s apple, and Shane wonders if they’ll even be having sex tonight. He fantasizes about it, about the not having sex, as Ilya trails sleep-soft kisses up and down the collar of his throat. Pictures Ilya resting his head on his chest the way he did last time, breaths coming out slow and even in a matter of minutes. Pictures himself reaching for the bedside lamp, switching it off while Ilya grumbles at the jostling of his body. Ilya’s kisses migrate to his collarbone, and Shane is imagining waking up to him spooned behind his back. He would sneak out of Ilya’s arms quietly, tiptoe out of the bedroom and down the stairs to make coffee. He would make Natalya pancakes, and Ilya an extra serving of bacon. He would do this, he realizes as Ilya slips his hands beneath the waistband of his pants, every morning. He would make Ilya breakfast every morning if he could. He would take Ilya to the Pikes’, let the twins drag Natalya around for hours while Shane just stares at Ilya, watching him fit into every nook and cranny of his life. He would make him simple Japanese food, throw his laundry in the dirty hamper with his own clothes, buy little glow-in-the-dark star stickers for Natalya’s guest room. Or just her room. Because, in this fantasy, that has Shane half-hard, half-heartsick, Ilya is not racing to touch him when he’s clearly exhausted, because they’re not battling time. Ilya can touch him tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next. There is infinite time spread out before them, and an infinite number of days for Ilya to wrap his hand loosely around Shane’s cock, just as he is doing now, so he does not have to do it now. He can remove his hand. He can wrap his arms around Shane’s torso and bury his face in Shane’s chest. He can do these things because tomorrow is a given. And it is a given, because this is Shane’s wish, the dream he keeps tucked away in the far corners of his heart. And in this dream, Ilya may sleep now, and Shane will be there when he wakes up. Because—

Because—

“Dyadya?”

Ilya rips his hand out of Shane’s pants, rolling off him so fast he tangles himself up in the sheets. Luckily, both of them had been tucked beneath the duvet, so Natalya couldn’t have seen anything incriminating. She’s looking up at them from the far side of the room, peeking around the edge of the doorway. She’s sporting serious bedhead and sleepy eyes, reaching up to rub at them with both fists. Ilya lets out a deep sigh, sending Shane an apologetic look. He throws the duvet off himself and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Natalya must sense the strained atmosphere in the room, because her eyes start to tear up, and she says, “Dyadya, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s scary.”

“No, no baby, come here,” he waves both hands at her, a “come hither” motion that she obliges all too willingly. She shuffles over to Ilya’s open arms, tucking her face into his stomach as he wraps his arms around her. Shane crawls over to Ilya’s side of the bed, propping his chin on his shoulder. He can feel the muscles move beneath his jaw as Ilya smooths Natalya’s hair back from her face.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says quietly, just for Shane. “She does not sleep alone on these trips. I don’t know why I thought it could be different tonight.”

Shane says nothing in return. Instead, he shifts his body to the right, spreading his legs so that he’s straddling Ilya from behind. He wraps his arms around his torso and rests his cheek on Ilya’s upper back. He feels Ilya’s heartbeat press into his palm, his steady breaths rocking Shane’s body. Shane turns his cheek and kisses one of Ilya’s many moles. He blindly reaches out with one hand, feeling for Ilya’s atop Natalya’s mop of curls. He slots his fingers loosely between Ilya’s and allows him to drag both of their fingers through Natalya’s hair.

“I will have to sleep with her tonight,” Ilya sighs, his tone morose and regretful. Shane squeezes him tighter and speaks to his heated skin.

“You can sleep here,” he says, pausing to catch his breath. “With me. If she— if she’s okay with it.”

He feels the woosh of breath leave Ilya’s body beneath his cheek; the shift of his back muscles as he reaches down to pick Natalya up by her armpits, pulling her into his lap. She hooks her chin over Ilya’s shoulder and smiles down at Shane, reaching around Ilya’s bicep to pat Shane’s head.

“Hello, Shanya,” she greets him, voice raspy with tears.

“Hello, Natasha,” he tilts his head up, rubbing his nose against her palm. A bunny kiss. She giggles and crawls around Ilya’s body to push at Shane’s chest. Shane unravels himself from around Ilya’s body so Natalya can crawl into his lap. He scoots back so that he’s propped up against his pillows, tilting his head up so Natalya can tuck her face into his neck. The same place Ilya had been resting not ten minutes prior. Ilya lies down next to them, watching Shane with an indescribable expression. He curls in on his side, tucking his feet beneath Shane’s calves and resting his hand on Natalya’s back. Shane reaches up to tangle their hands together again, and they hold Natalya, just like that, until her breaths even out and she falls asleep on top of his chest. He eventually tears his eyes away from her prone form to meet Ilya’s eyes. They’re wet and wide and somehow both telling and elusive at the same time. Shane moves their clasped hands to his cheek, brushing his high cheekbone with the back of his hand.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks as he allows Ilya to guide their joined hands to the pillow beneath his cheek, cuddling against them like a sleepy child.

“I am thinking,” Ilya starts, turning his head to kiss Shane’s knuckles. He closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose, his breath tickling Shane’s fingertips. It pairs well with the little huffs currently dusting over his collarbone. “I am thinking, maybe, maybe—” He stops, opening his eyes again to watch Natalya. His feet shift, his big toe rubbing back and forth against Shane’s calf.

“I don’t know how to describe to you what I am thinking.”

He looks back up at Shane, his eyes wet and honest, pupils so wide they’re blocking out the beautiful blue-green of his irises. Shane has never seen anyone or anything more beautiful. He has the warm weight of a child pressing down on his chest, her little body far too light to justify the heaviness weighing down his lungs. When he speaks, it is with great effort, like he’s trying to talk to Ilya from twenty thousand leagues under the sea.

“No English?”

“No,” Ilya replies instantly, shaking his head against Shane’s knuckles. “Nyet, no. Is not the English.” He sounds winded, a bit choked up, like he’s just finished running a marathon and is trying to describe the aching, burning experience of pushing his body through something so terrible, yet so rewarding. Like he is dying watching the scene before him unfold, but he is grateful for it.

“I do not think there is a language to describe what I am feeling right now.”

Natalya chooses that moment to sniffle, then roll over so that she falls gracefully off Shane’s chest, cocooned between their two bodies. She nestles into Ilya’s chest, humming in contentment. Shane watches Ilya reach for her, tucking her hair behind her ear, tracing the delicate shape of her earlobe with his fingertip, and he thinks he understands what Ilya means. There are no words to describe what he is thinking, what he is feeling right now.

He sits up to reach over Ilya’s body, switching off the bedside lamp and throwing them into a pool of darkness. He then settles back down into the mattress, reaching for Ilya’s hand once more. They rest their clasped hands atop Natalya’s sharp hipbone, alternating between watching her sleep and watching each other.

Shane falls asleep to the sound of the quickened breaths of a child and the unfamiliar warmth of two bodies escorting him to his dreams.

***

The next day’s game is a win for the Metros. Shane can’t get out of a post-win celebration—their first win against Boston that season—not that he doesn’t try.

“C’mon, Hollander, you can’t hold out on us after a win like that,” J.J. grins at him, shedding his Under Armour for a quick post-game shower. Shane shakes his head, stripping himself of his own sweaty underclothes. He’s not thinking of their win, not really. He’s thinking of the pasta Sofya insisted on cooking for them tonight. Of waking up this morning with a child’s head on his chest and Ilya’s forehead pressed against his bicep, his body curled around the two of them protectively. He’s thinking he does not want to miss another minute of that contact, not when he knows he’ll be losing it tomorrow morning.

“My friend texted me, told me the cast of X-Squad is out at CeCe’s,” Jones pipes in. “Seriously, Hollzy, you can’t say no to your girlfriend.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and a few of the other guys start cat-calling and wolf-whistling, slapping Shane on the back as they pass him on their way to the showers. Shane shakes his head, stripping the rest of his clothes and joining most of the guys in the communal showers.

“Not my girlfriend,” he says to no one in particular, his voice echoing around the tiled room all the same.

“Not with that attitude,” Drapeau scolds him, joining him at the shower right next to him. Shane ignores the follow-up jeers, cleaning himself quickly and perfuctally. When he gets back to his cubby, towel wrapped around his waist and shower slides still on, he checks his texts. One from his mom, two from Lily, and one from Rose.

Rose: At CeCe’s with Miles and a few others. Celebratory win tonight?

He lets the text go unanswered, thumbing immediately to Lily’s contact:

Lily: will get you next time

Lily: code to front door? will probably get there before you

Shane fires off the code, then returns to Rose’s thread to decline her invite. Unfortunately, J.J. chooses that exact moment to pass by him, glancing over his shoulder to catch the text thread pulled up on Shane’s screen.

“Uh-uh, no way, Hollander. You cannot say no now. Not when your girlfriend is texting you to show, ah?”

“I told you,” Shane replies, trying not to let frustration slip into his tone. “Not my girlfriend.”

In the end, Shane loses the fight. Once the team has Hayden on their side, the man with four kids and a wife waiting for him at home, he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

“Just an hour,” he tells the guys, the lot of them piling into J.J.’s jeep so they can carpool to CeCe’s.

“Sure, capitaine,” J.J. teases him, raising his eyebrows at him imploringly through the review mirror. Shane lets out a frustrated huff, angling his body toward the window and pulling out his phone.

Jane: im sorry. the guys are making me go out for a celebration.

Jane: ill try to make it quick

Lily: no rush

Lily: will be very boring here. couple rounds of go fish. probably tangled movie for the eight millionth time, if i can figure out how your tv works

Shane smiles down at his phone, knowing full well that’s exactly how he wants to be spending his evening.

Lily: will tell sofya to save you a plate of pasta

Shane’s thumbs hover over the keyboard, long enough for Hayden to get a peek over his shoulder. When he meets Shane’s eyes, he offers him a tight smile.

“Hey man, I get it. I hate leaving Jackie alone tonight, too,” he says in a low voice, quiet enough that the rest of the guys don’t hear him over the loud French rap J.J.’s got blasting through the speakers.

“Right,” Shane huffs, locking his phone and crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive manner. When he speaks, it’s to the frosty window. “Except you get every other night with Jackie.”

He doesn’t turn to watch Hayden’s reaction, doesn’t want to be met with his confusion. Or worse, his pity. Instead, he digs his nails into his forearms, mentally begging J.J. to drive faster. The faster they get to the club, the faster he can sneak out, call an Uber, and leave.

He feels Hayden lean into his personal space, and he starts to bristle, only for Hayden to diffuse the tension by bumping his forehead against his shoulder, much like he does when one of them scores out on the ice.

***

The club is, as Shane had expected, loud, obnoxious, and extremely discomforting. As soon as they arrived, Rose had made a beeline for him from the VIP section, dragging him back to her table with the rest of the guys who came in J.J.’s jeep. They all order drinks, all of them aside from Shane, who orders a ginger ale. And when he finds out they don’t carry ginger ale, a sparkling water.

Rose eventually leads him out onto the dance floor, keeping him at a healthy distance. He fights against the urge to check his phone every twenty seconds. He lets her manhandle him into some semblance of a dance, and they move together for a few songs until, eventually, Miles joins them, crowding in closer. Closer. At first, he’s rubbing up against Rose’s side, and she sends him a teasing side-eye. However, one pop song dies down, followed by another, one with a slower beat, heavier base. Miles sneaks in between them, facing Rose. He takes a baby step back, and then another, until he’s pressed up against Shane, his hand sneaking behind his body, grabbing at Shane’s and squeezing it quickly before letting go. Shane’s head snaps up, his eyes meeting Rose’s over Miles’ shoulder. Rose sends him a knowing wink, dancing closer to Miles’, pressing her hands to his chest, forcing him to rub up the length of Shane’s body as he dances. Shane blanches, taking a large step back, bumping into a couple dancing behind him. Miles turns, he and Rose watching Shane curiously. They don’t chase after him, still swaying to the music as Rose holds her hand out. She’s wearing an eerily knowing expression.

“I don’t—” Shane starts, swallowing around the bile rising in his throat. “I can’t—”

“Shh, Shane,” Rose comes closer, grabbing his hand and pulling him back into their claustrophobic circle. “Babe, it’s fine.”

“Totally fine,” Miles practically purrs, hand scittering across Shane’s back, a seductive illusion in reaching for Rose’s hand.

“No,” Shane shakes his head, the base pounding through his skull. He’s not drunk, but he sort of feels like it. Feels off-kilter, a strong sense of vertigo taking over, tilting the dancefloor and all its hazy occupants sideways. “It’s not fine.”

Rose leans in, her perfume strong, the smell of alcohol on her breath mingling with the cotton candy scent of her lip gloss.

“Babe, it’s okay,” she says, her voice just above a whisper. “I know.” She pulls back, smiling at him eagerly, sliding her palm down Mile’s chest like she’s presenting him with a sleek stallion. Mile’s eyes twinkle beneath the dimmed lights of the dancefloor. He winks, then circles his hips in a suggestive manner. Shane thinks of Ilya falling asleep inside him a few weeks back, thinks of him now, waiting up for him with a cold plate of pasta. He wants to throw up.

“No, I— stop.” He pushes away Rose’s pawing hands, breathing heavily and staring down at the dancefloor, tears blurring his vision. He brings a fist to his forehead, simply holding it there, grounding himself to his own thoughts. “Fuck, stop it, I— there’s someone.” He drops his hand, looking at them, imploring them to understand. “I’ve got— someone. Already.” He swallows around the lump in his throat, surveying Mile’s stunned expression. “Sorry,” he says; though, he’s not really. He’s not sorry at all. The only thing he’s sorry for is being here, for wasting his own precious time when he could be at home, could be clean and comfortable and wrapped up in Ilya’s arms so tightly he can’t remember who the winner is supposed to be that night. With Ilya, he always feels like he’s winning.

“Okay,” Rose says, the first to break their awkward stalemate. “Shit, I— Okay. Shane, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” She reaches for him, her touch featherlight, just on his forearm. “I’m sorry,” she says, tone knowing, serious. “I’m sorry, I—”

“I have to go,” Shane mumbles, shouldering past the two of them, only feeling a little guilty. He feels terrible. A terrible friend, a terrible teammate. He understands what Rose was trying to do. She had been tactful about it, and Miles had been sly, out of sight of his teammates, just forward enough to show his hand without exposing Shane to the general public. Still, still, Shane feels guilt cloying in his gut, tears still lining the rims of his eyes. He’s ashamed, humiliated in a way he can’t really explain. Here he is, being offered something perfectly comfortable, perfectly casual on a silver platter. He could have danced with them a bit longer, then let Miles leave a few minutes before him, texting him some temporary address he must be residing at while shooting whatever film he and Rose have been working on here in Montreal. He’d have Rose to cover for him, maybe leave with him to make it look like what he knows his teammates want it to look like. What the paparazzi want it to look like.

Instead, he contacts an Uber, wiping at the corners of his eyes as he crawls into the backseat, affirming his apartment address. He texts Rose a quick sorry. And he is sorry. But also, he isn’t. Is he sorry for not playing along? For freaking out? For not being available? But he is available. At least, in theory, he is still available.

But, he doesn’t feel “available.” Yeah, his home is available to host when Ilya and his little crew need a place to crash. And his body is available when Ilya texts. Every time. Every city. He makes himself available. It’s pathetic. Except, maybe it’s not. It doesn’t feel pathetic, not when Ilya’s subconsciously reaching for him in his sleep, his eyes searching for him on the ice. Always him, always searching.

Shane’s thoughts are disrupted when the Uber pulls up to the curb in front of his apartment complex. He should have directed them to the stadium. He’s perfectly sober; he could have driven his car home. But it’s already 11:30 p.m., and Ilya’s flight is early. He has a handful of hours left with him, and he’s not going to waste them on a detour to grab his car. He can get Hayden to give him a lift tomorrow. He exits the vehicle and shakes out his limbs. Entering the building, he sheds his jacket. He doesn’t want to greet Ilya at the door smelling like cheap drinks and cigarettes. When he gets to his door, he opens it gently, hoping not to disturb anyone asleep downstairs. Nobody greets him at the door, and he toes his shoes off, following the sound of the TV to the living room. It’s there that he finds Sofya watching a late-night sitcom. Natalya is asleep, spread out across the sofa cushions with her head in Sofya’s lap. Sofya spots Shane immediately, bringing a finger to her lips and miming a shushing motion before pointing to Natalya’s prone form. Shane nods his head, then mouths “Ilya?” Sofya winks, then points at the stairway. Shane gives her a double thumbs up and tiptoes all the way up the stairs. When he gets to the second floor, he opens the door to his bedroom slowly, peeking around it to catch Ilya tucked in beneath the covers, his wild mop of curls the only visible part of his body. The lump of his body rises and falls evenly beneath the duvet. He’s sound asleep.

Shane smiles. He tugs off his socks, then his pants and boxers, folding them and placing them on the edge of his desk. Finally, he shucks his shirt, then approaches the bed with subdued eagerness. He pulls the corner of the blanket back slowly, careful not to expose Ilya to the slight chill of the bedroom. He slips into bed, resting on his side so that he’s facing Ilya. His expression is so soft, completely devoid of the day’s stressors. His mouth has a natural uptick, like he’s smiling at something in his dreams. He’s snoring, very lightly, and Shane can see the movement of his pupils beneath his eyelids. Carefully, very carefully, he shuffles down beneath the covers, sliding down far enough to be facing Ilya’s crotch in the muffled darkness underneath the blankets. He tilts his head forward, careful not to jostle Ilya’s body with his large shoulders, and breathes out against Ilya’s clothed cock.

No reaction, so he blows again, getting a little kick in retaliation. He edges closer, mouthing at Ilya’s soft cock, lips parted, just letting his hot breath spill over onto Ilya’s crotch in small puffs. He sneaks his hand up Ilya’s thigh, feeling goosebumps rise, prickling his fingertips alongside coarse leg hair. Ilya shifts his weight, his hips rolling forward. He hikes his leg over Shane’s shoulders, the position practically crushing Shane’s mouth to his cock. Shane sneaks his hand up, tugging the waistband of Ilya’s boxers down just far enough to reveal his soft cock. Shane buries his face in the crook between Ilya’s thigh and his crotch, relishing in the smell of his body wash on Ilya’s skin. When he drags his chin across Ilya’s pelvis, he feels Ilya buck, a small motion, involuntary. Shane smiles, kisses his way up Ilya’s cock, taking it into his mouth easily and holding it there. He slides his free hand between his torso and Ilya’s thigh to grab at his ass, holding him in place as he licks and sucks at his growing erection.

There is no guilt, no shame here, between the soft folds of Ilya’s body. It’s the only place he feels right, perfect in a way that even hockey does not offer him. I am perfect here, he thinks, sliding his tongue up the underside of Ilya’s cock. Perfect for you. I was made perfectly for you.

He can feel when Ilya’s finally fully conscious. Feels the sharp buck of Ilya’s hips, the muffled ”fuck” cried out from the other side of the duvet. His grip on Ilya’s ass tightens, using it as leverage to pull him forward, a silent request for him to basically fuck his face. Ilya catches on quickly, grabbing fistfuls of his hair with both hands and thrusting forward, over and over. He rolls their bodies with his hips, until his knee is planted on the mattress and Shane’s half-lying on his back. He’s practically choking on Ilya’s cock by now, feels spit dribbling out the corners of his mouth and wetting the sheets beneath his cheek. He could give two shits about the sheets, sneaking his other hand between Ilya’s legs to grip his other asscheek. He hums around Ilya’s cock, feels his hips jerk unevenly at the feel of it. Feels his muscles clench beneath his fingertips. Feels drunk on this, whatever this is. He’s not even hard, just sickeningly happy. Ilya tugs at his hair, a silent indicator that he’s close, and Shane swallows him down in full, burying his nose in his pubic hair. Ilya’s hands let go of his hair, sliding down the back of his neck, down the strong muscles of his back, his body curling into Shane’s hold on him. His hips undulate unevenly, micro-movements as he starts to come. His muscles are taut beneath Shane’s palms, his head slipping beneath the covers so Shane can hear his sharp gasp, his sleep-sticky ”Shane.” He holds Ilya through all of it, swallowing around his cock and tugging him close, as close as he can get without smothering himself between Ilya’s thighs. When he feels Ilya come down, feel his muscles begin to retract and his fingers loosen their grip on his body, he pulls his head back, shuffling up to plant kisses along Ilya’s happy trail. He lingers at his belly button, rubbing his nose against it affectionately. Ilya tugs at his hair, and Shane heaves himself up the rest of the way, his head popping out of the duvet, hair damp and sweaty from his position cocooned between Ilya’s thigh and the mattress.

Ilya’s expression is hazy, come-drunk. He pulls Shane in close, kicking his boxers off so they’re both completely naked. He buries his nose in Shane’s hair, and Shane hears him take a deep breath, feels it in the expanse of the chest he now rests his cheek against.

“Mmm, Merry Christmas to me,” Ilya sighs, pressing sleepy kisses to Shane’s sweaty hairline. Shane grins against his pec, biting at his nipple in a playful manner.

“It’s November.”

“Is Christmas somewhere.”

Shane snorts. Ilya’s making absolutely no sense. Even his jokes are landing sideways.

“Go to sleep, baby,” Shane whispers, kissing his clavicle for good measure. But Ilya's shaking his head, the tip of his nose rubbing back and forth across Shane’s sweaty forehead. He reaches down, groping Shane’s ass half-heartedly.

“No,” he groans, “must get you now.”

Shane grasps blindly behind himself until he finds Ilya’s hand. He tugs it back up, pulling their clasped hands to his chin. He kisses Ilya’s knuckle, then cuddles in close, throwing his leg over Ilya’s loose-limbed form.

“You’ve already got me,” he says, tone reassuring. Ilya sighs, resting his free hand on the back of Shane’s head, cradling him to his chest. He’s out in minutes, and Shane’s quick to follow. His last thought is of Sofya, praying she can keep Natalya out of the bedroom for the rest of the night.

Chapter End Notes

y'all's feedback has been so motivating <3 thank you for joining me on this journey

Update: lmao y'all, relax. The club scene is not a chekhov's gun, Rose was legitimately just trying to be a good wingman. Chile. Nobody is getting hurt or outed here.

Chapter 4: oh, who will love a little sparrow

Chapter Notes

“But the law of loving others could not be discovered by reason, because it is unreasonable.”

- Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

The morning Ilya flies out, Shane wakes up extra early to send his little entourage off with full stomachs. Sofya joins him, the two of them working around his kitchen to make a simple meal of oatmeal, eggs, and turkey sausage. Sofya is good company. She’s chatty, but in that sweet, charming old lady sort of way. She tells him anecdotes about her life back in Ukraine, about her children, about Boston. Mostly, though, she tells him about Natalya. Which makes sense, seeing as how Natalya eats up most of her time. She tells him she’s doing well in her English studies, but where she really seems to excel is in arithmetic. She catches onto patterns quickly, and Sofya is curious to see how she’d do with an instrument.

“Uses the same part of the brain as languages and mathematics,” she elaborates, scrambling the eggs while Shane keeps an eye on the sausages. “I think she would be very good at it. Maybe piano, or cello.”

Shane nods along as he cooks. She moves on to the next topic of discussion, some church event. This one, she has pictures from.

“Would you like to see?” she asks. It’s a rhetorical question. She’s already pulling her phone out. She taps away at the screen for a few seconds before turning it to face him. Shane knows she’s showing him Natalya, but his eyes immediately jump to Ilya. He’s dressed nicely, wearing a white button-down shirt tucked into his slacks. Natalya is sitting on his shoulders, her frilly dress puffed up around his head like a halo. They’re both smiling, seemingly caught in a fit of laughter. Shane steps in closer to Sofya, reaching for the phone screen to zoom in on Ilya’s smile with his thumb and forefinger.

“Ah,” Sofya grins, a knowing twinkle in her eye. “He is so handsome, no?”

Shane clears his throat, stepping back from Sofya’s personal space, feeling his cheeks heat up. Sofya doesn’t appear bothered by his obvious ogling. She turns the screen back around and taps at it a few more times.

“Can send it to you, if you’d like,” she says, exuding an air of false nonchalance. “Ilya told me to get your number anyway. For emergencies.”

“Wait, really?”

“No,” she teases, glancing up at him briefly. “But I do not think he’d mind.” Before Shane can question her antics, she hands him the phone. “Here, type your number in. I’ll send you the photo. Along with others.”

Shane hesitates, chewing at his bottom lip.

“I— do you really think it’s okay?”

Sofya rolls her eyes, throwing her arms up dramatically.

“You boys! You are both clueless.”

Before he has a chance to ask what she means by that, Ilya and Natalya round the corner of the kitchen entryway, both looking like curly-haired zombies. It’s cute, how miserable they look, like two cherubs who got hit by a bus. Shane wordlessly hands Ilya his coffee, and kisses his cheek.

By the time everyone is herded out of the apartment, Ilya the last to leave, his parting kisses lingering, Shane’s forgotten about his conversation with Sofya. That is, until thirty minutes later, when she sends him a picture of Ilya and Natalya curled up together in the airport lounge, both sound asleep. He sends her a heart emoji and saves the photo.

A few hours later, Hayden’s picking Shane up to drive them both to practice, since Shane left his car at the stadium the evening prior. They chat amicably about the twins, Jackie’s sister (who is apparently a terror, and will be staying with them for three days next week), about Arthur’s new hyperfixation with trains, etc. Shane nods along, pretending he’s not dead on his feet, only half-listening to what Hayden has to say. That is, until Hayden stops saying anything at all. Shane had been leaning his forehead against the window, but glances up when Hayden’s latest story dies off. He’s watching the road, a slight furrow to his brow, like he’s thinking hard about something.

“What.” Shane says. It doesn’t exactly come out a question, and it would come off as rude if Hayden didn’t know Shane so well. Hayden glances over at him, then draws his eyes back to the road.

“Nothing, man.”

Fear settles in Shane’s gut. He’s suddenly feeling very alert, sitting up in his seat and trying to burn a hole in Hayden’s cheek with the intensity of his stare.

“What is it?”

Hayden takes in a deep breath, then blows it out slowly, puffing out his cheeks like a toddler.

“I just— Jackie said not to ask because it’s, I dunno, like your business or whatever.”

“Okay…” Shane leads, knowing that’s not the end of it. Hayden shoots him one more furtive glance, then caves.

“I just— fuck, man. I really wanna know. Like, really wanna know. I’m sorry it’s, like, super hard for me to wrap my head around.”

“Um,” Shane swallows, staring down at his hands. “Which part?”

That question seems to throw Hayden.

“What? What do you mean?”

Shane shrugs, shoulders stiff and tense.

“Like, the gay thing, or…?”

“Oh!” Hayden lets out a sharp bark of laughter, smiling over at Shane like he’s being funny. “No, that’s like, totally cool. No, no, I don’t really care about that.” He blanches at his own words, then tries to backtrack. “I mean, not that I don’t care. About you. And stuff. Just, like, I don’t really care that you're gay.”

“Right,” Shane nods, the tight knot of nerves uncoiling in his gut by a fraction. “So…”

“I guess I just meant the Rozanov of it all. When did that— I mean, when did you guys even…?”

Shane lets the silence linger for a moment, hoping it might soften the blow of his answer. He scratches at the side of his nose and speaks to the console when he says:

“Um. Rookie year.”

Hayden slams the brakes so hard their bodies lurch forward.

”Dude,” Shane grunts, glaring over at Hayden with as much ferocity as he can muster after almost upchucking his breakfast. “What the fuck?”

“Rookie year?” Hayden bemoans, voice high-pitched and agonized. “For real?”

“Hayden, we’re in the middle of the fucking street!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Hayden taps the accelerator again. Luckily, they’re still in a residential zone, so no cars were behind them during Hayden’s little mishap. Still—

“I think you’re being a little dramatic about this,” Shane grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring out the window like a petulant child. “He’s not that bad.”

“No, I’m not—” Hayden wipes a hand down his face, groaning against his palm. “I’m not mad that it’s him. I mean, yeah, he’s an absolute terror on the ice, but— Jesus, Shane— that whole afternoon, he looked at you like the fuckin’ sun shines out of your ass.”

“Wait, what—”

“And you deserve that. You work so hard, harder than the rest of us, you deserve something like that.”

“Hayden, we’re not exactly—”

“I just— I wish I could have been there. To see it, you know? I mean— fuck dude— you’ve been through every milestone with me. You were there the night I met Jackie. Helped me pick out the ring. You’ve been there for each of the kids’ births, and babysat all of them God knows how many times. You’re my best friend and I—” he stops at a red light, using the time to look over at Shane, his gaze intense.

“I missed it, man. I was there the whole time, and somehow I missed you falling in love.”

If Shane had been driving, he’d have definitely been the one to slam his foot down on the brakes this time.

“Woah, Hayd, man,” he laughs nervously, eyes furtively looking everywhere except at his best friend. “That’s not— we—” he coughs. “That’s not what this is.”

Hayden’s brow furrows. The light turns green, so he has to direct his confused expression back toward the road.

“What do you mean?”

“Ilya and I, we’re not—”

When he doesn’t finish, Hayden just raises his eyebrows. Shane tries again.

“We were never…”

“What, Shane? You’re not what?”

“Together. We aren’t—” anything, he’s supposed to say, but the word gets caught on his tongue. That’s not true, right? They’re… they have to be something.

Right?

Hayden, much to Shane’s chagrin, laughs. He laughs, and meets Shane’s eye, like he expects him to join in. When Shane doesn’t, Hayden’s laughter dies down, until he’s left with a disbelieving look.

“No,” he chuckles, like he still can’t quite believe it. “No way, dude. C’mon. I watched you guys all day. Jackie and I both. You two are definitely…” He trails off when he catches sight of Shane’s deflated look. “Right? Shane, dude, he could not keep his hands off you. And his kid, she’s practically adopted you.”

“Hayden…”

“No, dude, I’m serious. For real? Like, you brought this guy over, played house with him all day with my children, and you’re tellin’ me this is, what? Nothing? Just some fling?”

“No!” Shane corrects. “No, not— not nothing. Just not—” He swallows, wringing his hands together nervously in his lap. “We’re just not— fuck, I don’t know, Hayd.” He buries his face in his hands, breathing out noisily through his nose. “I just don’t know.”

Hayden, bless him, allows for the silence to stretch out for a bit, giving Shane time to gather his thoughts. When he speaks, his voice is subdued, tentative, like he’s approaching a spooked rabbit.

“So, you’re not together.”

“No,” Shane grumbles, face still buried in his hands.

“Are you… seeing other people?”

Shane shakes his head, hoping Hayden doesn’t prod into that any further. Hayden must see the answer out of the corner of his eye, because he moves on.

“And is he? Seeing anyone else?”

Shane shrugs his shoulders. But that’s not fair. Not fair to Ilya. He’d at least been pretty explicit on that front.

“No. At least, I’m pretty sure he’s not. Not like he has time to, anyway.”

“Right,” Hayden huffs out. It sounds like another laugh. “But somehow he has time to, what, work his toddler schedule around fucking you, or whatever it is you do?”

“Hayd…”

“Listen, I have plenty of toddler experience, okay? Some would even say I'm a seasoned toddler warrior. I know a thing or two about scheduling time around them. That shit is not a cakewalk.”

Shane just groans into his hands again, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the dash.

“Do you love him?” Hayden asks, his tone going soft. Shane lets his hands fall to his lap. He stares down at his sneakers, wishing he were literally anywhere else right now.

He thinks of Ilya. He’s always thinking of Ilya. He thinks of him smiling at him from across the breakfast table this morning, hair in utter disarray, his pretty cupid’s bow damp with a milk mustache. Natalya wore a matching mustache, the two of them apparently huge milk drinkers. Shane went through two full gallons during their stay. Unbelievable. He’s so incredibly fond it physically hurts.

“Don’t ask me that, Hayd,” he says, voice coming out defeated. “You can’t ask me that.”

“Oh, buddy,” Hayden reaches over to rub his back, an awkward but touching gesture. “Listen, man, you’ll figure it out. I’m sure.”

Thankfully, they arrive at the stadium shortly after that, cutting off Hayden’s well-meaning, but deeply uncomfortable, questions. As they exit the freeway onto the street that’ll take them to the stadium, Shane pulls up the picture Sofya sent him earlier, the one from church. He zooms in on Ilya’s smile, trying not to feel like such a creep about it, and just looks at him.

It’s been approximately three hours, and he already misses him terribly.

***

A week after Boston loses to Montreal, they regain their pride by absolutely demolishing San Francisco on home ice. A complete shut-out, 6-0. Ilya scores three of those goals, feeling like a king as he skates off the ice. Naturally, most of the guys are going out tonight. There’s a bar a few blocks down, one the Raiders have been frequenting since seemingly the dawn of time. The owners have signed photos of countless past players, and they always keep a private room open in the back specifically for nights like this. Ilya, being the team captain, would be hard-pressed not to join. He calls Sofya after the press run, letting her know he’ll be late coming home. Ten at the latest. She tsks at him, reminding him of what Natalya’s therapist has repeatedly said about consistency and routines. “You cannot spring these things on her so suddenly, synok.”

He waves off her concerns, telling her it will not be too late, that he’ll be back in time if Natalya refuses to go to bed without him there. One night cannot undo six months of progress, surely.

He ignores the guilt gnawing at his gut and catches a rideshare with a few teammates. When he gets to the bar, his teammates all cheer, ecstatic to get their captain out of the house for the first time this season. He’s offered a free drink, then another, his muscles loosening, his mind slipping into that familiar haze brought on by alcohol. He feels young, like a twenty-five-year-old again. He hasn’t felt this way in ages, relishing in the ridiculous stories his sloshed teammates tell him over baskets of fries and endless shots. When he eventually leaves his table to go grab the boys another pitcher of beer, waiting at the bar with an unlit cigarette between his teeth, a tall, dark-haired woman sidles up next to him. She gives him a long once-over, her smile demur and coy, an expression Ilya’s seen countless times on an innumerable number of women. It is a game he knows so well he could play it in his sleep. She asks him his name, he tells her. She acts like she is shocked, like the bar isn’t packed full of half a hockey team, like the walls aren’t plastered with the faces of historic figures in their league. She asks how the game went, if they won, if he plans on staying here long. She steps in closer, reaching for the cuff of his sleeve. She really is beautiful. Beautiful eyes, beautiful body, all wrapped up in a tight little dress, the hem of it ending just above decent. Easy access, Ilya’s mind supplies. Not that that’s bad, not that it’s ever been bad. These beautiful women, practically throwing themselves at him.

He can picture it so vividly. He would text Sofya, tell her just to put Natalya down, let her call if she insists on Ilya telling her goodnight. They’d go back to hers, or book a hotel room if she doesn’t live nearby. He could strip her of that slinky dress in two seconds flat, sink to his knees and get her wet in a heartbeat with his mouth. He’s always prided himself in his talent for giving head. It’s been half a year, maybe a little rusty, but he could do it. Maybe he’d still fuck her with her heels on, her panties too. Pull them aside and just ease into her like he’s starving for it. Let her believe he's starving for it.

He’s tugged out of his half-baked daydream by a buzzing in his pocket. He offers the woman a tight smile, turning to the side to check his phone.

Jane: They insisted on staying up late to watch “Uncle Ilya” completely shut out SF

Shane attaches a photo. It’s of the twins. They’re sitting on the couch, a large bowl of popcorn shared between them, both eyes hooked on the television playing off-screen.

Jane: not sure how you got promoted to “uncle” so quickly

Jane: took me at least three visits

Jane: anyway, that second goal was something else

Ilya feels like he’s been doused in ice water.

What the fuck is he doing?

He glances up from his phone, at the woman standing next to him, using his moment of distraction to check her own phone.

No, really, he thinks. What the actual fuck am I doing?

He checks his phone again. 10:33 p.m.

Fuck.

It’s already thirty minutes past the time Ilya gave Sofya.

He pockets his phone and places his hand on the woman’s elbow, guiding her toward the table he’d left behind ten minutes prior. Marlow’s the closest to him in the group, and Ilya leads his arm candy to him like a horse to water. Or maybe just a horse to a slightly larger horse.

Whatever, the point is, he introduces them, ignoring Marlow’s slightly confused look, like he can’t possibly fathom Ilya Rozanov passing up a perfectly willing fuck on a night out after a home win.

Which, historically speaking, Ilya does not do this. Marlow doesn’t appear to feel hung up on it for long. He slips his arm around the girl’s waist and leads her toward a secluded booth in the far corner of the bar. In the meantime, Ilya orders an Uber and stands by the bar entrance as he waits for the little car on his screen to drive up to the curb. He tries very hard not to throw up. He’s not drunk, not by a long shot, but he feels sick with guilt. He can’t believe he even entertained the thought of going home with this woman. Not when his daughter is most definitely battling much-needed sleep to wait up for her bedtime story. Not when his nanny was technically supposed to be off the clock at nine. She usually doesn’t mind late nights, but not for this. Not so Ilya can go out and get trashed on cheap beer, then throw away every perfect memory Shane’s gifted him with these past few months for—

For what? A quick fuck? Hell, he has a hand. And the Google searchbar is right there. He knows how to get off to Shane’s ad campaigns. Has done so countless times before.

He mentally berates himself for this aspect of his guilt as he crawls into the backseat of the Uber. It’s not like he and Shane are explicit. It’s not like they’re anything, really. Except when they are. Except when Shane’s making him breakfast in the morning, cooking up pancakes with his newly-acquired child like it’s just par for the course. Except when he’s falling asleep in Ilya’s arms, sex or no sex, his body warm and pliant, slotting up next to Ilya’s so perfectly it’s as though they were made to hold one another.

Except when this nothing that they’re supposed to be has morphed into something so full and wonderful that Ilya feels sick with it. Like God can’t possibly be this kind to him, give him something this perfect.

And it wouldn’t have been cheating. Not really, not when there’s nothing there to truly break. But Ilya can’t believe that. And even if he did believe, if he could buy into the lie that he and Shane keep tiptoeing around every time they meet up, he did not want to sleep with that woman. Not really. He’d be shocked if he even made it out of that bar with her, had Shane not texted. Because, if it hadn’t been a text, it would have been any number of things. Memories of Shane that pop into his head like domestic, intrusive thoughts. His eyes, his freckles, his strong, beautiful hands. Nothing compares to the man Ilya has fallen so desperately in love with.

He swallows down the bile rising in his throat, reminding himself he did nothing wrong. That he did not even touch that woman. That maybe, in the future, he should stop pretending he has any autonomy over his own heart. It clearly does not belong to him anymore. Best not to keep abusing it.

When he gets home, keying in the code to the penthouse a bit too forcefully, he is met with a very stern, very disappointed looking set of eyes. Sofya is wiping down the kitchen counters, glaring daggers at him so sharp they add to the headache already building behind Ilya’s temple.

“Is she still awake?” Ilya asks. He doesn’t sound meek, never meek, but his voice definitely doesn’t carry its typical bravado. Sofya scoffs.

“What do you think?”

“I think it really can’t be that big of a deal for me to be an hour late,” he argues weakly. He knows it’s not about that, knows Natalya’s issues run much deeper than a slightly broken promise. Consistency, he hears the doctor saying again, a mantra repeating in his head for the past three months. Stability. Routine. He doesn’t know why he’s arguing his flimsy point to his fucking nanny, like she even has the power to absolve him of his guilt.

“I asked you, when you hired me, how involved you wanted to be,” she says, raising her dirty rag at him, but not her voice. Little ears, and all that. “You said, ‘I am her father. I will act like her father.’ So then be her father!” she hisses, leaning forward over the counter. “Not sometimes. Not occasionally. All the time. You are her father all the time, Ilyusha. Not just when it is convenient for you.”

Ilya throws his arms out in frustration.

“It was one night,” he raises his voice, just slightly, and Sofya points in the direction of the bedrooms with a fierce look in her eyes. Ilya quiets his tone, his voice now sounding petulant, like a child’s. “I cannot have one night? Not even the full night? Come on, Sofya, this is ridiculous. I am not hurting her!” But he is. He knows he is. She knows he is.

“No,” she says sternly, throwing the dirty rag into the sink and running it over with water. “Welcome to parenthood. It’s time to grow up.”

He swallows down his sly remark, stomping over to the entryway to tug off the shoes he forgot to take off when he got home.

He leaves her to her brooding, approaching Natalya’s bedroom door with a tightness in his chest he’s never experienced before. He does not feel guilt like this, has not experienced guilt like this. He has never felt this beholden to another human being before. Not emotionally. The last person he ever felt any sort of obligation towards, strictly out of love, had been his mother, and she had died before he’d ever had the chance to cut her too deeply.

There is Shane now, of course. But even he is different. Ilya can wound him, and he will suffer for it, but Shane is a grown man. Despite what his big, teary doe eyes may try to have Ilya believe, he can hold his own. That’s what has Ilya crawling back to him over and over again in the first place. That strength of his, that unyielding resolution. Ilya could use a few of those, resolutions. Maybe then he would not hurt the one person in his life he knows he truly has power over.

He knocks on the frame of her door, not entering, just as he had done the evening of her worst temper tantrum. Unlike that night, she does not answer. He peeks his head around the edge of the door, finding her curled up in the far corner of her bed, sock monkey held close to her chest. Her eyes are rimmed red, tear tracks staining her cheeks. Her feet are sticking out from beneath her nightgown; they must be very cold. This, for some reason, is what Ilya finds to be the most pitiful aspect of her situation.

“Natasha,” he tries, taking a timid step into her bedroom. “Malyshka.”

She doesn’t say anything, just watches him from her curled-up perch on the bed. He comes closer, and closer, until he’s reached the edge of her bed. He sits down on her mattress, the dip his body makes causing her body to list to the side. Fresh tears well up at the corners of her eyes, and Ilya’s heart breaks. He leans forward and picks her up beneath her armpits, tugging her to his chest in her curled little ball. She says nothing, but she lets go of her sock monkey to cling to the collar of Ilya’s shirt. She cries silently into his chest, her tears wetting the silk material of his dress shirt. She has not been this quiet since the first few weeks she lived with him, and it is this fact that brings Ilya to his breaking point.

“Natasha,” he says, wrapping his arms around her and holding her to his chest tightly. He rocks her, back and forth, soothing both himself and his daughter. He cannot stifle the tears rolling down his cheeks, then dripping off his chin and falling into his daughter’s hair. “Baby, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.” And he is. He feels sick with it, with the thought that he’d put her through even just a few hours of uncertainty. He cannot imagine how she feels, wondering where he’d gone, wondering why he wasn’t back yet, if he would come back. Paralyzed with fear that the only person she has left in her life has abandoned her. He knows these are not healthy thoughts, that she is not a healthy child. He knows it’s not his fault, it’s nobody’s fault, really, that she is not rational about her need for him. But she is a child, a little one at that, and she does not need to be rational right now. That is her father’s job. Ilya may not be responsible for this, for the way her fragile disposition has been molded, but he will take responsibility for this.

“Baby,” he tries again, cradling her face to his neck. She sniffles, croaks out a pathetic “dyadya,” and Ilya swears it’s the most beautiful sound he’s heard his entire life. He breathes out a sigh of relief, rubbing her back with his broad hand as he continues to rock her.

“I’m here,” he breathes. “I’m here, my love, and I am so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he repeats, his regretful mantra. He pets her hair back from her face, strokes her nose, her chin, cradles her cheek against his chest and brushes his thumb over the apple of her cheek in a soothing circle. He holds her for a very long time. Long enough to drop back against the pillows and fall into a restless sleep with her tucked into his side.

He dreams of his mother.

***

“I really am sorry about the whole club fiasco,” Rose says again, the third time that day. She sits up, just far enough to look at Shane over the frame of her large, tortoise-shell shades. “Seriously, Shane. I had no idea.”

“Well,” Shane laughs, despite himself. “You obviously had some idea.”

Rose swats at his arm playfully, then settles back down on her towel.

Shane’s in L.A. for the next two days, playing a rare west coast game against the Kings. Rose is conveniently visiting home base in between shoots. Naturally, she offered to let him crash at her pad (mansion). He accepted, but not without receiving serious ribbing from his teammates. Of course, the paps had been all over it, especially when Rose came to personally grab Shane from the airport in her cherry red Porsche, but she didn’t seem to mind the rumors, and Shane couldn’t care less. The only person he gave a shit about seeing the pap photos knew just how not into Rose Landry he was. A few well-timed blowjobs, accompanied by gentle reminders of how very not straight Shane is hadn’t hurt.

Rose’s mansion is oceanfront, so while she doesn’t have a private beach, the surrounding homes are just as private, just as ostentatious. It’s new money for miles, a luxury Shane can appreciate. A few of Shane’s close teammates are playing a piss-poor game of beach volleyball against Rose’s A-list friends, a sight Shane never thought he’d be seeing in his lifetime. She’d benevolently allowed Shane to invite some of his teammates over for an afternoon at the beach, a rare bout of relaxation for the Metros before their game tomorrow.

Shane adjusts the large, floppy hat he’d lain over his face (courtesy of Rose) so he can turn his head to the side and meet her eyes.

“How’d you know?” he asks quietly, not wanting the breeze to carry their conversation over to their friends. Rose rolls her eyes, adjusting her sunglasses with a false, pompous air.

“Darling,” she sighs dramatically, throwing her arm over her forehead like an accosted housewife. “I knew as soon as I was attracted to you it must be true.”

Shane snorts, poking at her forearm in a teasing manner.

“What?”

“It’s the plight of my life,” she bemoans, overly dramatic. “Ever since I was a little girl, joining the drama club with stars in my eyes. It seemed every man I drew heart eyes for must play for the other team. I thought perhaps chasing after a hockey boy, the outcome might be different. But alas—” She waves her arm lazily at his body, like that explains everything. “Here you are.” She gestures toward her own body, sun-kissed and clad in the world’s smallest, bright red bikini. “And here I am.”

Shane turns his face back toward the underside of the hat, sighing deeply.

“That doesn’t really explain anything.”

“It explains everything,” she rebuts with a huff. “My attraction is its own, self-effacing gaydar. I am cursed.”

“Right,” Shane smiles, happy she can’t see his amusement from his position beneath her hat. “I’m the gay, closeted hockey player here, but you’re the cursed one.”

“It’s true!” she agrees, ignoring his sarcasm completely. She rolls over from her towel to his, lying diagonal so that her head rests on Shane’s stomach. She grabs the edge of the hat and tips it up so that she can peek up at him from beneath the brim. “One of us has a boyfriend here, and it’s not me.”

Shane wrinkles his nose, reaching down to twine her auburn hair between his fingers absentmindedly. He ignores the pointed catcall sent his way by one of his teammates. Let them think what they want.

“He’s not really my boyfriend.”

“But he’s something,” she prods, sneaking her hand up beneath the brim of the hat to poke his cheek. “You were pretty clear about that part of it at the club.”

He swallows, nodding his head slowly, just once.

“We’re definitely… something.”

Rose hums, dropping her arm and settling her head against his abdomen. She’s camping out there for the time being, Shane supposes.

“Is he out?”

Shane barks out a laugh, then settles back down quickly when she pokes his side in retaliation for jostling her.

“Sorry, sorry, I just—” he breathes out through his nose, loud and exasperated. “No. He’s not.”

“Kay,” Rose says dryly. “That was dramatic.” She pauses for a few seconds. Then:

“Is he… another hockey player?”

Shane’s entire body freezes up. She must feel it immediately, because she props herself up on Shane’s chest and grabs the hat to remove it from his face entirely.

“No,” she breathes out, eyes wide. “No way.”

Shane audibly gulps.

“Um. Way.”

”Shane.” She’s practically taken up residence atop his body now, scooting up further so that their legs are tangled. She squishes his cheeks between both hands, shaking his head minutely. “Who? Who is it?”

Shane tries to smile, even with squished cheeks.

“A lady does not kiss and tell.”

”Oh my gooooood,” she groans, rolling off him to flop onto her back. “If I guess it right, will you tell me?”

“Mm, sure. But you’ll never guess. I guarantee.”

She shoves at his shoulder until he takes the hint, rolling over so they’re both lying on their stomachs, side-by-side. She plops the hat back on his head so that they have shade for her phone screen, which she reaches over to grab from her towel. She pulls up the Google search engine, gnaws on her lower lip for a second, then types in Jacob Chappelle, Denver’s star center. Shane snorts.

“Hmm, okay,” she nods, understanding his dismissive reply for what it is. Her thumbs hover over the keyboard again before she types in Hayden Pike.

“What the fuck, Rose?” he asks, affronted. “I’m not a homewrecker.”

“Okay, sheesh! Never hurts to check.”

“We’re gonna be here all day if you plan on going through the roster of every NHL team.”

“Ssshhh,” she says sagely. “I’m thinking.”

Her thumbs hover again. Then, with a sly smirk shot his way, she types in Ilya Rozanov. He can tell by the testing lilt to her lips that she’s joking, but the first image of Ilya to pop up is a shirtless pic, some ad campaign he recently did for Under Armour, and Shane’s breath catches in his throat. Rose’s eyes widen before she laughs in disbelief.

“No,” she gasps, swiping to the next pic, another from the campaign, Ilya leaning against a lifting bench, abs on full display. Rose’s eyes ping-pong back and forth between Shane’s open expression and her phone screen. “No way.”

He doesn’t say anything, just reaches out with his own finger to swipe to the next photo. Ilya during post-game press, his shoulders and pecs drenched in sweat. Jesus, Shane thinks, mouth going dry, does he ever fucking wear a shirt?

“Shane Hollander, you fucking dog,” she squeals, swiping through the Google images at a rapid-fire pace, eyes not leaving the screen. She stops on one, a picture from a car advertisement a few years back. Ilya’s leaning back on the hood, propped up on his elbows. He’s wearing a leather jacket, sans undershirt, staring at the camera with those fuck me eyes Shane is all too familiar with. Rose zooms into the photo until his abs are taking up her entire screen.

“Jesus Christ, are those real?”

Shane shifts his weight, staring down at Ilya’s abs and trying not to dig into the sand with his dick at half-mast.

“Um. Yes.”

“God,” she says, her tone still disbelieving. “When?” she asks suddenly, turning her piercing gaze on him. “Since when has this been—” She waves at him lazily “—something?”

Shane grabs her phone, tacking his name onto Ilya’s in the search bar, then pulls up the campaign photo they took together before rookie year. It’s one of the first few photos to pop up. He then hands the phone back to Rose. She clicks on the link below the photo, checks the ad’s timestamp, then proceeds to gawk at him. When he refuses to meet her eyes, she zooms in on Shane’s face, cooing.

“Oh my God. You were just a baby.”

“Ew,” Shane wrinkles his nose. “Don’t say that.”

“But you were, look at you.” She tilts the phone toward him, and he pretends to look at it like it’s brand new. Like he hasn’t studied that photo thoroughly the past seven years of his life. One of the few photos he has of him and Ilya.

“Do you have any of your own?” she asks nonchalantly as she returns to her original google search so she can ogle Shane’s boy… thing.

“Um, a few,” Shane says weakly. When she turns to him, raising her eyebrows in a way that says, “So. Get them?” Shane rolls his eyes, but acquiesces, reaching into the pocket of his swim shorts to pull out his own phone. He brings up Sofya’s contact and pulls up the last photo she sent: a picture of Ilya and Natalya asleep on the couch. Ilya’s mouth is wide open— Shane knows from first-hand experience that he snores in this position— and Natalya’s curled up on top of his chest, her little head tucked beneath his chin. Sofya must have draped the couch throw over them, because they’re cuddled up beneath the blanket, the edge of it wrapped around Natalya’s shoulders.

“Oh, Shane,” Rose croons, scrolling to the next photo without Shane’s permission. It’s no bother. Luckily, there’s nothing incriminating about any of them, seeing as how they’re all from Sofya. Ilya and Natalya walking hand-in-hand into church. Ilya feeding her a bite of spaghetti, the sauce already staining her porcelain cheeks. Ilya wrangling Natalya into a pair of stockings.

“I didn’t realize he had a kid,” Rose says softly, mindlessly scrolling through the photos.

“It’s a recent development,” Shane replies, digging his fingers into the sand, just for something to do. “His niece.”

“She’s adorable,” Rose says, and Shane preens, like a proud father. “Have you met her?”

“Of course,” Shane scoffs, bumping his shoulder against hers. “He takes her everywhere.”

Rose stops at a photo Shane was kind of hoping she wouldn’t see. It’s one Sofya snuck during their game of Go Fish after their afternoon at the Pikes. It’s one he looks at a lot. Like, a lot a lot. It’s Shane and Ilya, curled up beneath a blanket at the base of the couch. Ilya’s arm is thrown over his shoulders. Shane’s staring down at his hand of cards intensely, but Ilya’s not paying any attention to his own hand. He’s staring at the side of Shane’s head like it’s the most delightful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

“Oh,” Rose stops. They both stare at the incriminating image together. She tilts her head so that she can rub it against Shane’s. “Oh, babe.”

“Yeah,” Shane chokes out. “Yeah. I know.”

She glances over at him, her expression curious.

“Do you?”

They’re interrupted by the volleyball smashing into the sand next to Shane’s leg, throwing sand all over their towels.

“Sorry, lovebirds!” J.J. calls, racing over to them to grab the volleyball. Rose clicks the power button on Shane’s phone and sets it face-down on the towel, scowling over her shoulder in mock fury.

“You boys are awfully clumsy for being professional athletes,” she tells J.J.

He laughs at her, then points at one of her celebrity buddies.

“Do not blame me, princess. Was one of your pretty actress pals.”

J.J. convinces them to quit canoodling and come join the game. Rose shares a secret smile with Shane before agreeing, promising to show the Metros how a real sport is won. Shane unlocks his phone on the way over, eyes lingering on the last picture Rose had pulled up. He’ll never get tired of the way Ilya looks at him, like he’s a whole collection of Stanley Cups. He exits out of the messaging app, shuts off his phone screen, and pockets his phone before joining in on the game. He plays on Rose’s team, because he’s a good fake boyfriend.

***

Ilya stays in the waiting rooms during Natalya’s in-person therapy sessions now. He alternates between scrolling Instagram and reading the ancient Home Improvement magazines left out for parents’ perusal. When Doctor Peters’ secretary approaches him forty minutes into Natalya’s session, letting him know that the doctor has requested his presence, Ilya’s stomach clenches. He wonders if Natalya spilled the beans about his massive fuck-up from last week, if he’s about to get scolded for the umpteenth time over his night out (Sofya has yet to let him off the hook). He imagines Dr. Peters sitting him down on the couch next to Natalya, explaining that she’s somehow regressed back to her mute state, and it’s all Ilya’s fault.

Dr. Peters says none of these things. Instead, he has his secretary take Natalya out to the waiting room, enticing her with the basket of toys they keep out there for all the kids, because somehow, in the time it took for them to enter the facility to now, Natalya’s forgotten the basket exists. He guesses object permanence is not a strong suit of four-year-olds. Or maybe that’s just another thing to have lost its footing in Natalya’s traumatized brain due to Ilya’s night out with the boys.

“Have a seat,” Dr. Peters says pleasantly. Ilya does, feeling like a schoolboy sitting before his primary school principal, and not a two-hundred and twenty-pound hockey player having a conversation with a man he pays an exorbitant amount of money to unscramble his niece’s brain.

“I wanted to ask, Mr. Rozanov,” Dr. Peters starts, his tone warm and disarming. “Who this ‘Shanya’ is? Natalya speaks very highly of him.”

“Ah,” Ilya starts, averting his gaze and scratching at his head nervously. “He is… a friend.”

“Right,” Dr. Peters levels him with a knowing look. “Like Miss Svetlana is ‘just a friend.’”

“No, no,” Ilya corrects, waving both his hands placatingly. “No, she is really just a friend. Promise.”

Dr. Peters continues to stare him down. It takes him all of three seconds to figure out his mistake.

”Shit.”

“Mr. Rozanov,” Dr. Peters, starts again, arranging files on his desk, not meeting Ilya’s eyes. “It’s not my business what you get up to in your free time, or who you get up to it with.”

Ilya stares down at his hands, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart.

“I just want to remind you that your daughter’s number one trigger is the lack of stable parental figures in her life,” he says softly, not scolding, as Ilya had expected. Ilya glances up, meeting Dr. Peters’ kind, knowing eyes. “I want you to think long and hard about the people you bring into your daughter’s life. About their… permanence. Break-ups hurt children just as deeply as they hurt their parents.”

Ilya bristles.

“I’m not breaking up with him.”

Dr. Peters smiles.

“Of course not,” he replies smoothly. “After all, how can you break up with someone you are not dating?”

Ilya breaks eye contact, staring out the small window at the parking lot.

“Just think about it,” Dr. Peters finishes, concluding their conversation by slapping a handful of files down on his desk and rising from his chair. “Your heart is no longer the only one on the line in these types of scenarios.”

Ilya swallows thickly, meeting Dr. Peters’ eyes guiltily. Great, he thinks, rising from his perch on the couch. I can’t even get laid without it fucking up my kid’s psyche. But he knows his blase approach to his and Shane’s whatever is a bald-faced lie. Has been for a while.

“You are saying I should end this?” he asks around the lump in his throat. Dr. Peters shakes his head, much to Ilya’s relief.

“No, Mr. Rozanov. I never said that. I won’t tell you how to go on about your life. Just be careful about who you drag into Natalya’s. It seems to me she’s already quite attached to this, ah, ‘Shanya.’”

She is not the only one, Ilya thinks morosely, allowing Dr. Peters to lead him out of his office.

***

It’s a random Thursday evening when Shane gets the call from Lily, the name popping up on his phone just as he’s closing the oven door on his sheetpan meal.

“Hello?” he asks, trying not to sound nervous, but definitely feeling it. Last time Ilya called, Natalya had been in the middle of a meltdown.

“Hi,” Ilya breathes. He sounds relaxed, and Shane lets out a sigh of relief.

“Hi,” he repeats, his voice already going soft. He can’t help it; Ilya has that effect on him.

“Hi,” Ilya says again, teasing. “You have iPhone, right? I can switch to FaceTime?”

“Oh,” Shane says, momentarily thrown. “Yeah, sure. One sec.” He pulls the screen away from his ear and clicks on the little video icon. It pulls up Ilya’s face instantly, an unflattering angle. He must have his phone propped up on his chest because he’s sporting a double chin and an unruly mop of curls. Must have been a lie-in day if he hasn’t styled them.

“Hi,” Shane says once more, pointedly ignoring his own face down in the corner of the screen.

“Hi,” Ilya says again, the word coming out breathy and sweet.

“What’s up?” Shane asks, leaning against the counter and propping his chin on his fist.

“I wanted to show you Natasha’s new trick.”

Shane raises his eyebrows, but hums in reply. Ilya flips the screen on his phone, and there’s Natalya, standing in the middle of the living room, wearing a onesie and a tutu. She smiles when she realizes the camera is on her and waves with both hands.

“Okay, Malysh,” Ilya croons from behind the camera. “Show him your cartwheel.”

Natalya nods enthusiastically, her grin widening. She raises both arms, then flings her body forward. One leg flies up partway, but the other still clings to the ground for the entire duration of the “cartwheel.” When she stands, she holds both arms out like an Olympian. Shane props his phone up on his mug of tea and claps anyway.

“Beautiful, Natasha!” he says, loud enough for her to take a bow. Ilya flips the camera back to his grinning face.

“We are getting there,” he tells Shane, laughter in his voice.

They chat for twenty minutes about nothing, really. Shane tells him about his week, about the injury one of their rookies is sporting. Ilya tells him about Boston’s upcoming road trip, how he’s been procrastinating booking Sofya’s rooms. It’s mindless chatter, just filling the time with useless anecdotes, but it makes Shane’s heart swell. He’s so caught up in their conversation that he almost burns his dinner, forgetting to pull it out of the oven at the twenty-minute mark.

“This road trip is a pain, but I am having a difficult time with the one we go on over Christmas,” Ilya bemoans, turning to lie on his side on the couch, the decorative pillow he’s lying on squishing his cheek in an adorable manner. Shane can’t help himself: he takes a screenshot.

“Oh?” he asks. “Why’s that?”

“Told Sofya she could have Christmas off to go visit her kids,” Ilya groans, “but have a match against Ottawa on the twenty-seventh.”

Shane frowns in confusion.

“I thought Russians don’t, like, celebrate Christmas.”

Ilya shakes his head, sighing.

“We do not. But is only time of year that both Sofya’s children have off. I told her to go see them. Said I’d fly her son out too, so they can have a few days together.”

“That was nice of you.” Ilya, predictably, waves him off. Shane pulls the Boston schedule up on his phone, already scheming. “Home game in Boston on the twenty-first?”

“Da.”

Shane chews at the inside of his cheek, then decides to bite the bullet.

“Montreal’s got a home game on the twenty-first. Then another home game on the twenty-eighth.”

“Long stretch.” Ilya purses his lips. “So lucky.”

“Yeah,” Shane replies offhandedly, double-checking the Metros' schedule.

“Think I will have to beg one of the WAGs to give up their Christmas to come on trip,” Ilya sighs. “Svetlana will be in Russia, the traitor.”

Sure that their schedules will align, Shane finally blurts out:

“You could come to mine. For Christmas.”

Ilya’s shocked expression fills the screen as he brings the phone closer to his face.

“I am sorry?” he asks, shaking his head. “What was that?”

“Christmas,” Shane replies, working very hard not to look away from the screen. “With me. Well, with me and my parents.”

Ilya looks skeptical.

“Your parents, they are okay with me coming?”

“They would be,” Shane says hurriedly. “They’re really nice. They’d be cool with it.”

“Mm,” Ilya’s eyes slide to something offscreen. He’s not looking at Shane when he says:

“Hollander, if this is pity, I do not want—”

“It’s not pity,” Shane fumes, wounded for reasons he can’t unpack. “It’s not— I don’t pity you. Jesus, Ilya, I want you there.” He thinks maybe he’s being too honest here, but he’s so tired. So tired of not just asking for what he wants. It’s a lot easier to be told “no” than to keep allowing himself to wallow in “what if’s.”

Ilya looks at him, hard. He must find whatever it is he’s looking for, because he offers Shane a simple, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Shane asks, unable to stifle the smile forming at his lips. Ilya smiles back, tilting his head to the side, searching.

“Okay. But please tell them I’m bringing a toddler.”

“Yeah,” Shane grins. “I wasn’t gonna just spring that on them.”

“Good,” Ilya says, just watching him now, his eyes going soft and saccharine.

“Good,” Shane repeats, like an idiot. He wonders what his face looks like now. Wonders if it’s just as revealing as it feels.

***

Asking Ilya is one thing. Asking his parents, on the other hand…

Well, that’s a different story.

“You want what?” his mother asks, the three of them sharing an early morning breakfast at Shane’s apartment before they head back to Ottawa. They drove in yesterday afternoon to attend Shane’s home game against Vancouver.

Shane shifts in his seat nervously, speaking to his egg white omelet.

“I want to bring someone. For Christmas.”

“Like,” Yuna pauses, and Shane glances up just long enough to catch her sharing a look with his father. “Like a partner?”

“Um,” Shane tries, feeling his vocal cords tangle amongst themselves. “Not quite.”

“Oh, okay. So like a friend?” David follows up with, voice placating. “Like Rose Landry?”

“Uh, no, not— not Rose. She has her own family stuff. She’s good. And not really… not really a friend. But he’s not not a friend.” He scratches behind his ear, daring to glance up at them, wearing a sheepish expression. “Shit, I’m sorry, guys. I’m not— this isn’t making any sense.”

“No, honey, it’s okay,” Yuna reaches across the table, patting his arm in a comforting gesture. “So, it’s— it’s a guy, right?”

Shane lets out a deep breath, nodding once.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a guy.”

“The same guy who…” David trails off, letting Shane fill in the blank. Shane nods again.

“Yeah, dad. The same guy who…” even he doesn’t know how to fill in that blank.

“Is something,” his mom supplies tactfully.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, reaching for the olive branch immediately. “He’s—we’re… something.”

Nobody says anything for a few seconds, and Shane takes a quick bite of his rapidly cooling omelet. It’s his dad who breaks the silence.

“Our Swedish prince,” his dad teases, his eyes squinting in mirth. Shane can’t help but smile back, knowing he’s blushing.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice going soft the way it always does when he’s thinking exclusively about Ilya.

“And does this Swedish prince have a name?” Yuna asks, her curiosity finally getting the best of her. Shane tenses at that, dropping his gaze back down to his cold plate of breakfast.

“You—” he starts, swallowing loud and nervous. He digs his fingers into his upper thighs, grounding himself. “You know him.”

“Oh,” Yuna nods, shoveling a bite of eggs into her mouth. She chews, swallows, then speaks, cutting into her eggs with her butter knife, keeping her hands busy. Shane knows she’s aching to know the details. “Old friend from Ottawa? Or— don’t tell me it’s another guy on your team.” Her eyes go wide, scandalized. “It’s not another player on your team, right Shane?”

“No,” he says, voice going quiet. “Not on my team, no.”

“Oh, thank God. That would have been a PR nightmare.”

“Wait,” Shane’s dad interrupts, eyeing Shane curiously. “You said not another player ‘on your team.’”

“Um,” Shane won’t look at them, he can’t look at them when he drops the Rozanov bomb on them. Being gay is one thing. Being gay for Rozanov—

Well, while his mother never actively participated in burning Rozanov’s papier-mache statue outside of the Bell Center, she never opposed it.

“Shane,” Yuna starts, voice firm. “Who is this someone?”

“He’s really great,” Shane rushes out, fighting down a panic attack by thinking of every lovely thing he’s shared with Ilya. “I mean it, incredibly kind. You wouldn’t know it, but—”

“Shane,” Yuna interrupts again, and he finally looks up, meeting her steely gaze like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “Who is this other hockey player you’re bringing home for Christmas?”

“Um, well, you see, it’s not just him. He’s kind of gonnabringhisdaughter.” He says the last part in a rush, hoping his parents won’t catch it if it’s all one word.

Fat chance.

“His what?” Yuna nearly screeches, her fork and knife clattering to her plate. “Shane, who—”

“It’s Rozanov,” he breathes out in one go, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s Ilya Rozanov.”

He expects yelling, maybe another screech. If not from his dad, at least from his mother. What follows is dead silence. When he peeks one eye open, it’s to the sight of them both gawking at him, mouths open wide like he just admitted to murdering his coach.

“Well,” his dad says, eerily calm. He’s the first one to compose himself, reaching over to tap Yuna’s chin, shutting her mouth for her. “I’ll make sure the guest room’s ready by the twenty-second.”

”David,” Yuna whips her head around to glare at her husband, but he just grins back at her, expression so disarming and fond that she can’t help but crack a smile. Shane watches the entire interaction in silence, finding it to be comically familiar.

“He’s okay with the full-size bed, right? Kind of a tight squeeze in there with the kid,” David follows up with, still smiling over at his wife like he’s in on some conspiracy. Shane clears his throat, thumbing at his nose and fidgeting with his hands.

“I don’t think you have to worry too much. About that.” He’s speaking to his cold omelet again. “My bed’s a queen, after all.”

Yuna groans, sliding back in her chair so she can rest her forehead on the edge of the table.

“My son,” she grumbles, “is sleeping with the enemy.”

“Now, Yuna,” David says, winking at Shane as he rubs her back in comfort. “It could be a lot worse. He could be bringing home a conservative.”

Shane raises his hand to snicker behind his palm, he and his dad sharing knowing grins while his mother still wallows in her own self-pity.

***

After about fifty questions, and fifty follow-up questions, Yuna had acquiesced to allowing Rozanov (she was trying very hard not to spit his name out like a curse) stay with them over Christmas.

Shane picks Ilya and Natalya up from the airport late in the afternoon of the twenty-second. On the drive to his parents', Ilya is visibly nervous, checking and rechecking his appearance in the passenger-side window. Natalya diffuses the tension, chattering away about her latest obsession: Moana. Shane listens to an enthusiastic reenactment of the movie as he watches Ilya fidget in his seat. Eventually, he reaches over with his free hand, grabbing Ilya’s and holding it over the console.

“Relax,” he whispers in between Natalya’s detailed retelling. “They’re nice people.”

“This is not the problem,” Ilya replies, refusing to meet his eyes. “They do not think I am ‘nice people.’”

Shane rolls his eyes affectionately.

“They know it’s an act,” he corrects. “Mostly.”

“Mm,” Ilya nods, staring out the window morosely. “Sure.”

When they get to Shane’s parents’, and Ilya’s unbuckled Natalya from her car seat (one of the many purchases Shane’s made in the last twelve days or so), Natalya races around the vehicle, reaching up with her hands and jumping up and down on her tiptoes at Shane’s feet.

“Shanya,” she whines, drawing out the final vowel of his name until he bends down to pick her up. Ilya grabs their suitcases from the trunk of the car, smiling over at them unabashedly. Shane walks them to the front door and opens his childhood home to them without fanfare.

“Guys?” he calls out to his parents, shifting Natalya over to his other hip. “Hey, we’re here!”

His mom comes out of the kitchen just as his dad rounds the corner of the hallway leading back to the bedrooms. Shane sends his mom one final look before turning to gesture toward Ilya.

“Guys, this is Ilya,” he says, trying not to let his excitement slip into the introductions. He turns back to his parents and waves a hand at each of them. “Ilya, this is my mother, Yuna, and my father, David.”

“Ah,” David says, approaching Ilya and pulling him in for a warm handshake. Ilya looks startled, but collects himself quickly, offering David a tight smile. “Our Swedish prince,” David teases, winking in Shane’s direction.

“A what?” Ilya asks, glancing over at Shane, confused.

“Nothing,” Shane replies, rolling his eyes at his father. He shifts his weight so that Natalya is brought into full view. “Dad, this is Natalya. Ilya’s—” he glances over at Ilya, unsure if he should still be referring to her as his niece in front of her. Ilya shrugs, reaching over to squeeze her chubby calf affectionately.

“My daughter,” Ilya affirms. Natalya doesn’t say anything, just watches Shane’s parents with a distrustful stare.

“Ah, I am sorry,” Ilya says, offering David an apologetic smile when Natalya doesn’t immediately reach for the hand he’s offered up. “She is a little shy.” He turns back to Natalya and says something low and soothing to her in Russian. Natalya retaliates by shaking her head and hiding her face in Shane’s neck. Ilya sighs, turning back to David with an embarrassed expression.

“I see this is what we are doing today, then,” is the only explanation Ilya can offer. David shakes his head and laughs warmly as he claps Ilya on the back.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. I had one just like her,” he winks at Shane, then steps back to give Natalya space. “Takes a little warming up, with the strangers, that is. Seems perfectly comfortable with my son, though.”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya grins, though his body language is still nervous. “She took to him very quickly. Not sure what the trick was there.” As if to punctuate his remark, Natalya turns her face away from Shane’s neck to sneeze. When she looks back at him, she’s got snot running down her upper lip. Without thinking about it, Shane reaches up to wipe her face off with the sleeve of his hoodie. She doesn’t even blink, going so far as to grab onto his arm with both hands to rub her snotty nose off on him more aggressively.

“Hmm,” Yuna interrupts, stepping further into the living room. “Must run in the family.”

David barks out a laugh while Shane feels himself blush. Even Ilya’s flustered, and he ducks his head down in embarrassment. In the meantime, Yuna swaps places with David, introducing herself to Ilya as cordially as Shane had begged of her earlier. Three minutes in, and she hasn’t brought up his on-ice behavior. Shane considers it a win.

“Here, let me take your luggage.” David grabs Ilya’s suitcase from his hands and jerks his head in the direction of the bedrooms. “C’mon, we’ll get you two settled.”

David leads them down the hall, pointing out the restroom, then Shane’s room, where he drops off the luggage, and finally the guest bedroom, right across the hall from Shane’s. He leaves the three of them to their own devices, headed back to the kitchen to help Yuna get started on dinner. Shane sets Natalya down on the guest bedroom mattress, then has approximately three seconds to enjoy having his hands free before Ilya’s crowding into his space, pulling him in for a hug that lasts so long Natalya starts tugging at the hems of their shirts. Ilya turns his cheek, kissing the soft spot beneath Shane’s ear, mumbling a muffled “missed you” into his hair. Shane pulls back from their hug, just far enough to kiss his nose, then his lips (briefly) before admitting that he missed Ilya just as much. Natalya squeezes her little body between theirs, interrupting with, “And me? Shanya, you missed me?” Shane gives Ilya a parting peck on the cheek before bending down to offer Natalya a bunny kiss. She giggles, rubbing her nose against his with gusto.

“Of course, baby,” he affirms, tilting his head up to kiss her forehead. “Of course I missed you.”

***

Dinner is ready within the hour. When they all sit down to eat, a casserole dish full of chicken parm and a large salad bowl set at the center of the table, Yuna brings a hand to her mouth.

“Oh! Ilya, I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about it. I usually make Shane a separate meal, one to help him keep up with his macros, and I didn’t even think to offer you a plate.”

Ilya side-eyes Shane’s meal: baked salmon, quinoa, and steamed broccoli. He pulls a face, then looks back at the meal set out at center-table.

“Ah, you know, as delicious as that looks,” he scrunches his nose up, tugging a laugh out of both of Shane’s parents, “I will settle for the pasta. I am not as ehh—” he waves his hand around, tilting his head to the side and looking to Shane for help.

“Regimented,” Shane supplies, but Ilya shakes his head.

“No, is not what I’m thinking.” He shakes his head solemnly, and Shane can practically see the joke before he hears it, hackles rising. Ilya snaps his fingers, like he’s just thought of the word Shane knows he was holding onto the entire time.

“Boring,” Ilya finishes. “I am not that boring. A few carbs will not kill me, I think.”

“Keep saying that,” Shane huffs, cutting into his fish, “and you’ll keep losing to me during the speed skating competition every All-Star game.”

“Oh my god, Hollander, by half a second. Your sad diet does not even buy you a whole time increment!”

Yuna chuckles as she starts serving out the food. David begins eating his helping as soon as there’s food on his plate. He stops, though, when he spots Natalya glaring at him from across his plate. He looks to Shane for support.

“Uhh—”

“Oh!” Shane says, catching on immediately. “Sorry. Um, she’s used to saying prayers. Before dinner.”

“Your food is not blessed,” Natalya tells David, point-blank. “Sofya says that means you’ll probably choke.”

“Wow, okay,” Ilya says, voice going high-pitched and nervous. He leans over Shane’s lap to speak to Natalya, saying something quick and reprimanding in Russian, but Natalya shakes her head and crosses her arms. Much to the amusement of the party, Natalya replies in English.

“No, dyadya. We cannot eat our food before blessings. It’s very rude to Jesus.”

Before Ilya can reply, Yuna butts in, laughter lingering in her voice.

“Well, we can’t possibly offend Jesus,” she says, already reaching for David’s and Ilya’s hands. Shane offers her a grateful smile.

“Oh, no,” Ilya waves his hands. “No, I am sorry, you guys do not need to—”

“Babe,” Shane interrupts, reaching for his hand and squeezing his palm. “It’s fine.”

Natalya catches on quicker than Ilya, already grabbing David’s hand (who is sitting to her left) and reaching out for Shane’s. Ilya swallows, nodding his thanks at Yuna, then bows his head. The prayer is rushed, a quick ‘thank you’ for the food, for their time together, for the Hollanders. Natalya butts in with an “and for the ice cream you bought me at the airport,” to which Ilya laughs, allowing that, yes, they are indeed thankful for the ice cream she got to have at the airport. When the prayer is finished, and they break to eat, Ilya’s hand lingers in Shane’s.

They chat amicably for a while, Shane’s parents taking their time warming up to Ilya, when Shane notices Natalya’s only eaten the tomatoes from her salad, not touching the greens or the chicken parm. Ilya glances over at him, following his line of sight and frowning. He sets his fork down and breaks away from the conversation to give Natalya a look.

“Natasha,” he scolds, making a point of zeroing his gaze in on her plate and raising his eyebrows. Shane knows he’s not been this hard on her about food in a while, but he imagines the act is coming off as embarrassing and childish in front of his parents. Ilya doesn’t yet know that he’s sitting in the presence of the king and queen of raising a picky eater.

“I don’t like it,” she replies, point-blank. Before Ilya can jump in her ass about it, Shane places his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it placatingly. He turns to Natalya, schooling his expression into something gentle.

“Natasha, have you tried it?”

She gives him a familiar, hard look.

“You didn’t try it.”

Ilya starts to say something, no doubt a chastisement, but Shane holds up his palm, a silent “wait a moment.” He reaches over to Natalya’s plate with his fork, spears a few noodles, and pops them into his mouth. As he chews, he makes an exaggerated “Mmm,” noise, closing his eyes like he’s in ecstasy. When he swallows, he opens his eyes and smiles. Natalia still looks suspicious, but the stubborn pout in her lip has gone away.

“Open your mouth,” she instructs, a trick Sofya’s probably used on her countless times to check that she’s swallowed her food. Shane does, opening his mouth wide and wiggling his tongue around so she can inspect his molars with the same precision as a dental hygienist. She must be satisfied with what she finds because she settles back down in her seat, facing her plate of pasta like a soldier preparing for battle.

“Mmm-mmm,” David joins in, drawing Natalya’s eyes in his direction. He’s taken a large bite of pasta and is smacking his lips as he chews, wearing a doofy smile the whole time. Natalya giggles, then reaches for her own fork and digs into the pasta, grinning up at David as she shovels it into her mouth. Much of it misses, staining her cheeks with red sauce, but Shane can’t find it within himself to care about the mess. She’s eating. David raises another forkful of pasta and waves it in Yuna’s direction, who rolls her eyes and taps his loaded fork with her own. David says, “Cheers!” as their forks tap, then takes another bite. Natalya’s giggles don’t let up, and she reaches forward with her own stacked fork to “Cheers!” with David. Shane settles back in his seat, finally turning to look at Ilya again, only to find him already smiling at him, his expression incredibly fond. Shane dips his head down, a light blush grazing his cheeks. He finds a small pile of chicken parm on his plate.

“Hey–!” He whips his head in Ilya’s direction, but Ilya’s schooled his expression into one of utter indifference, already forking pasta into his mouth to avoid confrontation. When Shane’s false glare doesn’t let up, Ilya swallows around his large mouthful of food and points at Shane’s plate with his fork.

“C’mon,” he says, something layered in his voice that has Shane eyeing him suspiciously. Ilya grins.

“Just try it.”

Shane rolls his eyes, turning his head to catch his mom’s eyes. But she’s not looking at him. She’s looking at Ilya, sharing a conspiratorial grin.

“Whatever,” Shane grumbles, stabbing at the pasta with more force than necessary. His mood is tempered when Natalya sticks her fork out towards his, yelling out “Cheers!” at the top of her lungs. He finds it hard not to smile at her newfound enthusiasm.

***

After dinner, Shane, Ilya and Natalya settle in the Hollanders’ living room while Shane’s parents clean up in the kitchen. The forecast predicted a snowstorm would be rolling in about four, and it’s definitely working up to the apex by the time Yuna and David are finished in the kitchen. They join Shane’s little entourage just as the wind’s picking up significantly, howling as it blasts around the sharp corners of the old, brick building. Natalya teeters over to the large window behind the couch, pressing her nose up to the glass so she can watch the snow fall. Shane adds wood to the fire, then joins Ilya on the couch, only hesitating for a fraction of a second before he cuddles up next to him, tucking his toes beneath Ilya’s thighs. Ilya’s leaning over the coffee table, working on the current puzzle David’s decided to pull out. When David comes in, catching him at it, he smiles.

“You like them?”

Ilya shrugs, looking up in embarrassment, like he’s been caught doing something much more scandalous.

“I don’t know,” Ilya says honestly, looking over at Shane like he needs affirmation that he’s speaking to his parents correctly. When Shane just raises his eyebrows, Ilya turns back to David, smiling tightly. “I guess I never really had time for them.”

“No time like the present!” David says cheerfully, dragging the ottoman over to the other side of the coffee table so he can hunch over and join Ilya in his search. Ilya smiles over at Shane, who’s already pulling his phone out to check his email.

“This what you do when I’m not there to entertain you between games?” he teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Shane slaps his bicep, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Shut up. And no. This is definitely dad’s thing.”

David sighs dramatically.

“I tried to get him into it when he was younger. But, alas, he is his mother’s son.” He sends Yuna a pointed look, who’s curled up on the other couch with her laptop open, presumably also checking her emails. Ilya snorts, shoving his shoulder into Shane’s, jostling him enough that he drops his phone in his lap.

“Come on, Shanya. You can at least help us find the edge pieces.”

Shane unearths his toes from beneath Ilya’s leg to kick him playfully.

“Who’s the boring one now?” he scoffs, bringing his phone back to his face. He should have known that wouldn’t be the end of it. With the reflexes of a— well— of a professional athlete, Ilya shoves him back into the couch cushions, digging his fingers into his armpits. Shane lets out a loud bark of laughter, kicking at him in earnest now.

“Stop!” He shrieks, scooting back across the cushions until he’s butted up against the armrest. Bad move. Now Ilya’s got him trapped. “That tickles!”

“Oh, I know,” Ilya leers, and he does know. They’d discovered just how ticklish Shane is the third or fourth time they’d hooked up. Ilya had ghosted his fingertips over Shane’s abdomen, light and seductive. Or, it would have been, if Shane hadn’t burst out laughing. Ilya, like a dog with a bone, had not let up. Later, when they’d actually gotten to the fucking part, he’d reached for Shane’s sides, getting him to squeal while Ilya was balls-deep inside him. The wiggling must have done something for Ilya, because his jabs quickly morphed into caresses, Shane’s laughter dying down into moans.

Ilya hovers over him now, grinning wickedly as he fights against Shane’s feet to squeeze his thighs, then his sides, laughing alongside Shane the entire time. Natalya dashes around the couch, her nose bright red from where it’s been pressed up against the cold window. She starts shoving at Ilya, and Shane’s careful to avoid her small body with his kicks.

“Dyadya, noooo. No, be nice!” Ilya finally stops tickling Shane, only to whip his head around to eye Natalya like a predator.

“Oh?” he asks, untangling himself from Shane’s limbs and slowly turning to face Natalya. “You are on his side, huh?”

Natalya’s eyes widen like she knows exactly what’s coming for her. She takes a step back, then another, shaking her head slowly.

“Noooo,” she turns to bolt just as Ilya reaches for her, tackling her (safely) to the ground so he can start assaulting her with tickles.

“You conspire against me!” he bellows, jabbing at her sides, her legs, beneath her armpits. She shrieks, helplessly kicking at his stomach. He leans forward, blowing a raspberry into her exposed belly, her shirt having rucked up in her fruitless attempt to break free of him.

“No! No, I’m sorry, dyadya!” She turns, trying to claw across the carpet to get away from him, but it’s a move made in vain. He’s too strong, pinning her in place so he can tickle her right beneath her armpits. Shane takes his chance at sneaking up behind a distracted Ilya, catching his mom’s eye over the edge of her laptop. He winks at her, and she rolls her eyes, going back to pretending to read her emails. But her eyes keep glancing back at the scene in front of her. Shane then looks to his dad, who’s watching them with glee, and Shane brings a finger to his lips, miming a “Shhh,” as he tiptoes up behind Ilya. He then tackles him to the side, freeing Natalya, who squeals in delight and runs over to David, hiding behind him and peeking around his shoulder to watch Shane wrestle Ilya to the ground. Shane pins him on his back, forcing his hands above his head and stilling any wiggling movement with his hips. He smiles down at him, chest warm and glowing, happy to see Ilya smile back. Their faces are separated by no more than a few inches, and Shane has to cross his eyes to maintain eye contact. Ilya cranes his head up just far enough to touch the tip of his nose against Shane’s, shaking his head back and forth so he can give him a bunny kiss. When he settles back down, Shane’s grip loosens, his eyes going wide. He feels his face drain of color, but Ilya doesn’t notice, using Shane’s momentary distracted state to free his arms and wrap them around Shane’s torso, pulling him down into a warm bear hug. Shane watches, as though from a place just outside of his body, as Natalya deems it safe enough to step out from behind David’s back and approach them with abandon. She clambers up onto Shane’s back, hugging him from behind. She rests her cheek between his shoulder blades just as Shane rests his on Ilya’s chest.

Oh, he thinks, the revelation washing through his veins like ice water. Natalya digs her nose into the muscles of his back while Ilya wraps his arms around both of them, squishing Shane’s face into his pec.

I love you, Shane’s fuzzy brain provides, hitting him like a freight train. I’m in love with you.

He feels Natalya shuffle her way up his back so she can hook her chin over his shoulder and press her cheek to his. She asks, in the worst whispering voice Shane’s ever heard, “Did we win, Shanya?”

“Yes,” he says, tucking his arms beneath Ilya’s broad shoulders, hugging him tightly.

“We won.”

***

Much to David and Ilya’s dismay, Natalya is not a fan of the puzzle. She sits diligently in Ilya’s lap for approximately five minutes, helping him collect all the white pieces, before she slinks off to bug Yuna. Shane coughs into his elbow to hide his grin as he watches Natalya coerce his mother into helping her build a blanket fort behind the couch. Natalya lasts about thirty minutes before she falls asleep mid-construction, buried in a pile of throw blankets and couch pillows. She looks like a small, child burrito, and Shane snaps a picture, knowing Ilya’s too engrossed in the puzzle to notice, but he’ll want to see it later.

Ilya eventually removes himself from puzzle duty to carry Natalya to bed. As soon as he’s a safe distance down the hall, Yuna and David level Shane with a knowing look.

“Well,” Yuna says, gathering the half-baked fort together so she can start folding the throw blankets, “that was certainly something.”

Shane flinches, ducking his head down so he doesn’t have to meet either of their gazes.

“Listen, I know what it looks like—”

“Do you,” Yuna says dryly.

“I do,” Shane nods, scratching at the back of his neck. The revelation from earlier is sticking to the back of his throat, bubbling up like an exhale. Like it would be so easy to say, “I love him, can't you see I love him?” But one look in his parents’ direction proves his question unnecessary.

They know.

“Well, I like him,” David says amicably, breaking the tension between mother and son.

“Of course you do,” Yuna replies, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. “You’d love anyone who’ll help you put your puzzles together.”

“Ah, my impenetrable ice queen,” David sighs, standing to wrap his arms around his wife from behind. “So hard to please.”

“Oh, hush,” she says fondly, patting his forearm. “I never said I didn’t like him.”

“You called him a dirty player just last week,” Shane corrects, not in his favor.

“Yes,” Yuna says, her voice careful. “Because he is.”

“Mom—”

“But that doesn’t make him a bad boyfriend,” she admits. Her voice tightens, like she’s offering Ilya a compliment only after being waterboarded for two hours.

“He’s not my—”

“Yeah, yeah,” David waves his hand, giving Shane an exasperated look over his wife’s shoulder. “Not your boyfriend. You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

They all hear the click of the guest bedroom closing from down the hall. A few seconds later, Ilya reenters the living room, shooting Shane a confused look when he sees the weird stand-off taking place between him and his mom.

“Everything is… okay?” he asks the room in general, guarded eyes flickering between Shane and Yuna.

“It’s fine,” Shane reassures him, reaching for his hand to pull him to his side. “She’s still asleep?”

“Mm, out cold. But she will probably still sneak in during the night. I’ve yet to nip her of the habit.”

“That’s fine,” Shane assures him, kissing his cheek for good measure. They wish Shane’s parents goodnight, then make their way back to Shane’s bedroom, Shane leading Ilya loosely by the hand. Alone in Shane’s room, Ilya takes stock of the environment, eyes lingering on Shane’s junior trophy shelf, the ribbons and medals hanging over his headboard, a picture of him and his mom on his first day of second grade. She’s leaning down next to him, their smiles identical as they cheese together at the camera. Ilya touches the frame briefly, his gaze lingering and solemn. Shane tugs at his other hand, pulling him onto the mattress with him.

“You were a cute baby,” Ilya whispers, like it’s a secret. Shane laughs.

“I was like eight or something in that photo. Not exactly a baby.”

“Mm, still a baby,” Ilya hums, maneuvering Shane’s body so that he’s slotted up behind him, chest to back, arms wrapped around Shane’s chest protectively. He digs his nose into the soft skin just beneath Shane’s ear.

“My baby,” he groans. Shane’s breath hitches, his hips bucking forward uselessly. He feels Ilya grin against the tendon of his neck, sneaking his hand down his stomach, splaying his fingers out over his abdomen.

“My parents are in the room right next door,” Shane hisses, but he does nothing to halt Ilya’s movements. Ilya kisses his earlobe, then breathes into his ear, breath hot and wet, “Then you will just have to be very quiet, da?”

“Ilya—”

“Shhh, is not very quiet,” he teases, letting his fingers dip into the waistband of Shane’s pants, ”baby.”

”Fuck.”

Ilya brings his free hand up to Shane’s mouth, covering it completely. He undoes the button of Shane’s pants and unzips his fly all in one go. Shane wriggles out of his pants and boxers, helping Ilya shove them down just far enough to free his dick. The rough material of Ilya’s jeans rubs against his exposed skin, and he feels Ilya’s clothed cock digging into his asscheeks, half-hard and lazily gyrating against him.

Shane tilts his head to the side, just enough to tongue at two of Ilya’s fingers, sucking them into his mouth, the sound exaggerated and lewd.

”Fuck,” Ilya groans, wrapping his hand around Shane’s dick and getting to work immediately. His grip is dry, bordering on painful, but Shane hasn’t seen him in weeks, and he knows it’s not going to take much at all to get him off. He swirls his tongue around Ilya’s fingers, licking between them and biting down on the pads of them playfully. He feels spit start to dribble out of the corner of his mouth, wetting Ilya’s wrist. Ilya groans into his neck, nipping at the tendon there before he bites down at the juncture between neck and shoulder. Shane’s hips jerk, once, twice, and he moans around Ilya’s fingers as he comes all over Ilya’s hand. Ilya removes his fingers from Shane’s mouth, only for Shane to twist in his arms, dragging his dirtied hand up to his mouth. He maintains eye contact with Ilya as he licks broadly up his palm, sucking three of Ilya’s fingers into his mouth, cleaning his own spend off Ilya’s hand. Ilya’s answering glare is heated. He rips his hand from Shane’s mouth, and Shane helps him shove his pants down, freeing his cock. Shane eyes it hungrily, mouth watering, but Ilya doesn’t shove him down by his shoulders, as he’d been expecting. Instead, he wraps his own hand around his dick, using what remains of Shane’s come to lube up his cock. He then shuffles closer, positioning Shane’s hip so that he can shove his cock between Shane’s thighs. Shane gasps, clinging to his shoulders, pulling him close to his body and grabbing at his ass mindlessly.

“Fuck,” Ilya repeats, voice gruff and heady. He captures Shane’s lips in a wet, sloppy kiss, licking into his mouth while he fucks his thighs with wild abandon. Shane nods his head minutely, making small, encouraging noises, breathing them into Ilya’s open mouth. He rucks his shirt up, pressing his palms into the warm skin of Ilya’s back, feeling his muscles shift as he fucks Shane with wild abandon, no rhythm to his movements. Shane turns his head, kissing the edge of Ilya’s eye, his sweaty hairline, his temple. He holds his breath when Ilya comes, feels the slick heat of his come paint the backs of his thighs, feels the sharp jut of his teeth as he bites down, hard, on the delicate skin of his neck. He thinks it again, those three traitorous words, as Ilya mouths a silent scream into his chest. He drags Ilya’s fingers back to his mouth and sucks on three, lets them hook into the pad of his tongue before he mouths “I love you,” wondering if Ilya can touch the sentence the same way Shane tastes it. Ilya replaces his fingers with his mouth, and Shane hopes to drown the words in his hot breath.

They shower after that, together. Ilya reminds him to go to bed clothed, fully anticipating a needy toddler crawling into bed with them before morning. And, sure enough, just as Shane’s slipped off into sleep, he feels fingers poke at his cheek. He doesn’t open his eyes, just rolls his body over to make space for Natalya between Ilya and himself. She slots herself between them easily, tucking her body up next to Shane’s, burying her face in his chest. He holds her to him, the act almost subconscious, and he falls back asleep in a wink.

***

The next morning finds him waking before Ilya, but not Natalya. As he blinks his eyes open, he catches her watching him from her cuddled-up position in Ilya’s arms. He shuffles closer, bending his head down so he can boop her nose wth his. She turns her head to stifle her answering giggles into the pillow.

“How long have you been awake?” Shane whispers, running the tip of his nose along the ridge of hers. She reaches up with both hands to squish his cheeks, pushing his face back so she can scrutinize him.

“Early,” she whispers back, lower lip jutting out in a small pout.

“Bad dream?” Shane prods, reaching up with his own hands to hold Natalya’s hands to his cheeks. Her fingers flex beneath his, and he feels the movements under his palms and atop his cheekbone. Natalya nods, and Shane rubs the back of her hand with his large thumb.

“You want to talk about it?” he follows up with. She shakes her head, but shuffles closer until she’s pried herself out of Ilya’s grip so she can curl up next to Shane’s torso. Unfortunately, the jostling movement wakes Ilya, and he rolls onto his back, groaning. He rubs at his eyes with both fists, then turns his face in Shane’s direction. When he opens his eyes, his gaze is hazy, and it takes him a moment to register what he’s looking at. When he does, his eyes soften, and he reaches up to brush Shane’s hair back from his forehead.

“I would like to get used to this,” he says, apropos of nothing.

“Dyadya!” Natalya wiggles out of Shane’s arms and clambers up onto her knees. She crawls over Ilya, until she’s straddling his abdomen. She stares down at him expectantly, like there’s a promise he’s withholding from fulfillment. He settles onto his back and rests his hands against her thighs. Shane scoots closer to Ilya’s body, filling up the empty space Natalya left behind.

“I’m hungry,” Natalya pronounces, like breakfast is a grand statement, and not a complete given every morning.

“Hi hungry—”

“Ilya,” Shane scolds, the words having no heat in them when mouthed against his shoulder. He feels Ilya’s body rock with laughter as he delivers the final blow.

“—I’m dad.”

“Noooo,” Natalya whines, slapping his chest with open palms. “I am hungry, for food!”

“Oh, this is too bad. The pet store did not tell me I would have to feed the monkey every morning. Such a demanding little animal.”

“Dyadyaaaaa.” She pushes at his chest in vain, and he lets her for a few seconds before he grabs her wrists and holds them out next to her, arms open wide in an unanswered hug. She squirms on top of his body, trying to break free of his hold.

“Very ungrateful monkey,” Ilya tuts, shaking his head back and forth like a disappointed school teacher. “No manners either. Will have to return her to the jungle where she belongs.”

“Uh oh, Natasha,” Shane laughs, curling his body around Ilya’s and reaching out to tug at Natalya’s foot. “Back out in the wild. What will you do? How will you defend yourself?”

Ilya lets go of her wrists but keeps his hands up, unfurling his fingers so that both palms are open to her.

“Here, punching bag right here. Practice your fighting skills, little monkey.”

Natalya scrunches her face up in concentration, then pulls her fist back and punches one of Ilya’s palms with all her might. Shane gives her foot an encouraging squeeze when Ilya makes an exaggerated “Oof!” sound.

“Again, Natalya! Again!” Shane encourages, ginning widely when she punches Ilya’s other palm. She goes back and forth, hitting with full four-year-old force.

“Oh! Oh, the lions and tigers will be no match for you!” Ilya wails, grabbing both her fists with his hands the next time they go in for a punch. “The strongest monkey in all of Canada! They cannot compare!”

“Dyadya,” Natalya whines again, slumping forward so that her head hangs between her stretched out arms, golden curls curtaining around her face. “Pleeeaaase. I’m hungry.”

“What do you think?” Ilya asks, turning to Shane conspiratorially. “Does our pet monkey here deserve a banana?”

Natalya gets more than a banana for breakfast, of course. She gets a filled plate: waffles, bacon, eggs. All courtesy of David, who arose before everyone and had breakfast waiting for them as they all shuffled into the kitchen.

After breakfast, Natalya wants to go play in the fresh layer of snow. Three feet, courtesy of last night’s storm.

“Malysh, I did not pack your snowpants,” Ilya tells her apologetically.

“Oh, that’s okay. She can borrow Shane’s old gear.” David smirks across the table at Yuna. “Luckily, a certain someone in this household is very sentimental and kept an entire closetful of Shane’s old clothes.”

“Oh, David,” Yuna reprimands half-heartedly, smiling at him over the rim of her coffee mug.

Shane’s old snowpants are still a bit too big for Natalya, but it’s nothing a little rolling up of the hems won’t fix. Shane buckles the straps over her shoulders, and she pats his cheek appreciatively. Shane’s still in his pajamas, promising to gear up after his second cup of coffee, but Ilya and David are decked out. Ilya’s borrowing David’s ski pants, and Shane lends him a Metros beanie. Luckily, he has his own coat and gloves, as does Natalya. When they venture out into the backyard, snow up to their mid-thighs and Natalya’s chest, Shane stands at the doorway with his mother, watching.

“He’s nothing like I expected him to be,” Yuna says, after a few minutes of watching the small party make very deep snow angels.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, taking a large gulp of coffee to avoid having to expand on that thought. He knows what his parents expected. Knows what he’d expected for the longest time. That masked indifference, emotions buried beneath twenty-plus years of repression. He recalls a late evening in 2014, when Ilya had marched into Shane’s hotel room absolutely seething. Shane hadn’t gotten a word in, practically thrown onto the bed and manhandled onto his knees and elbows. Ilya had kept his clothes on, but stripped Shane of his. He’d set his phone down on the bedside table, and Shane saw a name in Cyrillic pop up on Ilya’s screen, an incoming call, while Ilya’s face was buried in his neck, three fingers deep in Shane’s ass. The caller wouldn’t let up, their name disappearing and reappearing every few seconds. Shane eventually said something about it, something legible, and Ilya reached around his body without looking up and flipped the phone screen face-down. He fucked Shane from behind that night, hard, fully-clothed. Afterwards, Shane had turned around, scooting to sit at the edge of the bed and bracketing Ilya’s body between his spread legs. Ilya had cradled his head to his abdomen, and Shane could feel his unsteady breaths pressing against his cheek.

“I hope you’re okay,” Shane had said, not a question. He’d learned his lesson with questions, knew Ilya thought of them as prying and unwarranted. But nobody could accuse Shane of nosiness when all his worries were fed to Ilya as statements. Never “Are you getting enough sleep?” but “I hope you’re getting enough sleep.” Never “Have you eaten enough today?” Instead: “There’s extra pad thai in the mini fridge, if you’d like.” Shane never ate pad thai. It wasn’t a part of his diet. But he knew Ilya loved it. And sometimes, if he was feeling generous and weak, he’d order it before he knew Ilya would be coming over. He liked that it forced Ilya to stay for an extra fifteen minutes. It made him feel some sort of domestic pride in watching Ilya inhale it after sex, like he was starving.

“Are you okay?”

Shane had learned his lesson with that one in Sochi. Never again. Never a question. Always a statement, a drop of water in the concern Shane has always held for Ilya.

“I hope you’re okay,” he’d sighed against the silk shirt covering Ilya’s soft white underbelly. Ilya had tugged at his hair, tilting his head back so he could kneel down and kiss him senselessly. For some reason, Shane felt like the one who might cry.

Now, with a child, it seems Ilya’s learned one cannot withhold their love so selfishly. Kids are intrinsically honest, and they expect the same level of honesty from adults. “When I say I love you,” their big doe eyes say, “I expect you to love me back.” And Ilya does. So beautifully. His open affection for his daughter has spilled over onto Shane, and Shane is relishing in it. He’d feel jealous, if he were a lesser man, knowing it took a child to unlock that side of Ilya, the one who showers his loved ones in affection. But Shane cannot find it in himself to harbor any sort of envy, not for a child, and one he loves just as ardently. He knows that he too is being made an honest man by Ilya’s child.

“He’s very good with her,” Yuna says, breaking Shane away from his thoughts. She jerks her chin toward Natalya, like she could somehow, possibly, be talking about anyone else. “His daughter.”

Shane lets out a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That’s good,” he replies, watching his dad and Ilya dig a giant hole to bury Natalya in. “He doesn’t think so.”

“Mm,” Yuna hums, masking her keen perception. “Why’s that?”

Shane shrugs.

“Thinks he’s too hard on her, sometimes. He worries he’ll hurt her.”

“Ah,” she sighs, completely unhelpful. After a full minute of silence, she pipes up again.

“You know, when you were little, your dad was constantly on eggshells around you.”

Shane turns to face her, but she’s not looking at him, still staring out at the giant hole Ilya and David are now lowering Natalya into.

“What?”

“It’s true. He had a difficult time reprimanding you. He’d always look to me before he did it, even when you did something that was so obviously naughty, like the time you purposefully broke all of my crystal because I wouldn’t let you come to a doctor’s appointment with me. He’d look at me, checking to make sure that whatever punishment he was about to dish out was fair. Or reasonable. If you did something while I was away, he’d wait until I got home to help him pick out the punishment. Or he’d call me if he knew I wouldn’t be back for a while.”

“Oh. Um. Why?”

She finally turns to look at him, leveling him with a familiar stern gaze.

“Your father’s parents have never been a huge part of your life. That’s not a coincidence, Shane. That was by design.”

“Oh,” Shane says dumbly, thinking he finally understands what she’s trying to say. “They’re not… very nice people.”

“No,” Yuna purses her lips, watching him take in this new information the way she watches his game tapes: intense, focused, like she’s willing him to understand something. “They’re not.”

It doesn’t take long for Shane to connect the dots.

“Dad didn’t want to hurt me.”

“Never,” she says, the word coming out as a heavy exhale. “He never wanted to hurt you. He hated reprimanding you, could hardly stand it when you were young. Intrinsically, he knew it was important to scold you when you did something bad, but he had no frame of reference for the proper severity of a punishment. He always thought he was doing a terrible job.”

“He didn’t!” Shane interjects. “I mean, he wasn’t. A bad dad, that is.”

Yuna reaches out to smooth back his hair. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I know, sweetheart. He’s a wonderful father. And husband. But it took a long time, many years of me reminding him, before he truly believed it.”

Shane thinks back on that day months ago in his hotel room. Ilya with tears in his eyes, telling Shane he does not want to be like his father. His words coming out a plea, almost as though he were asking Shane to tell him he is not, that he is nothing like his father. That he is a good man. He wonders who he sees when he looks in the mirror, what remnants of that man still linger in his features, his actions. He wonders if Ilya knows he’s just as deserving of the love he offers his child.

“I didn’t know any of that,” Shane eventually says, pushing himself off the frame of the door so he can cuddle in closer to his mom. She wraps her arm around him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, reminding him of how much bigger he is than her now.

“Of course you didn’t, honey. Kids aren’t supposed to know these things. Not when they’re little.”

Together, they watch Ilya and David bury Natalya in the snow, then cheer her on as she wiggles her way out of it. She chases after David once freed, throwing shapeless snowballs at him that fall apart before they can ever land. Ilya watches from the sidelines, cackling the entire time.

Shane eventually does get dressed so he can join them. He gives David a breather, letting him tap out and join Yuna at the entryway, where she’s got a mug of coffee waiting for him. Meanwhile, Shane and Ilya get cracking on helping Natalya build a snowman. She’s determined it has to be as tall as Ilya, so the two men spend the better half of an hour rolling the largest snowball Shane’s ever seen. By the time the torso and head are made, Shane’s sweating through his layers, and by the looks of it Ilya is as well. Yuna pops back into the house to grab a carrot stick and a scarf, and Ilya hoists Natalya up into his shoulders so she can stick the nose into the center of the snowman’s face and wrap the scarf around his “neck.” Afterward, Natalya tries to wrangle them both into a snowball fight, but they’re beat, promising to have one before the end of Christmas.

They all head back inside and get a movie playing. Predictably, Natalya and Ilya crash out five minutes into the movie. Ilya falls asleep with his head on Shane’s lap, lying tummy up so that Natalya can sleep on top of him. Yuna covers them both with a throw blanket. Shane spends the rest of the movie half paying attention to the plot and half watching Ilya’s microexpressions as he sleeps. He pets his damp curls back from his face, tucking them behind his ears. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps, so young. For what feels like the millionth time, but is really only the third, Shane is reminded of how much he loves this man.

***

Ilya wakes up slowly, groaning into his surprisingly firm pillow. When he opens his eyes, he’s blinking up at Shane. A Shane who has a book held out in front of him and is, much to Ilya’s delight, wearing reading glasses. When Shane notices he’s awake, he tilts his head down and smiles at Ilya, eyes peeking over the rim of his glasses.

“Hi, sleepyhead.”

“Mm,” Ilya sighs, turning his head to bury his nose in Shane’s abdomen. “Good morning.” He feels Shane’s chuckle shake his stomach, and he cuddles in closer.

“It’s like 2:00 p.m. but okay,” he laughs, tangling his hands in Ilya’s hair and holding him in place.

“Hmmf, where is my child?”

“In the kitchen with my parents. They’re making gingerbread cookies.”

Ilya starts to rise, but Shane tugs him back down by the sturdy grip he has on his hair.

“Hey, no, c’mon. Stay. It’s okay.”

“They don’t have to babysit her while I’m sleeping.”

“No, no. They don’t mind.” Shane’s hands go back to petting Ilya’s hair once he seems sure Ilya’s not about to bolt again. “They like it, I think. Having a little kid around. I think they miss it.”

“Hmm,” Ilya sighs again, positioning his head more comfortably in Shane’s lap. “Okay. If you say so.”

They stay there for a while, listening to muffled voices and brief bursts of laughter coming from the kitchen. Ilya tilts his head to the side, cheek basically cushioned on Shane’s crotch. If he were a lesser man, or even the man he was six months ago, he’d try to make something of this position. Turn his head to mouth at Shane’s cock through the thin material of his pajama bottoms. But Ilya is a little more mature and a lot more lovesick, so he makes nothing of the unlucky position, just noses the hem of Shane’s T-shirt up so he can kiss the soft folds of his stomach.

Eventually, they leave their little nest on the couch and make their way toward the joyful sounds spilling out of the kitchen. They don’t enter, just watch from the entryway as David shows Natalya how to use the frosting tube. She tries to repeat what he did, getting a giant glob of frosting on one of the cookies that Yuna ends up having to smooth out with a butter knife. Natalya doesn’t seem bothered by her error, taking the cookie back and sprinkling enough edible glitter on it to turn it into a person-shaped disco ball.

“Oh, we’ll save that one to give to Santa,” David laughs, setting the disco cookie to the side. Natalya frowns up at him in confusion.

“Who?”

“Ah—” Ilya makes their presence known, coughing into his elbow uncomfortably. “Sorry. We are not much about Christmas in Russia. She probably doesn’t know.”

“Oh,” Yuna replies, but her tone isn’t judgmental. “Well, is it okay? If we tell her?”

“Mom—” Shane starts, but Ilya cuts him off.

“Of course. Is fine. She’ll like it, I think. And Santa already helped Mrs. Claus pick out presents for Christmas Day.” Ilya winks over at Shane, thinking of the impromptu shopping trip Ilya had to make last week to buy everyone presents. He had Shane on FaceTime the entire time, asking what his mother would like, his father. What he thought he should get Natalya. How many gifts were appropriate for Christmas. The only gift Shane hadn’t helped him pick out was the one Ilya brought for him. He at least felt confident enough to shop for Shane on his own.

Shane answers him with a knowing smirk, reaching up to pinch his cheek playfully.

“Mrs. Claus better go help with the cookies, if he wants Santa to have something to eat on Christmas Eve.”

Ilya shakes his head solemnly.

“Not sure I can bake spirulina and wheatgrass into Santa’s cookies, but I’ll try my best.”

“Oh my God.”

“Dyadya,” Natalya interrupts, “who is Santa?”

Which is how they all find themselves standing around the kitchen counter decorating Christmas cookies while Yuna reads The Night Before Christmas to the whole group. She then clears up all of Natalya’s questions, affirming that, yes, Santa can fit down the chimney, and yes, he will eat all the cookies they leave him (Ilya waggles his eyebrows in Shane’s direction at that one). She assures Natalya that she’s been a good girl, and will most definitely be getting presents on Christmas morning if she keeps up the good work.

Ilya allows Yuna to read Natalya her bedtime story that night. Another Christmas book, a relic from Shane’s childhood. David joins her in the bedroom, the two of them squeezed in next to Natalya on the small guest bed. Natalya appears perfectly enraptured by the story and the loving company, so Ilya uses the distraction to sneak out of the room to join Shane in his bedroom. They’re both too tired to actually try anything, but Shane still strips to his boxers, and Ilya follows, and when he curls up in Shane’s arms, tucking his head beneath Shane’s chin, he thinks maybe this feels just as good as any of the sex they’ve ever had.

He knows they can’t fall asleep like this, that eventually Natalya will wake up in the middle of the night and crawl into bed with them. He’ll at least need to throw some pants on. Still, he revels in the feeling now, of Shane’s warm skin pressed against his. He thinks of their day, their perfect day together, and feels simultaneously envious and joyous thinking about Shane’s childhood. Shane had told him, once—the summer after Pike’s twins were born— that he doesn’t think he’s all that good with kids. That he’s not sure how to match their energy, how to talk to them in that weird baby voice that adults often use with young ones. He’s not sure how to treat them like anything other than a person. He appreciates their honesty, but he can’t match the earnest energy with anything lacking in earnestness. He can’t sweet-talk reality.

If David and Yuna had been any less than perfect, perhaps Shane’s fears wouldn’t have been unfounded. Be that as it may, Ilya has witnessed just how loving his parents are, how much they clearly care for their son. They’re an exemplary example of how to show a child they are cared for, that their home is safe, that they will not hurt him, not ever, not purposefully, at least. And this kindness, which has shaped Shane into the man he is, has spilled over onto Natalya. The way he treats her— sometimes, Ilya cannot watch it, cannot listen to the easy way Shane translates her fears for her, then immediately assuages them with gentle words. The way he touches her, looks at her, like he is familiar with sincerity. And Ilya sees it now, sees that he is, familiar. Sees it in the ease with which he speaks to his mother and hugs his father. How his house, unlike Ilya’s childhood home, is a space made for children, all softened corners and warm rooms. Shane’s parents raised a child because they wanted to, not because they had to. Shane brings that same energy to his interactions with Natalya, like he is the one being gifted with her presence, not the other way around.

Ilya sinks further into Shane’s arms, turning his head to kiss his clavicle. He listens to the quiet pitter-patter of Shane’s heartbeat, and kisses that too. Not his heart, of course, but the space just above it, the smooth skin right above his nipple. He feels more than hears Shane’s contented sigh, and squeezes his arms tighter around his chest.

Shane Hollander, he thinks, an age-old memory floating up to the forefront of his mind. You will murder me.

***

Ilya is the first to wake the following morning, a rarity in his household. He attributes it to the long nap he took yesterday afternoon.

Sure enough, Natalya had crawled into their bed sometime during the night. She’s currently sprawled out over Shane’s chest, drooling on his sleep shirt. Ilya sneaks his phone off the bedside table and captures a picture of the two of them. He doesn’t linger in bed, not wanting to wake them. He leaves the bedroom, tiptoeing down the hallway, only to find David awake in the kitchen, scooping coffee grounds into a filter. When he hears Ilya enter, he looks up and smiles easily.

“Hey, kid,” he greets him amicably. “You’re up early.”

Ilya smiles tightly, offering a cordial “Good morning.” He stands awkwardly at the kitchen doorway, sticking his hands in his pockets, then clasping them behind his back. He’s not wearing a shirt, which in hindsight feels like a very stupid move, but there’s not much he can do about it now.

David must sense Ilya’s discomfort, as this is the first time they’ve been around each other without Shane or Natalya acting as a buffer. Historically speaking, Ilya’s not very good with fathers. David doesn’t know this, though. He pulls a carton of eggs from the fridge, as well as a handful of vegetables, and gestures toward the cupboard that Ilya now knows holds the cutting boards.

“Help me with breakfast?” David asks. Ilya nods, shuffling around the kitchen island to grab a cutting board, knife, and one of the bell peppers David pulled out of the fridge.

“Diced or sliced?” Ilya asks, blade hovering over the fruit in his hand ominously.

“Hmm, well, Yuna prefers larger chunks in her omelets, but Shane likes his pieces chopped up small. Almost like mush.”

“Really?” Ilya asks, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “I did not know this.” But he can picture it now. Shane Hollander, hating the texture of most foods, but still wanting to eat all his vegetables. He’d probably eat everything pre-chewed if that were an option.

David gives Ilya a funny look.

“Yeah,” he says, cracking an egg into a large mixing bowl. “Cuts a lot of his stuff up into bite-sized portions. Thought you’d have noticed.”

Ilya swallows thickly, understanding the implications of what he’s just let David in on.

“Ah, sorry. I have not seen him cook very much, I guess. A handful of times.”

Three times, he mentally corrects himself.

David diffuses the situation easily.

“Well, how bout we just stick with smaller cuts. After all, I get Yuna year-round. Shane a couple times a month, if I’m lucky.”

You are lucky, Ilya thinks morosely. That is more than I have ever had with him.

He begins cutting the vegetables into the smallest cubes possible. He wonders if Natalya will also appreciate the small chunks, if the vegetables won’t appear so intimidating if spoonfed to her in a form bordering on baby food.

“So,” David starts up, cracking more eggs into his giant mixing bowl. “Am I allowed to ask any questions about this? Or…?”

Ilya’s hackles instantly rise, and he feels his shoulders tense up to his ears. David catches on immediately.

“Oh, hey, woah! Sorry, buddy, didn’t mean to stress you out. I just— Ah, well, Shane sprung this on us pretty suddenly. At least, it felt sudden for us. I just thought— well, I’d like to get to know you a little. That’s all. It doesn’t seem like it’s very sudden. For you, that is.”

Ilya stops cutting, thinking through how to answer honestly without giving too much away.

“No,” he settles on. “Is not so sudden. Not for me.”

David hums like he’s agreeing with him.

“Can I ask how long?”

Ilya keeps cutting, trying to focus on his little cubes while simultaneously walking through the minefield being laid out by this nice Canadian man.

“It depends on your definition of, um, this.”

“Right,” David agrees again, like he’s intimately familiar with Shane’s fuck buddies. Maybe he is, maybe Shane told him. Who knows what the fuck Shane talks about with his parents. Ilya can’t imagine ever discussing his relationships with his parents, but, then again, Ilya’s home life has always bordered on arctic. He has no idea what a normal father-son relationship looks like.

“Shane told us you’re… something.”

Ilya smiles despite himself.

“‘Something’ is a good word for it, I think.”

“And how long have you been? Something?”

Ilya pauses again, finally moving onto the next bell pepper.

“Very long. For me. He has been something for very long.”

David doesn’t respond to that, and they work in silence for another minute or so. Ilya gets all the bell peppers cut into tiny cubes while David seasons his giant mixing bowl of eggs. He lights the stove burner, pulls out a pan, and starts to fry a large batch of chicken sausage.

“I’m sure you’re probably aware,” he starts conversationally, back turned to Ilya, “as a newfound parent and all, that really, all you want as a parent is to see your kid happy.”

Ilya reaches for an onion, but doesn’t start cutting it. He waits to see where David is going with this.

“All Yuna and I ever wanted was for Shane to be happy,” David says, turning to lean against the counter. He’s watching Ilya patiently, like he expects a response. Ilya tries to give him one, hoping it’s what he’s looking for.

“Yes, I understand. These are things I want as well, Mr. Hollander.”

“For Natalya?”

“For Shane.”

David grins, holding Ilya’s gaze easily. It seems Shane did not inherit his inherent need to hide his eyes from his father. David reminds Ilya of his own father in that way, his ability to hold heavy eye contact for as long as necessary. But David does not look at Ilya like he is something to be scrutinized, to be flayed out and dug into and clawed open. His expression is intense, but warm. That, Ilya thinks, is a familiar look.

Genetic, he recalls Shane parroting back to him, red-rimmed eyes staring up at him like he is owed something, but he’s not sure what it is.

“I think,” David says slowly, like he’s having to sound out the words both for Ilya and himself, “my son looks very happy. Here. With you.”

Ilya takes in a sharp breath, breaking eye contact to look anywhere, anywhere but at David, lest he give away what those words have done to him. What they mean to him. He picks up the knife, puts it down, scratches at his abdomen. He does not look David in the eye when he says:

“Mr. Hollander, your son makes me happy, too.”

“Well,” David replies, humor trickling into his tone, “isn’t that something.”

He doesn’t say it like a question. It comes out more an observation, the way southern women speak about large phenomena. Isn’t that something, Ilya hears, like loving Shane is an atomic bomb, a moon landing, a double-hat trick in one game. Isn’t that something, he thinks about saying every time he makes Shane come, watching his mouth slacken and his eyes roll back into his head, like Ilya is performing acts of God and not just jerking him off dry-fisted and sleepy.

“Yes,” Ilya smiles at nothing in particular. “Is certainly something.”

He waits another moment, then grins over at David.

“Is this what you people call—eh—” He waves his hand around, searching for the word. “Like, tool you use to push snow out of the driveway?”

“Shovel?”

“Yes. This. Is this what you call the ‘shovel talk’?”

That gets David laughing, but he shakes his head.

“No way. I’ll leave that to Yuna.”

David lets him off the hook after that, apparently satisfied with Ilya’s elusive answers. He still makes conversation as they work in tandem, but the questions are light, easy. What do you like about Boston? Has Shane taken you hiking yet? Have you taken Natalya to that new science museum that just opened up in New York? I hear it’s all the rage with the kids.

David’s just dug into a question that is maybe not so easy to answer—What do you boys like to do for fun together?—when Ilya is saved by Shane stepping into the kitchen carrying a bleary-eyed Natalya.

“Ah, malyshka, still a little sleepy?” he asks, setting down the spatula (he’d been manning the now-cooking omelets) to reach for Shane’s hand-off. Natalya makes grabby hands at Ilya, and buries her face in his neck when he takes her into his arms. He tilts his head around her shoulders and puckers his lips in an exaggerated manner. Shane rolls his eyes, but leans in to meet him for a kiss.

“I’ll get some milk heated up for her,” he says, stepping away from Ilya to grab Natalya’s sippy cup from the dish rack and the carton of milk from the fridge. Ilya’s grateful he has both Natalya and David in the room with them, otherwise he’d be dropping to his knees right there for Shane. He can’t just say shit like that and expect Ilya to act rational about it.

***

Christmas Eve passes just as languorously as the day prior. After breakfast, Shane and Ilya take Natalya out for her promised snowball fight. They wrangle Yuna into playing to make the numbers even and the game fair. Shane and Yuna on one team, Ilya and Natalya on the other. However, everyone is quick to realize that having the two most competitive spirits in Canada play on the same team is maybe a bad idea after Ilya and Natalya’s third round of getting pummeled.

“You don’t want to go easy on the kid?” Ilya whines, gesturing at Natalya, who by now is soaked head to toe.

“Sometimes, kids lose,” Yuna quips. “It’s how they learn. I’ll let you have David if you’ll both stop whining.”

Ilya blows a raspberry at her, but accepts the offer. David helps even out the playing field, but their little gang is no match for the mother/son duo. In the end, Shane and Yuna win all but two rounds. Everyone is rewarded with a well-earned afternoon nap.

Later, Shane offers to prepare Christmas dinner— give his parents a break—so, naturally, Ilya finds himself in the kitchen as well. Natalya wants to help, so they give her a set of measuring spoons, a bowl full of water, and an empty bowl, and ask her to measure out all the water from the full bowl into the empty bowl. This keeps her entertained for approximately seven minutes until she grows tired of the task and ventures back into the living room to bully David and Yuna into playing Candyland.

Ilya lets Shane direct him around the kitchen. He knows how to cook— has basically kept himself fed since he was twelve (until Sofya came along)— but he has a sneaking suspicion that Shane likes to maintain control over everything in his life, aside from the bedroom. He does allow Ilya to play Christmas music from his shitty phone speaker, tunes like “Here Comes Santa Claus” and “White Christmas” serenading them through shoving stuffing up a turkey’s ass.

At around five, Yuna enters the kitchen to grab a granola bar. She’s dressed up, hair pulled back into a sleek bun and makeup applied perfectly.

“Candlelight thing with gamma?” Shane asks, not even looking up from his task of mashing the potatoes.

“Mm-hmm,” is all she offers, looking over their work like the keen mother hen that she is.

“What is this?” Ilya asks. “Candlelight what?”

“My mother is catholic,” Yuna clarifies. “Every year I take her to the candlelight service her church offers.”

Ilya frowns down at the stuffing he’s stirring.

“You are religious?”

“Oh, God no. But my mother is.”

“Oh,” Ilya bites his lip, trying to understand the motive here.

“So you go with her then? Still? To church service?”

“Only on Christmas and Easter.”

“I see. Is special service, then? On Christmas?”

“Yes,” she replies, eyeing him curiously now. “Jesus’ birthday and what have you.” She pauses for a moment, still watching him, scrutinizing. “Would you like to come?”

“Oh, I—” for what is probably only the second or third time in his life, Ilya feels flustered. He waves his stirring spoon around, like it is nothing. Like Yuna isn’t toying with his heartstrings. “There is dinner, and—”

“Dad and I can handle dinner,” Shane cuts him off, his voice soft. “You can go, Ilya. We’ll watch Natasha if you don’t want to take her.”

“If she will let you,” Ilya sighs, digging the spoon back into the stuffing. He eyes Yuna warily. “This is okay with you? You are sure?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want you to come,” Yuna replies. Short and to the point. Ilya is starting to like her very much.

In the end, it takes no coercing at all to leave Natalya with Shane. He and David still promise to call if she starts having a meltdown, but Natalya looks happy to join them in the kitchen. David gives her a twenty piece puzzle to mess around with at the dinner table while he helps Shane finish with dinner prep. Meanwhile, Ilya dresses quickly for the service, slicking back his hair (as much as he can with a splash of water and some of Shane’s fancy hair oil), and tucking his shirt into the one pair of slacks he packed.

Once they’re in the car, Yuna explains that they’ll swing by to grab her mother and make it to the service by six. They’ll then drop her off after the service and be back in time for dinner.

“Okay,” Ilya says, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt nervously. “Sorry if I made you late.”

“No, no. We’ll get there with time to spare. Don’t worry. I’m always an early planner.”

“Mm,” Ilya smiles over at her. “Genetic.”

She doesn’t turn to meet his eyes, but her gaze softens as she stays facing the road. She adjusts the heat, then turns the radio on, low volume, some local news channel. Ilya thinks this is maybe her signaling that she’s not really in the mood to talk, which—fine— she hasn’t exactly been the most forthcoming with her affections around him. However, once she’s got everything settled on the dash, she asks him, point-blank:

“Why did you want to come tonight?”

Why indeed. Ilya’s not so sure himself. He’s attended church with Sofya a handful of times. Sometimes, he listens to the sermons. Most of the time he is busying himself keeping Natalya entertained so she doesn’t make much of a ruckus during the service.

His hand instinctively reaches for the cross around his neck, thumbprint pressing into it with some applied pressure.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. He has hazy memories of attending church with his mother, curling up next to her in the pew. Alexei sitting on her other side, the two of them passing notes across her lap.

“My mother,” he tries again, rolling his stiff shoulders back and staring out the windshield resolutely. “She was very religious. Made sure we attended church every Sunday.”

“And you,” Yuna starts, sounding confused, “enjoyed it?”

Ilya huffs out a humorless laugh.

“Ah, no. Not really. Was boring.”

“So why…?”

“I don’t know,” he repeats, shrugging his shoulders. “I miss her. Sometimes. Most of the time. Is nice to feel like I am near her. Like I can find her in these places. Is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Yuna says, her voice thawing in the wake of Ilya’s raw honesty. “It’s nice, that you miss her so much. Does she not call very often?”

Ilya freezes up, remembering that most people do not know about his situation. By design, of course, he doesn’t need others knowing his family business. Still, it makes conversations like this difficult. Unnecessarily heavy.

“Ah, no,” his tone apologetic. “She is dead.”

“Oh, Ilya, that’s—” She chances a glance over at him, her big, brown eyes— her beautiful son’s eyes— already brimming with tears. This family, Ilya thinks. Too expressive for their own good. Need to get better at hiding their heartache.

“I’m sorry,” she eventually settles on, reaching over with one hand to pat his forearm. It would feel placating if her unshed tears didn’t accompany the gesture. Just like her child, so easy to move. Ilya thinks, with a little time, she will be just as easy to love.

“Is okay, Mrs. Hollander. Was a long time ago.”

“Still,” she insists, her voice a bit thick. “How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“Oh,” Yuna pauses, flicking on her turn signal and turning off the main road into a residential zone. “She was young then. How did—” she stops herself, eyes widening like she’s just realized what she was about to ask. Ilya raises his eyebrows.

“Go on, you want to know.”

“No.” Yuna shakes her head. “That’s so rude of me. I’m sorry.”

“Mrs. Hollander. Is really fine. I don’t mind telling.” You, he doesn’t add. He’d track down any reporter and threaten their life if they chose to write something up on his mother, make it public knowledge.

“You have to know she was not weak,” he insists. “Before I tell you. She was not a weak woman.”

“No, Ilya, I wouldn’t—”

“She killed herself,” he says bluntly. “Few days before New Year.”

Yuna has a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. She’s not staring at him, but those big Hollander tears still gather along her waterline.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, voice rough with emotion. Ilya can’t help but smile. These silly Canadians and their silly apologies.

“Does— does Shane know?”

“Ah, no,” Ilya shakes his head. “I mean, he knows she is dead but—” he waves his hand around, like he’s swatting away a particularly pesky bug. “Is not his burden.”

“I don’t think he’d think of it that way.”

“No but,” Ilya sighs, leaning his forehead against the cool windowsill. “He already does so much. Is very patient with me and my daughter. He does not need these things.” He points to his head, frowning, then moves his hand down so that he is instead pointing at his chest. “Should not have to deal with these things.”

“I disagree,” Yuna says patiently. “I mean, don’t you want to help him when he’s hurting? When he’s struggling with something?”

“Of course,” Ilya scoffs, looking at her like she’s told a funny joke. “But is different. Is different when you are in lo—” He snaps his mouth shut, and turns his face away from hers. Jesus Christ, he’s thought the words so many times they nearly tumbled right out of his mouth. For Shane’s mother to hear, of all people.

Yuna doesn’t say anything for a few moments, taking her time to pull off onto a side street and park at the curb outside of what Ilya can only assume is her mother’s house. She turns off the car, but doesn’t move to get out.

“Is that what you think your love is?” she asks quietly. “A burden?”

Ilya blows out a deep breath, meeting her sad gaze head-on.

“Mrs. Hollander. You are a smart woman. You know that this—” he gestures at himself, like it’s obvious. “—is not something to spring onto your son’s life. The life you worked very hard to help him build.”

Yuna turns from him, jaw set, lips thin. She swallows tightly.

“I don’t think that’s really your call to make.”

Ilya sighs, bringing both hands to his face and scrubbing at his eyes. When he speaks, it is to his palms.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to bring any of this up. Is not—” he waves his hand, eyes closed. “Is not your—”

“Burden,” she supplies coolly.

“Mrs. Hollander—”

“No, just—” she holds up her hand, cutting him off. She breathes out through her nose, staring out her dark windshield, face set, like she’s resolving herself for something. Ilya feels like a child, about to be scolded for playing too harshly with his favorite toy.

“I don’t know what you’ve been taught,” she begins, still not looking at him. “I don’t know what your family has told you, or— or anything, really, about your upbringing. I don’t even really know who you are outside of the ice rink— a terrible impression, by the way— or in the context of being a father. Which I think you’re much better at. Than hockey, that is.”

“Hey—”

“But,” she interrupts him again. “I know my son. And I know, just from the few days of watching him spend time with you, that he’s happy. With you. He seems happy.”

“Mmm,” Ilya smirks, “ you and David must have talked.”

She scoffs.

“Of course we talk. He’s my husband.”

“Right,” Ilya smiles, scratching at his cheek, a tad embarrassed. Yuna barrels on.

“My son is very happy with you, Ilya. So happy. So, I just don’t think it’s your call anymore, whether or not he loves you. You don’t get to decide that.”

“I can decide not to reciprocate.” He says it without thinking, hackles raised. He’s on the defensive, not a good look in front of his something’s mother. In his defense, though, she certainly has a way of prying open barely-healed wounds, poking at the tender flesh of his bleeding heart with a very persistent scalpel.

She turns to him, her eyes sad.

“No, Ilya. I don’t think you get to decide that either.”

They’re interrupted by a light tapping on the passenger-side window. Ilya opens the door, steps out to hold it open for Yuna’s mother. A frail, old Japanese woman. Standing, the top of her head barely meets his chest.

“Mom,” Yuna greets her. Ilya offers his hand, helping her settle down into the passenger seat. He then slides into the back, head still reeling from their earlier conversation. Shane’s grandmother says something unintelligible, and Ilya can’t figure out why he doesn’t understand any of the words coming out of her mouth until Yuna replies in short, clipped Japanese.

Ah.

“Mom, this is Ilya. A friend,” Yuna gestures toward the backseat, and her mother turns, smiling at him over the console.

“My,” she says, voice rough with use, like most old lady voices are. “A handsome friend.”

Ilya catches Yuna rolling her eyes in the review mirror.

“Don’t get any ideas, mom.”

Her mother winks at Ilya, and Ilya grins. They spend the remainder of the ride listening to Yuna’s mother talk about her day at the local pool, then her book club. Stories about the book club take up the majority of the ride, much drama to be had over the latest Atwood novel.

They make it to the church in less than ten minutes. Ilya exits the car hurriedly, opening the car door for Yuna’s mother and helping her out of her seat. They walk at her pace to the entrance, where a teenage boy hands them each a pamphlet with the service itinerary typed up on it. They sit at the back of the church, an easy exit for Yuna’s mother.

The service goes by slowly, hymns, then the sermon, then more hymns. Enough time for Ilya to sit on what Yuna has told him. Is it? Too late to back out of this— this nebulous thing that he and Shane share? Would he even? If he had the option? Back out of it?

He knows what the answer should be. He should leave Shane alone. Shane, who is at the peak of his career. Who easily has ten more years of hockey left in him. Who does not need to be weighed down by a man and his child. He is still young. He could fall in love with someone closer, easier. A nice Canadian man; a little roadie, maybe. A man who could follow Shane’s dreams alongside him, not impede on them at every turn. Shane is smart, attractive. He’s very kind. He could have options, if he tried. Many options.

Ilya’s chest aches thinking about it. So he doesn’t. Nothing is decided yet, he tells himself. No promises made. Nobody owes anyone anything.

Still, it is very difficult to ignore the soft smile now permanently burned into his retinas. The one Shane wears early in the morning, just for Ilya, just as he’s waking up. Or at night, after they’ve done all they can together, a moment of peace shared between them. He thinks of Natalya falling asleep in Shane’s arms, of Shane looking at her snoring face the same way he looks at the Stanley Cup. His compassion is very difficult to ignore.

Ilya’s thoughts are interrupted when the patron to Ilya’s left hands him a basket full of candles. He takes one and passes it down to Yuna’s mother. Later, an older member of the church plays the organ while the person sitting in the front row on the far right side of the church pew has their candle lit. They then touch their lit candle to the wick of the person sitting next to them, that person then using their now-lit candle to light the candle of the person sitting next to them. And so on and so forth. Eventually, the flame makes it to Ilya, and he very carefully passes it on to Yuna’s mother. He holds his lit candle, staring down at the small, flickering flame as “Amazing Grace” starts up on the organ. Over the sound of the music, the pastor starts up a prayer, and Yuna’s mother reaches over with her free hand to grab Ilya’s, squeezing it tightly.

“We want to wish those of us who cannot be here with us this evening a Merry Christmas,” he hears the pastor say, and Ilya does. He pulls Yuna’s mother’s frail, gentle hand closer to his lap and thinks of his own mother. She loved him so much, was so kind to him, even when he was at his worst. She never seemed to have the stomach for yelling, for harsh words or cruelty. He remembers sitting with her like this, squeezed together in a church pew, his little hands curled up in her own. She took such good care of him. He only wishes he could have returned the favor.

After the service, after they’ve blown all their candles out and placed them in a basket next to the door, they drive Yuna’s mother back to her home. When Ilya steps out of the car to help her to her door, she offers him a parting kiss on his cheek. When he crawls back into the passenger-side seat, he doesn’t meet Yuna’s eyes.

“She likes you,” she says, breaking the ice for them both. “Thinks you're handsome.”

“Ah, is nothing,” he waves his hand at her, grinning. “I am good with mothers.” He coughs, diverting his gaze again. “Ah, most mothers.”

“I’m not angry with you,” Yuna corrects him, though, it sounds like a scolding. She sighs, rubbing at her jaw with her free hand, like she’s trying to relieve the tension there. “I just don’t understand you. Or my son, for that matter. I think you should talk about this. I’m afraid someone’s going to get hurt.”

“I would not hurt him,” Ilya butts in, voice sounding petulant. She gives him a look and his shoulders cave in on themselves.

“Not on purpose,” he corrects, the words now shy and strained.

“I think you should tell him how you feel,” she replies, both hands on the wheel, gaze set resolutely forward. “On purpose.”

Ilya laughs, breaking the tension.

“You and your son,” he guffaws around the fist he’s brought to his mouth. “So stubborn, both of you.”

She rolls her eyes at him, a move Ilya is quickly learning to clock as her signature. They make it the rest of the way home in silence, but when Yuna parks the car in the driveway and turns the car off, she makes no move to get out. As soon as the heater is killed, the winter chill begins to slip into the atmosphere.

“Ilya,” she finally says, turning bodily towards him, imploring him with her eyes. “I mean it. Please. Don’t hurt him.”

He swallows around the lump forming in his throat, but holds her gaze. He would like to think he’s not a coward.

“You have a child now. You know what I feel. That won’t go away, not ever. You will spend the rest of her life trying in vain to keep your baby from suffering. Just as I have. Just as your mother probably did.”

“You did not know my mother,” he retorts, but his tone is not unkind.

“No,” she says, more placating. She places her hand on his forearm again, just as she had before. So tactile, this family. “But I am a mother. And I know she would not want to see you hurt.”

Ilya turns away from her, wiping the beginnings of a tear away from the corner of his eye onto the collar of his shirt. He doesn’t think he’s being all that discreet about it.

“This is a very weird shovel talk,” he says, voice muffled by his shirt collar. “I cannot tell whose side you are on here.”

“Ilya,” she squeezes his arm. “Come here.”

He shifts his body, turning to her, only to feel her reach across the console to pull him into an awkward, but not unwelcome, hug. She is so small, easily engulfed by his arms. Her voice comes out thick and watery, right next to his ear.

“This isn’t hockey, sweetheart. My son is not trying to beat you. He is trying to love you.”

Ilya buries his nose in her hair. Sleek and black, just like Shane’s. He suddenly wishes very much to be out of this car, to be in Shane’s arms again. He’s suffered severe emotional whiplash in just two hours.

“I am trying, Mrs. Hollander.”

“Yuna,” she pulls back, sniffling. There they are again, those big, teary brown eyes. Ilya is so weak for them. How could he ever deny this woman what she asks for, especially when they want the same thing.

“Yuna,” he smiles, wiping at his own teary eyes with the knuckle of his index finger. “I am trying.”

She pats his shoulder amicably, reaching for the car door handle as she says, “That’s all I ask.”

When they enter through the front door, Natalya, predictably, comes barreling into his arms.

“Dyadyaaaa!” she squeals, making grabby hands at him so that he’ll pick her up. Naturally, he obliges. “I missed you,” once she’s settled in his arms, hugging him tight around the neck. I missed you, she tells him, no matter how long she goes without seeing him. He once hung out in the bathroom too long, mindlessly scrolling for about thirty minutes. When he opened the bathroom door, he found her waiting for him in the hallway. I missed you, she told him, teary-eyed and downtrodden. Ilya felt guilty for days.

“How was it?” he hears Shane ask, approaching with an apron still wrapped around his waist. Ilya wants to eat him.

“Ah, is good. Your grandmother, she loves me. Flirted with me all night.”

“Oh, shut up,” Shane laughs, swatting at his shoulder playfully before leaning in for a quick “hello” kiss. “She did not.”

“She did. Was very handsy. But I tell her— I tell her, ‘No, Mrs. Yuna’s mother. You are so beautiful, but I have perfect hockey boy waiting for me at home. I cannot marry you.’”

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane admonishes, but he’s smiling way too brightly for his words to hold any heat. “C’mon, dinner’s ready. Let’s eat before it gets to be too late.”

Christmas dinner is a feast. Between all the helping hands, there’s way more food than there is people to eat it. After their meal, Yuna’s already boxing up a few portions to drive over to her mother the next day.

After dinner, Ilya and Shane whisk Natalya off to the guest bathroom to give her a much-needed bath. Especially after she spent most of dinner time painting her face with cranberry sauce. And her hands. And her curls.

“You are so messy, child,” Ilya tsks, pulling her dress up and over her head.

“Sorry,” she giggles into the tangle of fabric, not sounding sorry at all. While Ilya works on getting her out of her clothes, Shane runs the bathwater, hoping he’s got the temperature right. Once filed, Ilya holds Natalya’s hand, helping her step over the edge of the tub before she promptly sinks down into the water. Ilya sits on the little footstool Shane procures for him, while Shane sits on the floor, leaning back against the toilet for support.

“Did my mother interrogate you?” Shane asks as Ilya pours shampoo into his hands and starts scrubbing at Natalya’s curls vigorously.

“Ah, yes. But is to be expected,” Ilya grins over at him, bumping his shoulder playfully against Shane’s knee.

“I’m sorry,” Shane frowns, staring down at his lap. “She can be a little intense.”

“No, is not a bad thing,” Ilya says, grabbing an empty cup from the edge of the tub and dipping it into the water. He pours the water over Natalya’s head, holding his free hand over her eyes to keep the shampoo from stinging. “She loves you. You are very blessed for this, yes? Many people who love you. Is a good thing.”

Shane doesn’t respond for a while, seemingly content to watch Ilya condition his daughter’s hair.

“I guess,” Shane finally says, leaning forward to rest his cheek on Ilya’s shoulder. “I guess I can’t complain about being loved. Just wish she’d do it the normal way. Like, I don’t know, writing me birthday cards, or whatever.”

“Better,” Ilya retorts. “She has built you a multi-million dollar hockey empire.”

Shane smiles up at him, and they lock eyes long enough for Ilya’s hands to still their movements in Natalya’s hair. Naturally, Natalya must ruin the moment by farting in the water and laughing at the bubbles she makes.

“Oh my God,” Ilya rips his eyes away from Shane, pinching Natalya’s nose in retaliation. “You are a naughty little monkey!”

They don’t bother with putting her in the guest bedroom that night. Ilya dries her off after her bath, then carries her back to Shane’s room swathed in a damp towel like a baby. Shane gives her one of his sweaters to wear as a dressing gown, one he keeps here at his parents’ house in the chest of drawers they insist on keeping for him. She cuddles up between both of them and falls asleep ten minutes into her bedtime story.

They’d decided earlier in the day that David would play Santa; so, while Ilya and Yuna were out, Shane had snuck the presents that he and Ilya brought into his parents’ bedroom. Shane whispers a hushed recollection of David and himself helping Natalya set out a plate of cookies next to the fireplace, alongside a tall glass of milk. Ilya buries his smile in his daughter’s hair, endeared by these silly Canadian traditions. Even more endeared by the fact that Shane’s family hasn’t thought twice about sharing them with Ilya’s child. He thinks about his discussion earlier, and wonders how Shane hasn’t possibly figured it out on his own at this point. How he can’t see what is written so clearly across Ilya’s face, pooling from his actions. That he is so sickeningly, stupidly in love. That he is having an increasingly difficult time imagining carrying out his life without Shane there, not in his periphery, but directly in front of him, cradling his daughter to his chest like she is his own.

He stays up long enough to watch Shane fight off sleep, his lids drooping and flashing open as he relays the evening he shared with Natalya. How they played Twister in between stints of stirring soup and checking the oven. He'd let her win at least half, but David let her win every time, a glutton for her joy. How… how…

And he’s out.

***

Christmas morning starts earlier than anyone had cared or planned for. Aside from Natalya, who’s up at 5:00 a.m. sharp, pushing at Shane’s shoulders, begging him to wake up, that Santa came, that she needs to make sure he didn’t leave coal for her under the tree. Once Shane’s got his eyes open, she moves on to Ilya, shaking his shoulders, whisper-yelling “Dyadya” into his ear over and over again. Once she’s got them both awake, she doesn’t wait for them, racing out the door and down the hallway to, presumably, wait as patiently as she can for them at the base of the tree.

At least, that’s what Shane thought she had been planning, until he hears the familiar creak of his parents’ bedroom door being open.

“Uh-oh,” he says, moving too late. By the time he’s thrown off the covers and rushed to the door, he can already hear Natalya whining, “Yunaaa, David. C’mon, you have to wake up! Santa’s here!” The squeak of box springs, grumbled hellos from both his parents. Shane turns back to Ilya, who’s half sitting up in bed, curls flattened on one side of his head. He’s still rubbing sleep from his eyes, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed like they’re two large sacks of rice.

So, not an early riser.

Shane checks the hallway again, catching his father walking out of his bedroom with Natalya in his arms, decked out in his sleep robe and house slippers. Yuna follows, letting David know she’ll get the coffee started.

Shane uses the borrowed time his parents are offering to walk back to the bed, crawling up onto the mattress and shuffling forward on his knees until he’s straddling Ilya from behind. He kisses the nape of his neck, then nuzzles his nose against the notches of his spine.

“C’mon, Santa. Our little elf is waiting.”

Ilya snorts, reaching over his head to pat Shane’s bird’s nest hair. He turns, straining his neck to kiss Shane once, twice, before they’re interrupted by a whining ”Dyadyaaaa,” coming from the living room. Ilya huffs out a laugh, plants a parting kiss on Shane’s cheek, then rises from the bed, stretching out and cracking his back in the process.

They enter the living room, Natalya already taking inventory of the presents stuffed beneath the tree. Ilya sits on the far corner of the couch and Shane curls up next to him, grabbing the decorative blanket off the back of the couch to throw over the both of them. He tucks his toes beneath Ilya’s thighs, and feels Ilya absentmindedly wrap his fingers around his ankle, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the bone poking out there. Yuna enters, hands them both a mug of coffee, then steps back into the kitchen to grab cups for David and herself.

“Well,” David starts, slapping his thighs, “how do we want to do this? When Shane was a kid, we’d usually just let him open his presents all at once, then Yuna and I would exchange gifts while he was properly distracted by his new toys.”

Shane smiles, remembering this part of his childhood fondly. He recalls one Christmas, when he was seven or eight, when his dad had pretended to be miffed that Santa had forgotten to give Shane what he wanted the most: a DS. He’d dug around under the tree while Yuna snuck out to ring “sleigh bells” (a portion of the story Shane found out much later in life). David had looked shocked, telling Shane that Santa must be lifting off from their roof right now, and maybe if they raced outside they could catch him!

They hadn’t caught Santa, but they had found a wrapped present hanging over the gutter. Shane’s DS, placed on the roof by his father to look like Santa had dropped it in his haste to get out of Ottawa.

“I think there may be too many adults for that plan,” Ilya replies. “How about just one at a time?”

“Sure,” David agrees easily. “You wanna be Santa, Ilya?”

Shane grumbles in protest, pulling Ilya’s warm body closer to him and eyeing his father with mock-hostility

“Ah, I think Mrs. Claus protests. Not enough caffeine yet,” Ilya replies good-naturedly, turning his head to plant an exaggerated kiss on Shane’s forehead.

“I’ll pass out gifts.” Yuna enters the room, handing David his coffee before settling down next to Natalya in front of the large stack of presents.

They all open David and Yuna’s first. They bought Natalya a handful of toys, all princesses she’s currently obsessed with (information courtesy of Shane). They also get her knee and elbow pads, a move that confuses Ilya and has Shane smiling into his coffee mug, happy to have wrangled his parents into his secretive plan.

“I baby-proofed the house,” Ilya protests, holding up the elbow pads with a furrowed brow. “I don’t understand. Did I miss something in Parenting 101?”

“Just be patient, babe,” Shane replies, kissing his cheek for good measure. “Now open yours.”

As Shane’s gotten older, and ostensibly richer, he finds more joy in watching others open their gifts, as opposed to opening his own. Not that he isn’t appreciative, but he knows it’s difficult to buy something for someone who can have whatever they need shipped to their door in two days. Recently, his parents have resorted to just restocking his protein powder, getting him the specific brand of socks that he likes to rub holes into while running during the summer, and books he’d never think to buy himself. Last year, his mother bought him a brief history of the thirty-year civil war in Sri Lanka, a book Shane found himself surprisingly devouring in three days. He’d texted Ilya a lot of random Sri Lankan facts during that brief period. Ilya had sent him back links to his favorite M.I.A. songs.

Shane’s parents hadn’t known what to get Ilya. They’d gone shopping for him last-minute, calling Shane in confusion and ignoring his continued protests that they didn’t need to buy him anything. Now, Shane sits, watching with his heart in his throat as Ilya unwraps his nice pair of house slippers, an electric toothbrush, and his very own Zojirushi rice cooker. Ilya does not say anything, but as his hand brushes over the fine quality of the house shoes, his lips tighten into a thin line, and he swallows so hard his Adam’s apple bobs in a slow, even path. Through the years, Shane has learned that Ilya’s “I’m trying not to cry” face looks very similar to his angry face. Shane unearths one of his hands from beneath the blanket and places it on top of Ilya’s.

“Do you like it?” Yuna asks, glancing at Shane, eyes unsure. Shane sends her a minute nod, hoping she’ll take the hint to wait it out. Ilya sniffs, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes sparkle when he finally looks up from the gifts, flashing his parents a weak, but genuine smile.

“Is lovely,” Ilya croaks, setting the gifts in a neat pile on the floor next to his feet. Except for the slippers, which he immediately unboxes and slip onto his feet. “Is very practical. Is this where Shane gets it?”

“Ah, practical,” Shane teases. “So I’ve leveled up from ‘boring?’”

“The toothbrush was Shane’s idea,” David pitches in, the traitor. “Said you don’t have one at home, let alone travel with one. An electric one, that is. We assume you brush your teeth.”

“So very Shane, to care about my dental hygiene,” Ilya sighs, staring at Shane with those beautiful, watery eyes. Like this is the first time anyone’s tried to love him without asking for anything in return. Like his well-being directly affects Shane’s. Which— it does. But Shane wonders if this is Ilya’s first time noticing.

After Yuna’s and David’s gifts are dispersed of, Ilya’s come next. He too had asked Shane for gift advice, but not specifics. “Just list a few things your parents are interested in.” He’d texted. Shane had sent back a link to a Google doc with all of their hobbies and interests laid out in a well-organized list.

Still, he did call on the day he actually went shopping.

In the end, Ilya had ignored all of Shane’s advice and gotten David a very expensive bottle of Vodka imported from Russia, and Yuna a gift certificate to the nicest spa in Ottawa. For his daughter, he bought a few English bedtime stories, baby clothes for her sock monkey, and three tickets to Disneyland that Natalya looks at in confusion but is polite enough to thank Ilya for them anyway. She’ll understand, eventually, that these are the best part of the gift. For now, she props open one of the books and dives into it while Yuna hands Shane his gift from Ilya. Ilya has to remind Natalya to open Sofya’s gift, a new church dress to replace the few that she’s growing out of. She abandons the book to strip right there and throw on the dress, twirling for the family like the little princess she is.

Children. So easy to please.

As Shane opens his present, hyper-aware of Ilya’s nervous eyes on him, he reminds himself to look pleased no matter what he’s been given. He just prays it’s nothing embarrassing.

It’s not, and there’s no need for Shane to school his expression into one of gratitude. Shane’s fingertips dance over a simple black box, inside of which is a key. A house key, attached to a cheeky Boston Raiders keychain. There’s more, two other boxes that Shane must open, but this one has him frozen, his thumb and forefinger rubbing up and down the ridges of the key. Probably the cheapest gift to come out of their little Christmas, but it has Shane’s breath catching in his chest, his eyes tearing up just as easily as Ilya’s had earlier.

“For when you come. And you are home earlier than me, maybe,” Ilya explains, the low timbre of his voice breaking through the quiet haze of Shane’s thoughts. Home, Shane thinks, glancing up from his lap to catch Ilya staring at him, worry hidden deep in his expression. Shane clasps the key tightly in his fist, leaning forward to offer Ilya a long, lingering kiss.

“There is more,” Ilya huffs, the tension draining from his shoulders. He nudges at Shane’s arm playfully.

There is more. A gift card to a nice restaurant in Ottawa. “To treat your parents,” Ilya explains, winking over at Yuna. Some of Shane’s preferred hair and skincare products. “You keep them at my home,” Ilya presses, when Shane gives him a confused look. Another punch to the emotional gut. And, finally, a Polly Pocket. “Ah, Natalya picked that one out. Insisted you would love it.” Shane makes sure to hug Natalya extra hard in thanks.

At last, it’s Shane’s turn for gifts. His parents were easy, he could shop for them blindfolded. Natalya a little harder, but she’s a child, so toys were easy to find in her age range. She seems to be particularly enthralled by the lego set that will allow her to build Hagrid’s hut. It’s Ilya’s gift that has Shane on edge. As he watches Ilya unwrap the matte Rolex box with the delicacy he brings to wiping Natalya’s tears, Shane feels an age-old impulse to rock himself back into a steady state of comfort. Ilya uses both thumbs to pop open the box, exposing the watch that everyone in the room (aside from Natalya) knows is no small piece of jewelry.

“Oh,” Ilya breathes, fingers brushing over the crystal watch face, the smooth leather wristband.

“It’s not much,” Shane tries to justify, breathing out the words, fast and nervous. “I got a discount, after my last ad campaign. I thought maybe—”

Ilya leans over to shut him up with a kiss. When he pulls back, his eyes are glistening, no hint of his usual teasing behind his expression.

“Is lovely,” is all he says, voice soft and saccharin. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Shane swallows, nodding and looking anywhere but at Ilya. “Yeah, I— Oh! I almost forgot! Mom, behind the tree, near the back window.”

Yuna reaches behind the trunk of the tree, pulling out a large box with Natalya’s name on it. She hands it to Natalya, who puts down one of her new books to rip into it with the same ferocity she brings to eating carrots and peanut butter. She opens the box, pulling out a brand new pair of figure skates.

“Ah,” Ilya laughs, tilting his head to the side to bump it against Shane’s. “Now I understand the elbow pads.”

“There’s a lake we used to go to when Shane was a kid,” Yuna offers. “We were thinking— Shane and I, that is— that after breakfast we could take you both there. Give Natalya some time on her new skates.”

“It’s private,” Shane assures him. “Not a lot of people there because the ice is rougher than the indoor rinks. I just thought— maybe—”

Ilya shuts him up with another kiss. It’s becoming a new thing with him, halting Shane’s spiraling thoughts with a gentle, grounding kiss. Shane’s not going to start complaining anytime soon.

“Is lovely idea,” Ilya reassures him. “Let’s do this, yes?”

They have a big breakfast, courtesy of David, then bundle up in winter gear and pile into Yuna’s SUV to make the twenty-minute drive to the frozen-over lake. Natalya sits in the backseat between Shane and Ilya, dragging them both into a very elaborate game of “I Spy.” She spies “something white” at least three times, and Shane and Ilya pretend for a long time not to know she’s thinking of the snow.

When they get to the lake, there are a few families out skating, but the shore is vast, and Yuna grabs them a spot far enough away from the family camped out next to them that they look like shapeless blobs. Shane helps Natalya lace up her new skates, walking her through how to thread the laces, how she wants them to feel tight, but not so tight that they’ll cut off her circulation. She’s polite enough to at least pretend to know what he’s talking about.

After donning her skates, she reaches for Shane’s hand, and they hobble across the snow to Ilya, who grabs her other hand, before they make their way out onto the ice.

She is slow, of course, and very wobbly. It takes a lot of cajoling to convince her to quit taking awkward steps and to instead hold her skates steady while Ilya and Shane help her glide. The ice is a bit uneven, but not impossible to skate on. Yuna and David circle a few laps around them, then sit together in the open car trunk, sharing a thermos of tea, and watch Shane and Ilya shuffle across the ice with Natalya. Eventually, she gets used to the gliding and lets go of Shane’s hand so he can show her how to kick off the front teeth of her skates to propel herself forward. Shane’s hockey skates don’t have teeth, but he still works hard to mime the motion. He then grabs her free hand again and supports her as she pushes forward with her skate, stumbling into Ilya’s side on her first try.

“It’s hard,” she whines, looking up at Shane with big, teary eyes. “I can’t do it.”

“You can,” Ilya says, voice soothing. He pulls her attention away from Shane when he lets go of her hand and skates forward, then twirls in a half turn to face them, skating backward. “And if you keep practicing, you can go as fast as dyadya, yes?” He skates around them, once, to show her what she wants. She watches him in abject fascination, whipping her head around to track him at he makes a spectacle of his skill. He returns to her and grabs her hand, booping her red nose with his gloved fingertip. “See? It’s like flying, Natashenka.”

She squares her face then, looking resolutely forward. She looks so much like Ilya in that moment that Shane can’t help but smile. She lifts off with the teeth of her skate, slips, then tries again. Over and over, until, about ten minutes later, the teeth catch well, and she glides with only a slight wobble. She looks up at Ilya, beaming.

“Did you see?” she asks, shaking both of their hands enthusiastically. “Dyadya! Did you see?”

Ilya bends down to pick her up, holding her above his head like a Stanley Cup.

“I saw!” he cheers, skating her around while she giggles profusely. “I saw, malyshka! So good! You are so good!”

He moves her to his back, letting her wrap her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist so he can skate her around the ice at a faster pace, all the while cheering: “You’ve done it, my darling! My little Olympian; will win me gold one day!” She laughs and kicks her feet against his stomach, despite having so idea what he’s referencing. Shane watches on, standing stock-still in the middle of a lake, wishing he could bottle this moment up and store it in a jar for the many, many days out of the year he doesn’t get to have this.

Eventually, David and Yuna take over, giving Shane and Ilya a breather. They don’t take a breather, instead racing across the uneven ice as fast as they can, over and over, trying to settle the score for who is truly the fastest skater. David doesn’t help, telling him he thinks it’s a draw every time they race back to his and Yuna’s side of the ice.

“Is not a draw!” Ilya bemoans, glaring at David without any heat. “I clearly won that one!” David shrugs, looking down at Natalya.

“You know who won?”

Natalya beams, and lets out a delightful little “No!” before pushing off the teeth of her skate again.

Shane wishes he’d brought his stick. They could have passed a rock back and forth, just as he and his dad had when he was a kid, building goals out of the snow on the lakeside shore.

Eventually, everyone tires themselves out. They pile back into Yuna’s vehicle and head home for a very well-deserved nap. Natalya doesn’t make it to the bed, falling asleep with her head slumped against Shane’s shoulder five minutes into the drive. He has to carry her to bed when they get home.

After everyone sleeps off the morning, they share a late lunch, over which Yuna corners Ilya and Shane with a direct, “So.”

Shane swallows down his bite, glancing over at Ilya, feeling like they’re both about to be reproached.

“David and I spoke to Natalya earlier,” Yuna says slowly, her voice cautious in a very un-Yuna-like way. “And she said she’d be interested in going out to the Christmas play they put on for the kids every year. The one the local churches sponsor. And then, we figured we could drive her around to look at Christmas lights.”

“Oh,” Ilya breathes out in relief next to Shane. “Sure, yeah. Just let me shower, and then we can—”

“Um,” Yuna cuts him off, then clears her throat. “Alone. Just with David and I.”

“So, you’d have the house,” David expands on her point. “All to yourselves. For, oh, I don’t know, three or four hours.”

Shane ducks his head, then glances over at Ilya, watching him frown in confusion before the implication lands and he blushes, turning his head to meet Shane’s eye. Shane winks, and Ilya buries his face in his hands.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles to nobody in particular.

Natalya reaches over, patting Ilya on the back in a conciliatory manner.

“It’s okay, dyadya,” she says, “Yuna and David are nice. We’ll have lots of fun.”

Ilya groans into the meat of his palms, but Shane catches the edge of his grin peeking out from behind his hands.

An hour later finds David, Yuna, and Natalya bundled up at the entryway. Natalya stands on her tiptoes for goodbye kisses, both from Ilya and Shane. She assures Ilya that, yes, this is fine, and yes, she’ll make sure to tell Yuna if she wants to come home. When they leave, the latch of the deadbolt clicking beneath Shane’s fingers, the house is eerily quiet. When he turns, Ilya is already smirking at him, leaning against the wall with his arm raised, hip propped suggestively.

“Well,” he says, voice smooth and suggestive. “What now, Santa?”

It takes an act of God to get Ilya to the bedroom before their clothes are off. As soon as the door is shut, Shane’s tugging Ilya’s shirt off as he drops to his knees.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane groans, burying his hands in Ilya’s curls, holding his face to the front of his jeans. Ilya doesn’t make any move to unbutton his pants or roll down his zipper. He lets Shane guide his mouth to the bulge in his jeans, nuzzling him like he’s drunk. Shane pushes his curls back from his face, watching in abject fascination as Ilya kisses the rough denim. His hands glide up the backs of Shane’s thighs until they land at the cusp of his ass, groping it like he would breasts.

“You just gonna hang out down there?” Shane asks, going for teasing, but sounding—quite frankly— desperate. Ilya just nods, his chin rubbing against the underside of Shane’s cock, making him feel some kind of way.

“Yes,” he answers, blunt, the vowel drawn out low and rough, the way Shane imagines a yes would sound if it were a native Russian word. “Is nice down here. Is— how to say, like the therapists— ‘emotional support cock.’”

“Oh my God,” Shane laughs, cupping both of Ilya’s ears and shaking his head like a chastised child. “Shut up.”

“Mm, okay.” And he does, by tugging the zipper of Shane’s jeans down with his teeth. Shane reaches up to pop the button himself, and feels Ilya’s hum of approval in his dick. He can see his erection tenting the flimsy material of his boxers, staining the front with precome. Ilya licks his clothed cockhead lewdly, and Shane’s head thumps back against the door, his eyes promptly rolling into the back of his head.

“So eager,” Ilya sighs, but it’s clearly not a complaint. Shane could say the same for him, watching him worship his clothed cock like it’s very existence is divine intervention. He rolls his hips forward, a silent “please get on with it,” but Ilya doesn’t listen, continues to mouth and lick at Shane’s cock through his boxers, wetting the material completely.

“Ilya, c’mon. I want you to fuck me,” he whines, tightening his grip in a contradictory manner and shoving Ilya’s face closer to his crotch. Ilya squeezes his thighs, reprimanding.

“Relax,” he sighs, warm breath tickling Shane’s skin through his briefs. He shivers. “Your parents are very graciously giving us three hours.” He slides his palms up Shane’s ass, hooking his fingers around the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down so that they bunch up just beneath his asscheeks. The waistband catches on Shane’s cock, not coming off.

“Merry Christmas to me,” Ilya groans, grabbing handfuls of Shane’s ass while he tugs his boxers off his cock with his teeth.

A needy fuck is punched from Shane’s chest when Ilya licks a broad, wet stripe up his leaking cock, root to tip. He takes the head in his mouth, sucking on it like candy, like it’s not the most sensitive region of Shane’s body.

“I’m not—” Shane grunts, bending over, still holding Ilya’s head in place with his hands. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep that up.”

Ilya removes his mouth with a lewd popping sound, rubbing his cheek against the side of Shane’s dick like a dog nuzzling its owner's hand.

“Is fine,” Ilya sighs. “Refractory period is an hour. We have three. Plenty of time for me to get you back up.”

He cuts off any of Shane’s objections by swallowing him down in one go. Shane feels his cock hit the back of Ilya’s throat, feels the cold tip of Ilya’s nose dig into his pubic hair. He moans, loud, bending forward, air leaving his diaphragm in one full swoop. Ilya grips his hips, pressing them to the door, before rearing back to start bobbing his head in earnest.

“Fuck,” Shane spits, knees shaking, back bowing forward. “Oh fuck, I always forget how good you are at this.” He is good, always has been. Shane thinks back on their first night together, when he’d been all tongue and teeth, while Iya had swallowed him down with ease. Everything Shane knows about doing this, he’s learned from Ilya. How to tease the underside of his cock with the broad pallet of his tongue (as Ilya is doing now). How to hollow out his cheeks, so that Ilya can feel the fleshy, warm inside of his mouth drag along his cock (Oh fuck— as Ilya is doing now.). How to squeeze at the base, holding off Ilya’s orgasm while swallowing around his cock, the motion heavenly on the tip of his dick, nestled tightly in the back of Shane’s throat (as Ilya is doing now, now now, oh fuck, babe, fuck—).

”Shit,” Shane gasps, grabbing at Ilya’s hair and ripping him off his cock. Ilya tilts his head back, lips slick with spit and precome. He’s grinning like he’s just won another cup.

“You gotta stop,” Shane breathes, closing his eyes and grasping Ilya’s shoulders for support. “Fuck, you gotta— I don’t wanna come yet.”

“No,” Ilya agrees, eyes glittering. “I have other plans for you.”

“Wha—”

But Ilya’s sliding up his body, dragging him into a filthy, open-mouth kiss. Shane can taste himself on Ilya’s tongue, on the backs of his teeth. He moans into his open moth, distracted enough that he hardly feels it when Ilya grips his hips, turns him, and steers him toward the bed. He only complains when Ilya parts from the kiss to push Shane back onto the mattress, stripping him completely of his jeans and boxers. As he shimmies out of his own boxers, Shane rids himself of his T-shirt, and finally, finally, they’re both blessedly naked. Shane shuffles up on the bed until he’s propped up on the pillows. Ilya holds up a finger, twirling it in a “turn around” motion that Shane heeds all too easily. He buries his nose in his pillows, one of which smells like Ilya’s shampoo.

Ilya lays on top of him like a heavy blanket, cushioning him between his warm body and the soft sheets. He mouths wet, dirty kisses down Shane’s back, licking at the notches of his spine, the dip between his back dimples, then each dimple on its own. Shane, blissed out and heady with want, wiggles his ass playfully, hoping it translates well to “please start fingering me, or I might die.” What he does not expect is for Ilya to interpret that as “yes, I do want you to lick my asshole.”

”What the fuck!” Shane gasps, jerking forward, turning his head to find Ilya staring at him, tongue still out like a begging dog. “Ilya— what?”

“What?” Ilya asks, feigning nonchalance. Shane can tell it’s a feint, his jaw has tensed. “You never get your ass eaten before?”

“You know I haven’t!” Shane hisses, the sound lingering as Ilya palms at his asscheeks, parting them and kneading them like he’s not currently kind of getting chastised.

“Is fun, no?”

“It’s gross. Oh my God.”

Ilya frowns, stilling his distracted pawing.

“Gross for who? Gross for you?”

“No, idiot. Gross for you.”

Ilya grins, hunching back down like the conversation’s already been settled.

“Ah, no. I promise you, is not gross for me.”

He ducks his head like he’s about to start at it again, and Shane jerks his hips up.

“Stop! Ilya!”

“Shane,” Ilya grumbles, resting his chin on Shane’s ass and staring up at him with large, puppy-dog eyes, like Shane’s doing him a disservice. “Moy lyubimyy, is not bad for me. I want this. Do you not want this?”

“It’s not that, I just—” Shane bites his lip, looking over Ilya’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to make direct eye contact as he speaks. “I’m just, not, like clean. I didn’t have time to prep.”

“Okay,” Ilya says slowly, turning his cheek so he can kiss one of Shane’s back dimples. “You were still going to let me finger you…”

“That’s different,” Shane corrects. “That’s— it’s not like your mouth would be down there. I mean, it’s still not my favorite, but I could ignore it…”

Ilya sighs, finally taking the hint and rolling off Shane’s body. He lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling and blowing out a loud, exaggerated raspberry.

“Okay, so if I let you waste thirty of our precious minutes on prep, you will let me eat your ass?”

“Ilya—”

“A yes?” He tilts his head up, eyes defiant. Shane squirms.

“Yes.”

“And you have everything you need? Here?”

Shane bites his lip, nodding. Ilya smirks, breaking the tension.

“Where do you store your douche? In same drawer as all your junior hockey medals?”

“Oh shut up,” Shane laughs, shoving at Ilya’s face as he rolls off the bed. He grabs his toiletry bag and heads for the guest bathroom down the hall, ignoring Ilya’s “I’ll just wait here!” yelled out after him, a final taunt.

He decides, since he has the time, to do a thorough job, topping it all off with a long shower. He opens himself up a bit, in the shower, not too loose, but enough that two fingers doesn’t feel like a burn. When he gets out of the shower, he rubs a bland, scent-free moisturizer around his asshole, wondering if just because it says “scent-free” on the packaging that also means “flavorless.” Guess they’ll find out. Or— Ilya will find out.

Shane comes back into the bedroom thirty minutes later, feeling a fraction braver now that he knows he’s, well, ready. Ilya’s grabbed one of the books from his bookshelf and has it propped open on his chest. He’s still completely naked.

“What’re you reading?”

“Biography on eighties goalie for the Maple Leafs. Very arousing stuff, Hollander.”

“Uh-huh,” Shane agrees, eyeing Ilya’s flaccid penis suspiciously. Ilya closes the book and sets it on the bedside table. He turns on his side and props himself on his elbow, allowing his eyes to drag up from Shane’s toes to his eyes, the look long and lascivious. Shane shivers despite himself. Ilya pats the space next to himself, and Shane walks toward him, his mannerisms meek.

“Relax, solnyshko, I will not bite.” Ilya soothes, paradoxically snapping his jaws at Shane. Shane rolls his eyes, but crawls up onto the bed next to him. Ilya rolls him onto his back and hovers over him, kissing him like it’s a full-body project. Shane’s leg naturally bends at the knee, hitching up and over Ilya’s hip. He can feel Ilya hardening against the inside of his thigh, and he rocks his hips in slow, lazy motions. When he tries to sneak a hand down between them, Ilya grabs his wrist and traps it above his head.

“Mm, nice try. But I have plans.”

“Are you sure you really want to—”

“Yes.”

Ilya kisses his worries away, no brokerage for argument. He trails heady kisses down the column of Shane’s throat, his chest, his stomach. He pauses at Shane’s cock, then kisses it too, a little happy trail down his shaft.

“Do you want me to—” Shane tilts his pelvis. Roll over? the movement asks, but Ilya grabs his hips with both hands, stilling their movement.

“Nyet, but toss me a pillow.”

Shane does, and Ilya grabs his ankles and drags him to the edge of the bed, until half his ass is hanging off the side.

“What—”

“Hips up,” Ilya instructs. Shane does, and Ilya slides the pillow beneath his lower back. Afterwards, he kneels at the foot of the bed, watching Shane with a cool expression as he kisses his ankle, his calf, the underside of his knee. He works his way up until his face is level with Shane’s cock, and he’s got Shane’s thighs resting on his shoulders.

“Oh, look at you,” Ilya croons, tilting his head down until all Shane can see is his mop of golden curls. “So pretty for me. My pretty boy.” He rubs his hands up the sides of Shane’s hips and licks the sensitive skin of Shane’s perineum. His nose replaces his mouth, the tip of it rubbing up and down as Ilya breathes over his entrance. Shane feels the muscles there flutter.

“Ilya,” he whines, twisting his fingers in the sheets. “Ilya, I can’t—”

“Ssshhh,” Ilya presses the noise into his skin, kissing his hole once, twice. “Let me take care of you,” he hums, licking from Shane’s asshole all the way up to the tip of his cock. He meets Shane’s eyes and whispers: “Baby.”

Shane squeezes his eyes shut, turning his cheek and moaning into the pillows. Ilya dips his head back down, kitten-licking at Shane’s entrance, then pulling back to blow over it, the hot-cold sensation driving Shane mad. But it holds nothing to the feeling of Ilya grabbing his ass with both hands and spreading him open with his thumbs before he plunges in, mouthing at Shane’s asshole like he’s actually making out with it.

Shane thought he’d hate the feeling. Would find the sensation of Ilya’s tongue prodding inside him strange and unusual. And it is. But once the embarrassment subsides, it starts to feel pleasant. Until Ilya’s tongue-fucking him into oblivion. Until pleasant morphs into good. And good morphs into un-fucking-believable, and Shane’s squeezing his thighs around Ilya’s head. And Ilya gets close enough that the spit running down his chin mashes into the skin of Shane’s asscheek. Ilya’s absurd idea of giving his jaw a break is to turn his cheek and nip at the skin of Shane’s ass, then dip back in to suck at the rim, blowing kisses over it in a cheeky manner. Shane doesn’t think he can come from this, not without prostate stimulation, but he thinks maybe that’s not the point. He thinks the point is that Ilya wants him enough to fucking tongue-fuck his asshole in his childhood bedroom. It’s unreal.

Eventually, he feels a slicked up finger join in with Ilya’s tongue. Then two, scissoring him open while Ilya lazily licks around his rim. Shane finally tears his eyes open, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars he pasted on his ceiling when he was eight.

“Ilya,” he croaks, sweaty hands reaching down to paw at Ilya’s curls. “Ilya, please.” Ilya hums against his entrance, the noise forcing Shane’s balls to tighten. Ilya pops his head up, lips ruby-red, his face glistening in a sheen of spit and lube. His eyes are wild, curls framing his face haphazardly. He looks absolutely debauched, absolutely perfect.

“I—” Shane starts, stopping himself when he realizes what he’d been about to say.

I love you, Ilyusha. I love you so much.

“Fuck me,” he says instead, lifting his legs off Ilya’s shoulders and spreading them so he can plant his feet on the edge of the mattress. “Please, fuck me.”

Ilya prowls forward, wiping his face on the sheets before he reaches Shane’s mouth. He leans in for a dirty kiss while he rolls the condom on, and Shane hooks his legs around his lower back.

“Fuck me, Ilya, Ilya—”

“Yes, baby. Yes, shh.” He lines himself up, sinking into Shane’s body in one full swoop. Shane accepts the intrudance so easily, his entrance wet and slick and malleable, his body equally so. He feels high with it, that ease Ilya brings to his limbs every time they fuck. Ilya grips Shane’s hips, standing fully at the edge of the mattress and using the friction of the carpeted floor to steady his stance. He pulls out, only to slam back in again, rucking Shane up the mattress. But not for long; Ilya tightens his grip on Shane’s hips and drags him back to the edge, plowing into him over and over again.

Ilya is saying things, stupid things, meaningless things, but Shane’s not paying attention. He can’t hear anything through the cotton that’s clouded up his thoughts. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, watching the muscles of Ilya’s abdomen shift and engage as he fucks him into oblivion. His triceps and biceps furling and unfurling as his grip doesn’t let up. He’s a scene, a fucking painting. He has Shane drooling into the sheets, twisting his body like he wants to get away, like it’s too much, too stimulating. But Ilya’s hands, his sturdy, warm hands, drag him back to the edge.

You’ve ruined me, Shane thinks wildly, twisting his fingers in the damp bed sheets. He hears his breathy moans begin to morph into little “ah, ah, ah,” sounds, his orgasm approaching like a freight train. You’ve ruined me for anyone else.

“Ilya, I’m—” he chokes, arching his back and squeezing his eyes shut. He feels his face contort into something ugly and needy. “Ilya, I’m—”

“Yes,” Ilya grunts, shifting the angle of his hips so that he hits Shane’s prostate with every thrust. “Yes, baby, come on. Come for me, my pretty boy.”

“Fuck!” Shane yells out. His stomach muscles clench, and his legs hold Ilya steady inside him in a vice-like grip. “Fuck, fuck!” He comes on his stomach, on his chest. Even feels some of it catch on his chin. Ilya rocks inside him, massaging his prostate through it all, kissing skin he can reach. When Shane finally comes down, stars clearing from his eyes until he can see the hazy, lamp-lit room again, he loosens his grip on Ilya’s hips, and watches Ilya watching him, fucking into him with wild abandon, chasing his own orgasm.

“Good,” Shane slurs, ignoring his hypersensitivity and tilting his hips up to meet Ilya’s thrusts. “Good, Ilyusha, come on, come up here.” He grabs at Ilya’s hands and tugs. Ilya pulls out, and they both groan at the loss of contact. Shane shimmies up the bed, and Ilya follows, straddling his hips. Shane slides his hand though his own come, then grips Ilya’s weeping cocks and begins to tug.

“Da, yes,” Ilya groans, leaning forward to plant both hands on Shane’s shoulders. “Like that, baby, just like that.”

“You gonna come on me?” Shane asks, come-drunk and delirious. “Mark me as yours?”

Ilya’s hips stutter, and he hisses out a warbled blyat. He releases one of Shane’s shoulders to grab his jaw, forcing him to make eye contact.

“Look at me,” he demands, thrusting into the tight, wet heat of Shane’s fist. “Keep looking at me.”

“I’m always looking at you,” Shane croaks. Stupid, unabashed. Ilya grunts, moving faster, his fingers tightening their hold on Shane’s body. “Ilya, I never stop looking at you.”

“Good,” Ilya groans, then shudders, his body going taut. But he doesn’t break eye contact.

“Mine,” he spits through gritted teeth, coming on Shane’s stomach and chest. “You’re mine.”

“Yes,” Shane surges forward, kissing Ilya’s chin, his cheeks, anywhere he can reach. “Yes, yes, yours. Yes, Ilyusha.”

”Fuck,” Ilya curses, still coming, still shaking. A quivering leaf between Shane’s palms, skin sticky and damp beneath his lips.

“Fuck, fuck.”

He rides out his orgasm atop Shane’s body, then slumps forward, his body hanging limp and relaxed like a wetted cloth. Shane ignores the stickiness of their bodies, continuing to plant kisses at Ilya’s hairline, the crown of his head, whispering, “Ilya, Ilya,” over and over again into his curls, meaning, I love you; meaning, oh, how I love you. Ilya buries his face in the crook of Shane’s neck, his hot, panting breath tickling the skin there. It takes a few minutes for their breathing to settle, and their rapid heartbeats to quiet against their chests. Shane could fall asleep like this, if not for the mess and the promise of his parents’ return in—he checks the clock on the bedside table— just under an hour.

“Ilya,” he whispers.

“I know,” Ilya sighs, pressing his lips to Shane’s clavicle. “Shh, I know.”

“We should get cleaned up. Change the sheets.”

“We will,” Ilya grumbles, not moving a muscle. “I promise, we will. Just—”

“Hmm?” Shane hums, squeezing Ilya closer to him, feeling him sink further into the embrace.

“Stay,” Ilya sighs, rubbing his warm palms up Shane’s sides. “Stay here, for a minute. Just stay.”

“Okay,” Shane whispers into his hair, grateful Ilya cannot see his heartsick expression. He doesn’t know that he could mask the love spilling out of his gaze right now, is surprised he can’t feel it within his touch.

“I’ll stay with you, Ilyusha. I’ll stay.”

Ilya’s breathing evens out, and Shane sets a timer on his phone for thirty minutes, before he too slips into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter End Notes

hope you enjoyed this 30k chapter update! it will have to tide you over for a few weeks :( i am off to run a marathon on the great wall of china and have been told it's frowned upon to write gay smut in a surveillance state :((( however!! i come locked and loaded with two vpns!! so perhaps, love prevails :) xi jinping can't stop shane from getting his pretty little butthole licked :*

anyway!! all your feedback has made my heart all warm and gooey!! thank you for reading *mua mua*

UPDATE: writing porn in my notes app when the vpn ain't pulling thru bc I LOVE YOU

Chapter 5: "i will" said the earth

Chapter Notes

"He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking."
- Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

A/N: sorry this chapter is 43k words long, i needed the content to match the underlying theme of the chapter title, and i was all out of song lyrics. so you see, i could not break it up.

disclaimer: i am not a hockey player, a parent, or a gay man. do with this information what you will.

Ilya doesn’t have the entire Sunday off, but he is given an early lunch when his nutritionist pushes their meeting back by two hours. He's out of the gym by 10:15 a.m. with time to kill. He checks his appearance in the mirror, knowing the tracksuit isn't what he'd call his “Sunday Best,” but he figures it's fine for a surprise pick-up. He texts Sofya, letting her know she can have a free few hours to herself, and that he'll grab Natalya from Sunday school.

He enters the church through the side entrance right as all the kids are being let out of class. Mothers, fathers, and grandparents are lined up at the door, waiting patiently to be led into the outdoor play area the church staff bring the kids to play so they can wait for their parents to pick them up. The Sunday school teacher herds all the caretakers outside, where various screams of “Mommy!” “Daddy!” and one “Okaasan!” can be heard reverberating throughout jungle gym bars and plastic slide tubes. Children race to their caregivers, pink tulle and pressed, baby slacks taking up Ilya’s landscape. He spots his baby girl at the top of a large slide, gesticulating wildly as she tries to explain something grandiose and no doubt important to her friend. Before Ilya can call out for her, a man next to him whistles, and Natalya's friend whips her head around.

“Daddy!” she calls out, abandoning Natalya in an instant to race down the slide. She runs over from the base of the slide, repeating, “Daddy! Daddy!” over and over, until the man next to Ilya has her scooped up in his arms. Ilya turns back to Natalya, just in time to watch her expression break out into a wide grin. She follows in her friend’s footsteps, sliding down so that her dress bunches up around her waist. Ilya sends out a quiet prayer of thanks to Sofya for thinking to dress her in thick leggings beneath her skirt.

She squeals as she runs toward him, looking at him like he hadn’t just seen him three hours ago at breakfast time. He’ll never stop feeling delighted at the way she brightens when she sees him, no matter how much time has passed. He kisses her cheek, and next to them her friend tells her father, “Daddy, I missed you! Do you want to see the butterfly I drew in class?” Further down, another child is being picked up by his parents, a high-pitched lisp yelling out, “Mamma! Dadda!” Both parents scoop him up into a group hug. When Ilya turns back to Natalya, she’s staring at the little family, a slight furrow in her brow. Ilya smooths it out with the pad of his thumb.

“Malyshka, what is this?”

Natalya doesn’t reply. She turns her head, scrutinizing her friend and her father until Ilya carries her away, telling her to wave goodbye. That it’s the polite thing to do when leaving your friends behind. Natalya does as she’s told, waving goodbye to her playmate over Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya doesn’t see it, but he assumes the playmate waves back. She even calls out, “Bye-bye, Natalya! Bye-bye, Natalya’s daddy!”

As he buckles her into her booster seat, Natalya looks at him like she’s trying to solve one of David Hollander’s complicated puzzles. When he asks her what’s wrong, she just shakes her head, spending the car ride staring out the window. He breaks her silence by stopping at McDonald’s to buy her an ice cream cone, and she’s pulled out of her morose session as soon as he’s handing it back to her (alongside a fistful of napkins).

He doesn’t think much of her mood swing, not when she’d been made of them three months prior. Also, she’s a child. Object permanence is still a concept she’s acquainting herself with. If Ilya worried about every little thing that set her off during the day, he’d never get any sleep.

Still, something tickles the back of his mind. He decides to stick a pin in it.

***

They're not parted for long after Christmas. They've both been invited back to the All-Star game, a fact Ilya had cheekily reminded Shane of when they parted ways at his parents' home. Shane had his head tucked beneath Ilya’s chin, whispering a forlorn goodbye into the side of his neck before he pulled back to remind Ilya that they'd see each other soon. That they'd be playing on the same team, even, and isn't that exciting, Ilya?

Ilya had cupped his cheeks between both of his hands, planting a kiss on his button nose.

"Sweetheart, we've always played for the same team."

Shane had swatted at him for that one.

He approaches the hotel lobby now, feeling itchy in his new suit, the one Rose's friend had helped him pick out. It's a mental reaction, a phantom itch, Shane knows this. The material itself is soft and fitting, a fine silk lining that Stephan had insisted was worth the extra zero tacked onto the tail-end of the price. It doesn't change the fact that Shane's not used to looking like this outside of hockey events or formal gatherings. This is a Saturday afternoon, and all he has lined up for the day is meeting with his team and taking a spin out on the practice rink. He wonders if Ilya will laugh when he sees him, will catch him out at being fraudulently fashionable.

When he finds Ilya, tucked into a table in the far corner of the hotel restaurant with Natalya and Sofya, Ilya does not make a face. At least not one of bemusement. His eyebrows raise slightly, and he gives Shane a long enough once-over that it's nearly scalding. Shane would reprimand him for the public display of desire if they weren't surrounded by unobservant hockey players.

Sofya is seated next to Ilya, and Natalya sits on the other side of the booth, her back facing Shane, so she does not see him approach. Sofya lets out a low whistle as Shane gets closer, and he ducks his head, blushing.

“My, you get all dressed up like that for me?” she teases. Natalya finally turns, beaming when she catches sight of Shane.

“Shanya!” she yells out, loud enough to turn a few heads. J.J., the only other guy from Shane’s team to be invited to the All-Star game, sends Shane a curious look. Shane shakes his head minutely, hoping it’s enough to convey “not now” to his teammates, before he redirects his attention back to Natalya.

“Natasha,” he answers warmly, sliding in next to her in the booth. She immediately wiggles her way into his lap, turning so that she’s facing him, legs straddling his large thighs and butt propped up on the lip of the table. She leans in for a bunny kiss, and Shane’s all too happy to indulge. She then tips her head forward, cupping her hand around the shell of his ear to whisper, “Did you know there’s a pool here?”

He pulls back, trying to look properly shocked.

“No, really? Who told you that?”

Natalya starts to giggle, glancing behind her to catch Ilya’s soft smile.

“Nobody told me. I saw it when we got here. Big, biiiiiig pool! With a slide!” She opens her arms and spreads them wide, the same action she uses to describe the size of the elephants she saw at the zoo, the width of Dyadya’s shoulders, and how much she loves Yuna. “This much,” she’d told Yuna as she was leaving the Hollander household a few weeks back, spreading her arms out and reaching for the opposing walls of the kitchen with her fingers. “I love you this much!”

“Do you know how to swim?” Shane asks, tickling the underside of her chin with his index finger. She jerks her head away, frowning at him in betrayal.

“No, but Dyadya will teach me. He promised. Didn’t you?” Natalya turns bodily in Shane’s lap to stare down Ilya.

“Of course,” Ilya replies placatingly. “Every little monkey should learn how to swim.”

Natalya nods once, a sharp, jerky movement. She looks back at Shane, raising her eyebrows like, “See?”

“Every little monkey needs to finish their vegetables too,” Sofya cuts in, eyeing Natalya’s half-finished plate. Natalya leans forward, tucking her head beneath Shane’s chin and curling her arms up between them, resting her small fists on his chest.

“Not true,” she grumbles. “Monkeys only eat bananas.”

Shane wraps his arms around her protectively, petting her curls down and kissing the crown of her head. He watches Ilya as he says to her, quietly, “If you eat half your vegetables, I’ll eat the other half.”

“I like the top part of the asparagus. I don’t like the bottom part,” she grumbles into his chest. He glances over at her plate, spotting a few half-eaten asparagus scattered around her plate.

“I’ll eat the bottom part.”

She burrows her head further into his chest.

“You’re my best friend, I think.”

“Hey, hey! What’s this?” Carter Vaughn and Scott Hunter make their way over to the table. Vaughn slaps the palms of his hands down on the tabletop, offering Shane, and then Ilya, a goofy grin. Hunter sidles up beside him, shooting Shane a curious look.

“Who’s the kid?” Vaughn asks, forgoing his previous inquiry.

“Ah, mine,” Ilya replies, taking a swig from his glass of— Shane stretches his neck up to check over the rim of the glass— water. Ilya clears his throat. “She’s mine.” He repeats.

Vaughn’s eyes widen. He turns his stunned gaze toward Shane.

“Man, you sure? Seems like she’s ready to adopt our captain here.” He reaches forward to ruffle Shane’s hair, and he bats him away with his free hand.

“Cool it, Vaughny,” Hunter sighs, sending Shane an apologetic look.

“No, it’s true,” Sofya supplies unhelpfully. “I think she’d ditch us in a heartbeat for this one.”

Sofya and Ilya keep Hunter and Vaughn entertained while Shane helps Natalya finish off her vegetables. They then rise from the table as a unit, Sofya corralling both Rozanovs toward the elevator so they can get Natalya changed into her swimsuit, Shane left to mingle with the other members of his All-Star team. Eventually, everyone ends up at the poolside anyway, and Shane finds joy in watching Ilya teach Natalya how to swim. He gets roped into helping pretty quickly, and he toes off his shoes so he can sit at the edge of the pool, feet and calves submerged in the water. Natalya clings to the edge between his legs, the pink floaties she wears around her upper arms scratching against the seams of his shorts. Ilya’s a few meters away, beckoning her towards him with both hands.

“Come on, Malysh, I know you can do it. Is not so far to swim. I promise.”

Natalya stares up at Shane with big, fearful eyes. He gives her a thumbs up, and pats her on the head.

“You can do it, Natasha,” he assures her. She reaches for his hands, and he grabs them both, helping her turn so that she’s facing Ilya. She’s got both of his thumbs in a death grip, but she appears determined. “Go on baby. Swim to Daddy.”

Shane registers the mistake in the title too late. Natalya’s already letting go of his hand and kicking off the pool wall so she can propel herself in Ilya’s direction. Shane cheers her on, as does Sofya from her poolside lounge, as does Ilya, his face lighting up and his arms outstretched, waiting for Natalya to doggy-paddle her way into his embrace. When she makes it to him, clinging to his neck like a half-drowned rat, he lifts her into the air.

“Good girl! Good girl, Natasha! That’s my baby!”

Encouraged by her success, she swims back toward Shane, her face pinched in concentration as she splashes her way through the water. Shane cheers her on the whole time. Just as she’s reached his legs, grabbing onto his feet to steady herself, a group of players from Toronto and Vancouver approach the edge of the pool.

“Heard you had a kid, Rozanov, but I had to see it to believe it,” heckles one of them— Davis, a defenseman from Toronto. Shane’s hackles rise, and he pulls Natalya in closer to the edge of the pool, ready to cover her ears if need be.

“Okay,” Ilya replies, side-eyeing Shane warily. He could have dug deeper, but Shane knows he’s trying to avoid any expletives in front of his child.

“Heard Russian babies were born knowing how to swim because you all pop them out in lakes or whatever. What, no lakes in Boston for you to drag her out of?” he laughs, elbowing his companions, who titter weakly. It’s a sick joke, extremely xenophobic. Davis is holding a beer, so who knows how drunk he is, but his friends appear less so. One of them shoots Ilya a tight smile. Ilya just grins, slicking back his hair by finger-combing his curls out of his eyes.

“And I heard Canadian babies are all born knowing how to play hockey, yet here you stand,” Ilya chirps back.

Davis scowls.

“Listen here, you di—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ilya cuts in, pointing to where Shane sits, hands already clasped around Natalya’s ears. “Little ears, da? Take it out on the ice tomorrow.”

Davis’ face turns red with rage. Instead of spitting out another half-baked insult, he turns to Shane.

“And what about you, huh? You really friends with this jackass?”

“Little ears!” Natalya pipes up, before flinging herself in Shane’s direction and wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his stomach. She smiles up at him as she yells, “Best friend! Shanya is my bestest friend!” It’s all so charming that he can’t even be mad that she’s soaking his new shorts. Her chipper demeanor deescalates the situation immediately, and Davis’ friends drag him away from the poolside, leaving Shane and Ilya to play with Natalya until she tires herself out.

That evening, Shane sneaks into Ilya’s hotel suite. Ilya had to book a suite on a floor separate from those of the other hockey players, as he needed one with two rooms so he could accommodate Sofya. Shane knows she truly doesn’t mind the double queen bed rooms Ilya’s forced into booking for them when they’re on the road, but he also knows Ilya tries to offer her privacy and reprieve when he can.

They can’t hook up tonight. Not with Natalya already curled up in Ilya’s lap. Not with Sofya’s room connecting to theirs via a thin wall and a single door. But Shane still stays, undressing down to his boxers and a T-shirt before sliding into bed next to Ilya. Ilya shuffles down beneath the sheets, manhandling Natalya’s limp body so that she’s lying atop his chest. This frees up one of his arms, and he raises it, beckoning Shane in so that he can rest his head on Ilya’s shoulder, tucking his body in sideways and hooking his leg up over Ilya’s. He rests his free hand on Natalya’s back, feeling her diaphragm rise and fall with each shallow breath she takes.

“Hello,” Ilya whispers, his face a hair’s width away from Shane’s. Shane would have to cross his eyes to see him properly. He leans in for a brief, quiet kiss.

“Hello,” he whispers back, the ghost of the word tickling both of their lips.

“You are ready to play with me tomorrow?”

Shane grins, feeling altogether childish and giddy. He’s wanted to play alongside Ilya for years; wanted to know what it would be like to pass to someone who might finally, finally, match his speed.

“Yeah,” he replies, fingers absentmindedly playing with the ends of Natalya’s hair. “I’m ready to win.”

And they do. Tremendously. A complete lock-out. Shane feels elated on the ice, never having to think twice about where he’s about to send the puck. Ilya is right there, always right there, ready for a hand-off when Shane needs him, and vice versa. Playing alongside Ilya is like playing with a third limb. They share the same strategy, the same mind games when going in for a fake-out or a faux pass. Shane didn’t think he could fall for Ilya any harder than he already had, yet here he is, standing at the edge of the rink, watching as Ilya sinks another puck into the net, working off of another one of Shane’s assists.

Their team wins, 6-3, and Shane celebrates by joining Ilya, Natalya, and Sofya that evening, the four of them cuddling up on the joint suite’s couch to watch Treasure Planet. He falls asleep with Natalya’s body sandwiched between his and Ilya’s. It’s the best All-Star game of his career.

***

Ilya tucks one of his hands under his cheek, propping his face up on Svetlana’s lap. She pauses in combing her fingers through his hair, letting him resettle before resuming her ministrations. Ilya curls his knees in, cuddled up on the couch like a large toddler.

“You know, when you asked if I wanted to ‘hang out’ this evening, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Ilya tilts his head up, giving Svetlana’s plunging neckline and cropped, satin tank top a long once-over. His expression is not lewd, though; he gives her the same look a father would offer his eighteen-year-old daughter. Like, “Ah, yes, well. This outfit is certainly a choice.” It doesn’t help that his cheek rests on smooth skin, her miniskirt riding up high when she sits, bordering on indecent. Svetlana catches him staring and thumps his forehead. He blows a raspberry at her in retaliation, then turns back around to face his large television set. They’re on their third episode of Pepe the Pig, played in its original Russian audio to give the Slavic household a break from English.

“I don’t know what you were expecting,” Ilya huffs, sliding his palm down Svetlana’s thigh to squeeze her knee affectionately. “I’m a father now. Out of commission.”

“You could not join me in a club for a few hours? Natasha has been doing so well. She could let her papa have a little fun.”

Ilya swallows, feeling something heavy and rotten settle in his gut. He thinks of the win a few weeks before Christmas. Of going out with his team and entertaining the idea of pulling the pretty brunette at the bar. He then thinks of Christmas, of Shane staring up at him on Christmas morning, his eyes bright and teary while he clasped the new house key in his hand like it was a lifeline.

“This is fun,” he argues petulantly, his voice muffled against her upper thigh. Natalya helps his case by grabbing one of her Barbies and flying it over her head like a spaceship before she crash-lands it into her remote-control monster truck. She stares at the scene of the crime for a few seconds before racing off to her room, returning a minute or so later with one of her scarves. She places the Barbie on top of the miniature vehicle in a seated position, then wraps the scarf around the body of the car and the Barbie's long legs, tying off the scarf in a lopsided bow.

As she begins driving the Barbie around the living room with the car’s remote control, Svetlana asks, “Where’d she get that?”

“What?”

“The car. It’s a neat toy. You buy it for her?”

“Santa bought it,” Natalya corrects, frowning down at her remote in frustration. She’s still figuring out the steering. “But, I think Shanya helped.”

“We’ll unpack the Santa thing later,” Svetlana says, a touch of humor in her tone. “But who is this ‘Shanya?’”

Ilya freezes, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation before Natalya completely spills the beans.

“He’s my friend,” Natalya offers, point-blank. It appears she doesn't plan on expanding on that explanation.

“Ah, like an imaginary friend?”

Natalya nods her head, pauses, then begins shaking it.

“No, maybe Dyadya’s imaginary friend.”

“Natalya,” Ilya sighs, turning his head to bury his face in Svetlana’s lap, “do you even know what ‘imaginary’ means?”

“Nope!” she chirps. She’s clearly only partially tuned into this conversation. She’s very busy trying to defy the laws of gravity by driving her Barbie up the side of the couch. Ilya settles further into Svetlana’s lap, grumbling when her hands still in his hair.

“So,” Svetlana pries, a dog with a bone. “This ‘Shanya…’”

Ilya turns his face into her lap and groans.

“When do I get to meet this ‘Shanya?’”

Ilya’s saved from having to answer her question when his phone starts ringing. He reaches blindly across Svetlana’s lap for the coffee table, palming at the glass until his fingers find his phone. He turns his head so he can see the screen and promptly blanches.

Incoming FaceTime request: Jane

“I guess right now.”

He sits up from Svetlana’s lap and runs his fingers through his hair, patting down his curls like that might possibly help them temper down. He pulls away from her before accepting the call, shoving her face to the side with his large palm when she tries to sneak into the frame.

“Hey!” Shane’s bright face appears on the tiny phone screen, smiling at Ilya from what Ilya presumes is a hotel bed somewhere in Seattle. Natalya’s head perks up from where she’s been remote-controlling her Barbie-led vehicle into a chair leg. Ilya catches Svetlana’s eyes from between his fingers—she licks his palm to free herself—and smirks at her shocked expression.

“Hi,” Ilya sighs, settling back into the couch cushions. “You’re up later than usual.”

Shane shrugs inside the small screen. His hair is damp and he’s got—Lord help Ilya—he’s got his reading glasses on.

“It’s like six over here.”

“Ah, yes.” Ilya nods. “Forgot. West Coast time change.”

“Shanya!”

Natalya, having heard Shane’s voice, races over to Ilya, grabbing her Barbie car along the way. She crawls up into Ilya’s lap, displaying her work of art like a proud architect. “Look!”

Shane laughs, his eyes crinkling up adorably. Ilya wants to reach through the phone screen and pinch his cheeks.

“Wow, you gave the car passengers, Natasha.”

Natalya turns to Svetlana, mouthing “passengers” with a questioning tilt to her head. Svetlana explains the meaning to her in Russian, and Shane freezes, his eyes widening.

“Ilya,” he says, his voice having gone cool and strained. “That’s not Sofya.”

“Nyet,” Ilya replies, angling the phone in Svetlana’s direction. She smiles and waves, before her eyes widen and she grabs the phone from Ilya’s hand, too quick for him to put up a fight.

“Holy shit!” she exclaims (in English, for Shane’s poor, stressed benefit). “Holy fucking shit! This is Jane?” She turns to Ilya, mouth gaping. He reaches over to tap it shut with the knuckle of his index finger. Natalya crawls over from Ilya’s lap into Svetlana’s, shimmying her way back into the camera’s range. Eyes on the lens, she presses her cheek to Svetlana’s and grins.

“Shanya, this is Svetlana. She is my best friend.”

Ilya scowls at her playfully.

“I thought she was my best friend.”

Svetlana shakes her head, turning to kiss Natalya’s cheek.

“Your position has been usurped, Ilyusha. As I see mine has been.”

“Ilya,” Ilya hears coming from the tiny phone speaker, the voice no less panicked. “What’s going on?”

Ilya wriggles his way into the frame, cuddling up next to Svetlana and Natalya so Shane can see him more clearly.

“Shane, meet my former best friend: Svetlana Vetrova.”

Shane smiles tightly, a phantom of his press-ready expression. Svetlana doesn’t appear to notice. Her shock has morphed into a wide, surprised smile.

“Miss Jane! I have wanted to meet you for so long. Now I know why Ilyusha has been keeping you under wraps.”

Shane laughs nervously before his weak smile dies down into a frown.

“Wait— you knew about me?”

Svetlana waves her hand, like that’s not the important part.

“I knew he had a special someone for a while. Did not know it was the Shane Hollander though.”

“Ah, yeah, well…”

Shane trails off, pulling out of the screen far enough that Ilya can see him rubbing at the back of his neck. Ilya recognizes discomfort when he sees it; he snatches the phone back from Svetlana, but before he can say anything, Natalya’s making grabby hands for the phone, saying, “Me! No, me, dyadya!”

Ilya winks at the camera.

“You are popular with the ladies today,” he teases, handing the phone back to Natalya.

“Sure,” Shane huffs, “I’m, the ‘Ladies Man’ here.”

Svetlana shoots Ilya a confused look. He rolls his eyes in return, making sure Shane catches the action.

“He thinks we are lovers,” Ilya explains.

“Little ears!” Shane sputters through the cheap speakers. Ilya pictures him trying to reach through the screen so he can cover Natalya’s ears with both hands. “And I’m not— I wasn’t—”

Svetana just laughs, throwing her head back against the couch cushion. Natalya starts laughing too, though Ilya knows she has no idea what they’re laughing about.

“Miss Jane,” Svetlana says through short bursts of laughter, “I promise, you have nothing to worry about. Our Ilyusha is smitten.”

“Svetya!”

Natalya giggles, turning the phone screen so that Ilya’s burning cheeks are caught by the camera.

Shane relaxes after that, staying on the phone with them for another twenty minutes. He lingers as Natalya drags the phone to bed with her, propping his tiny face up on the bedside table so she can crawl into bed. She insists he stay through the bedtime story, and he does, watching Ilya crawl into bed next to her so he can help her read The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Natalya starts to yawn, a chain reaction leading to Shane yawning. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya watches him shift his position in bed so that his phone is also propped on the nightstand. His glasses are removed, and he curls up on his side, watching them read with drooping lids. By the time the book is nearly finished, Natalya is asleep, and so is Shane. Ilya carefully extracts himself from his child’s arms, tucking the blanket beneath her chin, then grabs his phone and mutes himself in the call. He takes several screenshots as he makes his way back into the living room, smiling to himself like an embarrassed, blushing schoolgirl.

“What are you smiling at?” Svetlana asks, repositioning herself on the couch so Ilya can cuddle up next to her. He tilts the screen in her direction: Shane, sound asleep, his nose twitching as he enters REM, and Svetlana coos.

“Oh, he is—”

“Yeah,” Ilya smiles, thumb hovering over the “end call” button, but he doesn’t press it. Instead, he sets his phone on the coffee table.

Later, after Svetlana’s gone home, Ilya curls up in bed and unmutes the call. He then calls, very softly, “Shane, baby,” until Shane’s eyelids flutter open, one at a time, a peek, a wink, and then a smile. His freckles stand out prominently in the soft lamplight. Ilya wishes he could kiss them. He strokes the screen with the tip of his index finger, tracing the path they’ve carved into the bridge of Shane’s nose.

“I fell asleep,” Shane croaks, his voice rough with sleep.

“You did. Is okay, just don’t want you to use up all your battery.”

“S’okay,” Shane grumbles, rubbing at his sleepy eyes with a curled fist. “Plugged it in earlier.”

“Ah,” Ilya whispers, “then maybe we go back to sleep like this.”

“Yeah,” Shane sighs, eyelids sliding shut, the battle against fatigue already lost so easily.

“And maybe…” Ilya continues, tracing over Shane’s freckles, back and forth, back and forth. “Maybe we wake up like this.”

“Mmm,” Shane replies, a barely-there agreement. He’s fading fast.

“Maybe we wake up together.”

Shane doesn’t reply. His eyes are closed, his breathing evening out. Ilya feels something soft and weak settle in his chest. A second heartbeat, aligning with the cadence of his own, tugging him along with every slow, deep breath Shane lets out.

“I would like to wake up to you,” Ilya says to no one. “Every day. I would wake up to you.”

Shane shifts his weight, sneaking a hand up so he can rest his cheek on his palm. He’s sound asleep.

“Good night, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya whispers, fading fast. “I love you.”

There is no reply.

***

The book Ilya’s chosen for this evening’s bedtime stories is a bit advanced. Natalya isn’t able to pronounce a lot of the words, so they’ve been working their way through it very slowly. “Do you miss going out at night?” Shane had asked a few nights ago, a question snuck in before Ilya ended the call so he could put Natalya to bed. He doesn’t. He’d explained to Shane that he’s started to look forward to their bedtime stories. That Natalya is a quick learner, and that he’s enjoying the slightly harder children’s books they’ve begun to tackle. He won’t admit this part to anyone but Shane, but he thinks the books are helping him with his English as well. The slow pronunciation of the words. The use of phonics. Like most transfer players from Russia, Ilya learned English in the locker room. It took him years to understand what his American teammates were saying, let alone how to write in their stupid language. He still misspells most words, not understanding when to apply all the caveats to the rules when writing out his sentences. Reading with his daughter has helped him with pattern recognition, pronunciation, and sentence structure. She’s even corrected him a few times, letting him know he’s mispronounced the words. Ilya’s noticed her accent fading, the “Americanization” of her speech settling in now that she’s a frequent attendee at Sunday school. He anticipates its complete erasure as soon as she’s enrolled in school. Probably for the best. He’d like for her to fit in. Or, if she must stand out, he wants it to be for the right reasons. Despite his best efforts, Ilya knows he’ll never be able to mask the foreign drawl of his vowels. Shane thinks his accent is sexy. The rest of the world—sans Ilya’s coach, perhaps—thinks it makes him sound stupid.

Natalya already has their book propped open and flipped to the dog-eared page when Ilya enters her bedroom. He crawls into bed with her and tugs her onto his lap. She starts to read, the scene centering around a little family. Two kids, a boy and a girl, and their parents. They learn, over the course of a few pages, that the children are not actually the two parents’ children. That they are adopted. That the parents brought them over from Korea when they were babies. Twins, unable to be separated. A bonded pair. Natalya follows the story well enough, but she still has to ask Ilya what “adopted” means. When he explains it to her, she turns back to the pages of the book, staring down at them intensely. However, she does not read.

“Natalya,” Ilya prompts, tucking his chin over her tiny shoulder to kiss her cheek. “My love, what is wrong?”

“Is that what I am?” she asks, pointing to the word, adopted, with her index finger. Ilya tenses up, knowing this conversation was probably going to pop up eventually, but he’d hoped he could stave it off for a few more years.

He treads carefully, sliding his cheek up so he can press a kiss to the side of her temple.

“I suppose, malyshka. In a way.”

“But you are not my papa.”

Ilya flinches, burying his wounded expression in her curls. He knows what she means, knows that she still remembers just enough about her father to understand that Ilya was not always in the picture. Probably never would have been, had Alexei not crashed his vehicle. Still, the phrasing doesn’t hurt any less. He’s probably held her more than Alexei ever even looked at her in their short time together; yet, in her eyes, he is still a stand-in for her parents. Fatherhood, Ilya mentally bemoans, is a thankless job. And he’s not even been promoted to the proper title.

He tries to pivot the conversation in his favor.

“I love you like your papa.”

She turns in his arms, staring up at him with those big blue eyes. So familiar to him, as he sees them every time he glances at a mirror.

“Do you love me more than Papa?”

His knee-jerk reaction is to say yes. He can’t imagine Alexei loving anything more than coke binges and raucous nights out. Still, he cannot say this to his child, not when a little white lie will not hurt anyone. There is nobody left, aside from Svetlana, to remember what a raging asshole Ilya’s brother was.

“I don’t know, Natalya. But, I know your papa loved you very much.”

“And mamma?”

Ilya sighs, stroking his finger down the soft baby fat of his daughter’s cheek. He did not know his sister-in-law very well, but he knew his own mother. He knows she loved him, even if she decided to leave him. He imagines Anna would not have made a similar choice. Had she been in Irina’s position, she probably would have chosen to live.

“Your mother loved you,” Ilya replies, speaking for ghosts, “more than anything in the world.”

Natalya shuffles in closer, cuddling her face against his chest. She bends her knees so he can tuck her completely in his lap, holding her in a little ball and rocking her with his back against the headboard. She sniffles, digging her nose into his clavicle.

“I miss mamma,” she says quietly, her voice rubbed raw by silent tears she wipes off on Ilya’s shirt. Ilya pets her hair with one hand, the other tucked beneath her knees so he can hold her close. He kisses the crown of her head, then stays there, turning his head so he can rest his cheek on her mop of curls.

“Me too, malyshka,” he whispers, remembering the days when his mother would do this for him, soothing his hurts with a gentle “shhh Ilyushenka,” or “be brave, my baby.” He wants only good things for Natalya, only happy things, but here he is, twenty-six years old, mourning his beautiful mother. He thinks that is a wound that never fully heals. His only hope is that he can soften the blow for his little girl.

He rocks her long enough that he thinks she’s fallen asleep, so he’s surprised when she pipes up with a sleep-soft, “Dyadya?”

“Hmm?” he answers, staring down at her little toes, bunched up against the material of his pants. They curl in and out, gripping like monkey feet.

“If I’m adopted, does that mean I keep calling you ‘Uncle?’” She uses the English word for “uncle,” the vowels clunky when tacked onto her native tongue.

“You can call me whatever you want,” he replies, shifting his weight so he can lay on his side, curling around her small frame and helping her nestle her head on the pillow. He’s got her spooned, her small breaths brushing up against his chest. If he keeps trying to speak, he knows he’ll get a mouthful of her wiry hair.

She starts to giggle, the sound reverberating throughout his chest, warming him from the inside out.

“I’ll call you ‘buttface,’” she snorts, the last of the conversation’s serious tone dissipating with her toddler-level joke. Ilya sighs, rubbing her arm up and down with his large palm.

“Sure, Natalya. And what shall I call you?”

“Princess Elsa.”

“Right. Well, Princess Elsa, it’s far past your bedtime.”

She wiggles her body, settling against him to sleep for the night. Ilya’s seceded to the fact that he probably won’t be making it back to his own bed tonight. She pats the forearm he has wrapped around her chest, offering him a sleepy, “Goodnight, buttface.”

He huffs a laugh into her hair, replying with a sardonic, “Goodnight, Princess Elsa.” But she’s four, so the sarcasm is lost on her. She’s out in minutes, and Ilya’s quick to follow. That night, he has vague dreams of his mother, none to be remembered come morning.

***

Shane’s just settled down on the team bus to Toronto when Ilya decides to call. He stares down at the caller I.D. knowing that Ilya knows he’s traveling for an afternoon game. So, maybe it’s an emergency? Hayden’s in the seat next to him, spotting the “Lily” contact lighting up Shane’s screen. He doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrows curiously when Shane catches his eyes. Shane huffs, pulling out his airpods to connect the call, but they take too long to connect to bluetooth. The call is sent to voicemail. He only puts one airpod in, glancing around the bus to check that nobody else is paying him any mind. They’re not. Half the team is already checking out for a mid-morning nap, the other half pulling on their headphones to watch iPad movies. Only Hayden noticed the incoming call, but he’s Shane’s bus buddy. It’s to be expected. Shane clicks on “Lily’s” contact and returns the call.

Ilya answers, but he doesn’t say anything, so it’s Shane who has to open with a quiet, “Hey.”

Another beat of silence, followed by a rough, “Hi.”

Shane waits for Ilya to expand on his piss-poor conversation starter. When he doesn’t, he responds with, “What’s up?” trying not to sound short with him. Even though he is. A bit. He’s surrounded by his teammates, and it doesn’t really sound like this is an emergency.

“Ah, nothing,” Ilya sighs. A staticky sound comes in through the speaker, the ruffling of fabric, like Ilya’s shifting beneath his sheets. Again, he doesn’t continue, seemingly comfortable with making Shane drag answers out of him through gritted teeth. In front of his teammates.

“Okay…” Shane says, trailing off in frustration. Ilya must hear it, because he finally offers a reply longer than three syllables.

“Ah, I am sorry. You’re probably busy. I—”

“No, no,” Shane interrupts him, dragging his hand down his face. “It’s not that, baby, I’m just. I’m on the bus, so—”

“Ah,” Ilya responds. “Right. I didn’t even think about— Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go.”

“No, Il—no, I’m sorry. It’s fine, really. I’ve got earbuds in. Are you— is everything okay?”

He hears a sigh through the phone, and wonders if Natalya’s had another breakdown. He feels panic rise in his chest, worry that he’s about to be accosted by another situation he has no business offering any advice on.

“Is— I don’t know. Is okay. Maybe. Long stint on the road.”

Shane bites at his thumbnail, glancing over to catch Hayden not-so-subtly listening in on the one-sided conversation. He swats at him, and Hayden shoots him an apologetic glance, dragging his headphones up from their position around his neck to cover his ears. Shane leans back against the seat cushion and rests his forehead against the windowsill.

“Is the baby okay?” he asks, in lieu of using Natalya’s name in front of his teammates. Ilya breathes out a small huff of laughter.

“Baby is just fine. Playing cards with Sofya down in the hotel lounge.”

“Okay,” Shane says again, feeling a bit stupid. He can hear something is off in Ilya’s voice, but he can’t quite pinpoint it. He’s never been particularly good at reading people, not in person, and especially not over the phone. He wants to help, but he can’t even figure out what’s wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya sighs, his accent especially thick today, heavy on the vowels. “I should let you go.”

“No, sweetheart. Please, what’s wrong? Please.”

Another sigh, more shuffling. Shane’s almost certain Ilya must be in bed. It’s eleven in the morning in Philadelphia. Ilya has a game at three. He should be out of bed by now.

“How long ago was the All-Star game?” Ilya asks, avoiding Shane’s question entirely. Shane presses his lips together into a thin line, trying not to let his agitation slip into the tone of his voice.

“I don’t know. Three, maybe four weeks?”

“Mmm,” Ilya agrees, like he already knew the answer.

“Why?” Shane asks, the word coming out testy.

Quiet from the other end of the line. Then:

“I miss you.”

It comes out small, tepid. Like Ilya’s been building himself up to the admittance. Like it’s a weakness, to want Shane there with him, beside him. Like Shane doesn’t want the exact same thing, like he hasn’t wanted it for months. Years maybe.

“Oh,” Shane breathes, the fight dying in his lungs. His words come out much softer. “I miss you too.”

“Is funny,” Ilya muses. “After our first All-Star game, I did not touch you again for two years. And now I feel like I go crazy after not seeing you for two weeks.”

“Yeah,” Shane replies, staring out the window at the green Canadian terrain. “Me too.”

Neither of them says anything after that. However, Shane knows what he wants to say.

I don’t know how to do this. How to have you like this, in such small moments. I love you, Ilya. I love you so much I ache with it. And I love your daughter. I love her like she’s mine. I wonder if she’s eaten properly today. If she’s happy. If you’re happy. If you both managed to sleep through the night. If you need me the same way I feel like I need you. I feel like I’m going crazy, wondering how much longer I can keep loving you in waves. I’m so tired of missing moments with you, whole days with you. I want to catalog the changes in Natalya’s growth in hours, not weeks. She is growing so fast, and you are living so far, Ilya, so, so far. So far from me. I hate it.

“I have a long weekend coming up,” he says instead. “In two weeks. I’ll have a four day break.”

He hears more shuffling. Then—

“Two weeks?”

“Mmm.”

“We are home then. Game on the fifteenth, but—”

“That’s fine. I can come to you. I could fly out the evening prior, straight from Atlanta, so…”

“So three days, at least,” Ilya supplies.

“Yeah,” Shane breathes, something in his chest unfurling. “Three days.”

“Mmm. In two weeks?”

“Two weeks,” he affirms.

“Okay,” Ilya says, his voice quiet and subdued. “I think I can do two weeks.”

Shane waits a moment before asking his next question.

“Baby, don’t you need to get up?”

Ilya groans, saying something indiscernible in Russian.

“What was that?”

“I don’t want to.”

Shane doesn’t say anything. He sees J.J. peek his head over the top of his bus seat, waggling his eyebrows at Shane suggestively. Shane flips him off, but he knows he’s listening now, wonders how many others are listening to his side of the conversation.

“I have to go,” he says helplessly, staring down at the phone in his lap like that will somehow force Ilya out of bed.

“You don’t have to sound so sad about it, sweetheart.”

“But you sound sad,” Shane counters, chewing at the cuticle of his thumb nervously. “You sound— I don’t know.”

“I am okay. I promise. Just bad day.”

“I’ll call you tonight. After the game.”

“Okay.”

“Be safe,” Shane says before his brain-to-mouth filter can stop him. Ilya lets out a breathless laugh.

“You too. Tell Drapeau if he does not defend your left side a little better, then we’ll be having problems.”

Shane subconsciously rubs at the phantom bruise left on his ribs from last week’s game against Denver and smiles.

“I didn’t think you saw that.”

He lingers on the line a few more seconds, listening to Ilya’s quiet breathing. Ilya’s the first one to hang up. Shane pulls out his airpod, pulls down his hoodie, and is met with at least three very curious stares.

“Well, well, well,” J.J. grins, “Our Capitaine has found himself a girl, ah?”

Shane’s really not in the mood. Well, he’s not in the mood on a good day. But Ilya had sounded so off on the phone, the usual teasing tone he takes with Shane stifled by something heavier, melancholy. Shane couldn’t quite read the energy, floundering for most of the conversation. He doesn’t feel like being interrogated. He feels like texting Sofya, asking if Ilya is okay. Asking if he’s eaten today. He pulls his phone out to do just that.

“Ah, no! Capitaine, come on, don’t ignore us! After that phone call?”

“I have nothing to say,” Shane mumbles, already typing out a lengthy message to Sofya. “It’s nothing serious.”

“Sounded pretty serious to me,” Miitka says, turning in his seat next to Shane and Hayden to join in on the dogpile.

Shane ignores him, wondering if asking Sofya to sneak into Ilya’s room later and check that he hasn’t gone back to sleep is taking his concern a bit too far.

“Hollander,” J.J. tries again. Shane glances up, surprised to see sincerity reaching J.J.’s eyes. He’s even more surprised to catch the wounded expression making a brief appearance. A slight furrowing in his brow, a tick in his cheek. “What is this, you do not trust me with your girl?”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Hayden butts in. “We’ve seen you in action. Mr. ‘Steal Your Girl.’”

J.J. isn’t actually that much of a womanizer. No more than any other hockey player. Certainly no more than—well— how Ilya used to be. But he understands Hayden’s just trying to pivot the conversation away from him, and for that Shane is grateful.

Unfortunately, J.J. doesn’t bite.

“Ah, no. Come on now, Capitaine. I would never try anything with your girl. You know this, ah? I am your friend for a reason.”

The reminder is pointed. Shane has to look away from him, swallowing down the shame thickly.

“Hey, man. C’mon. It’s not like that. His girl’s just—” Hayden pauses, catching Shane’s eye nervously. “—shy. She’s just shy. That’s all.”

J.J.’s wounded expression returns.

“Oh? You have met her then?”

“What? No, I—”

“He has,” Shane interrupts. Locking his phone screen without sending off any messages at all. Hayden sends him a wide-eyed look. Like, What are you doing, dude? I’m trying to save you here!

“Listen,” Shane sighs, scrubbing his hand down his face. “Guys, it’s complicated. You haven’t met her. And you probably won’t meet her. At least for a while. But you gotta know it’s not because I don’t—” distrust you— well, that’s not true. “—dislike you or anything. She’s just—”

“High profile,” Hayden supplies. Shane could kiss him. He takes the offering quickly.

“Yes! Exactly. That. She’s very high profile. And we don’t want the media to like, you know, get involved.” Understatement of the century, but it’ll have to do for now.

His team leaves him alone after that, a few of them—J.J. included—grumbling under their breaths. Shane mouths an exaggerated “thank you” at Hayden, then returns to drafting his text to Sofya.

In the end, he just asks her for a picture update, something he’s asked for before, so it doesn’t feel weird, or like he’s stepping over some sort of boundary.

Ten minutes later, he receives a quick text from Sofya wishing him good luck on his game that day, followed by an attached image.

It’s a picture of Ilya from behind. He’s standing at the stove, shirtless, frying something on the burner. Natalya is sitting atop his shoulders, her feet dangling over his chest. Shane can’t see Ilya’s face, but he can see Natalya’s. Sofya must have told her to look at the camera, because she’s turned to smile at it, her hands fisted in Ilya’s hair to keep herself balanced.

Shane lets out a deep sigh of relief, locks his phone, and settles back into his seat for a pregame nap.

***

Boston is on a long stretch of travel. Two weeks, eight games. By the seventh, Ilya is so exhausted he can feel it in his teeth. Everyone in his tiny travel entourage is pissy. Both he and Sofya display their frustration and fatigue in sharp jabs made at one another. Natalya is easier. And harder. Mostly, she throws tantrums. Fat tears rolling down her cheeks because she misses her bed. Misses her friends at church. Misses Svetlana. She misses her home, a thought that Ilya cannot resent for long, even when she keeps him up during piss-poor hours of the night wailing into his neck. He remembers when these tears were shed for a different home, a different life, not so long ago.

Everyone is feeling overly jubilant as the eighth, and final, game of the trip wraps up. A bonus that the team Boston beat is actually good. It makes the win taste sweeter, the overzealous reaction from traveling fans and family members warranted. Boston scores the overtime point, and girlfriends, wives, and children are flooding the ice, hugging their partners, kissing their cheeks. Cheers of "Good game" and "We won!" echoing throughout the arena. Ilya tugs off his sweaty helmet, looking around belatedly for his own ragtag family.

He sees Natalya before she sees him. She's shuffling across the ice. Sofya opted to stay behind, watching her from behind the glass as Natalya scoots one foot forward, then another, hands splayed out to catch herself in case she falls. Ilya tosses his helmet to the side, absentmindedly patting other players on their backs as he weaves his way through them. He exits the mass of bodies, and calls out to his daughter. She whips her head around and grins so wide it must make her cheeks sore. Then, she raises her arms, keeps her smile bright and open, a vision Ilya will never forget. Never, the image burned into his long-term memory for the rest of his days. Because what accompanies her grandiose gesture is a loud "Daddy!" yelled out at the top of her lungs. She rushes forward, tripping just in time for Ilya to catch her, scooping her up into his arms. He skates around the rink in a slow circle, tearing up as he watches her throw her arms out, giggling wildly and yelling, "You win, daddy! You win!"

Ilya feels his heart grow two sizes. Feels it leap into his throat with each loud pound of his pulse. He's won the NHL's MVP award. Won a cup, holding it high over his head with pride. He's held Shane Hollander; a prize to be reckoned with. Visions of ecstasy holding their own merits. But never, never has he felt elation quite like he does right now. Right this moment. Holding his child up on proud display, racing her around the ice after an inconsequential game. Ilya has been a fighter, a winner, a lover. All great things, all things to aspire to. But he's never felt more like a good father, never known that all the grief and heartache poured into making sure his little girl will be okay would culminate in this moment.

"Daddy, you win!" Natalya says again, and Ilya pulls her to his chest, hugs her to him with tears in his eyes. Maybe the cameras are catching this. Maybe he doesn't care. Because right now he is exactly as his daughter claims: a clear winner.

***

Shane gets a video request two days before he’s set to pack out of Atlanta and fly to Ilya’s. The team is in transit, waiting in the Dallas airport while it’s raining buckets outside. Texas has an interesting way of expressing its winters.

He pulls away from the team, hiding in a far corner and putting his airpods in before accepting the call.

“Hi,” he answers, happy to see Ilya smiling into the call. He looks fatigued, but his eyes aren’t absent. Shane will take the wins where he can.

“I have to show you something,” Ilya whispers. It’s early morning, and when he flips the camera of his phone, Shane can see that he’s still in his hotel room. There are two beds in the room. One is still made, the other in slight disarray. There’s a small, child-sized lump propped up beneath the sheets on the far right side. Ilya walks around the bed, approaching the lump quietly. As he gets closer, Shane can start to make out the color and shape of Natalya’s golden curls sticking out from beneath the sheets. Ilya props the phone up on the nightstand, then crawls around to the other side of the bed so that Shane has a full view of him hovering over his burrito-wrapped child.

“Natasha,” Ilya coos, curling his fingers around the edge of the blanket and pulling it down over Natalya’s prone form. She sniffles, her nose and eyes scrunching up adorably when exposed to the light. She then turns her face to bury it in her pillow.

“Ah, ah, ah, malysh. Come on. Is time to get up.”

“No,” she grumbles, grabbing for the blanket and yanking it out of Ilya’s loose grip. Ilya chuckles, leaning in to pet her hair back from her face.

“Baby, come on. Look, I have a little surprise for you. Someone on the phone.” Ilya winks at the camera as he says it.

And then—

“Daddy, no.”

Shane’s breath catches in his throat. He looks at the camera, wide-eyed, like he’s in a trance. Ilya must catch on that he’s heard, because he looks back up at the camera, smiling widely.

“You hear?” he asks softly, continuing to stroke Natalya’s hair back and out of her face. Shane watches as it lulls her back to sleep.

“I heard,” Shane replies, swallowing around the lump forming inside his throat. “Did she— was that really—”

“Yes, yes, here. I’ll show you again.”

He tucks her hair behind her ear, leaning down to whisper something to her softly in Russian. Shane doesn’t catch most of it, but it seems to rouse Natalya. She swats him away, hitting the tip of his nose, responding in thick, sleep-heavy Russian. But Shane still hears it, tucked in there like a sharp, tonal knife-edge, cutting through the steady stream of Russian sentences.

Daddy.

Ilya pulls back, shaking his head fondly. He tugs the blanket back up and tucks it beneath her chin. Once she’s burrowed her way back beneath the blankets he grabs the phone and walks Shane with him to the adjoined bathroom. Shane waits for him to lower the lid of the toilet seat and settle down before letting out any sort of noise.

“Oh my God!” he whisper-yells, refusing to feel embarrassed about the tears welling up in his eyes. “Ilya!”

“I know,” Ilya responds, his own eyes glossing over. “I know, I had to show you. As soon as she said it, I wanted to show you.”

“When did—” Shane starts, shaking his head in disbelief. “I mean, what made her—”

“I don’t know,” Ilya says, waving his free hand around like that explains anything. “One minute is ‘dyadya,’ the next is ‘daddy.’ I did not think to question it.”

“No, of course.”

“At first I think ‘Oh, okay, is probably a mistake,’ you know? Because the words, they are so similar.”

“No yeah,” Shane nods. “I get it.”

“But then she says it again. And again. And I know she means it. And I—” Ilya cuts himself off, bringing his fist to his mouth to bite at his knuckles. His eyes are full of unshed tears, as are Shane’s, and Shane feels so much joy, so much love welling up beneath his breast, that he fears it may begin bubbling over in some inexplicable way.

“Ilya,” he sighs, quietly, cognizant of the fact that he’s still in a very public airport. “Baby.”

“Is just—” Ilya sniffs, indiscreetly wiping beneath his eyes with the palm of his hand. “It has been a very difficult couple of weeks. And she feels it, and I feel it. And—fuck—even Sofya is feeling it. But then she just—says it. Like she is still happy. Like she still loves me. And Shane, I am just—”

“Yeah,” Shane nods, wiping his own tears off on the collar of his hoodie. “Yeah.”

“I am so happy,” Ilya sighs, slumping against the back of the toilet. He doesn’t bother wiping away the next set of tears that begin to fall. “I am so— I cannot describe how happy I am.”

“Then don’t,” Shane chokes out. “It’s okay. You don’t have to. Baby I— I am so happy for you. So, so happy.”

“I want to make her say it again,” Ilya scoffs at himself, shaking his head like he’s said something outrageous. “Bug her at breakfast or something. I don’t know. Just to make her whine at me.”

“Yeah,” Shane laughs, shaking his head fondly. He thinks of all the times Ilya’s riled him up, poked and poked at him until Shane called him an asshole. He wonders when that word started feeling less like an insult and more like a term of endearment. He wonders if Ilya noticed the shift before he did. “You’re good at that. Being a menace for your own benefit.”

They keep talking until Natalya wakes up. Ilya props his phone up on the bathroom sink so that Shane can speak to him while he hops into the shower, yelling out anecdotes or questions to Shane over the sound of the shower stream. Shane’s briefly stunned into silence when Ilya hops out of the shower, naked and glistening and totally unreachable through a phone screen. He hasn’t fucked Shane since Christmas, and Shane’s made keenly aware of that loss when he feels his cock perk up at the sight of Ilya toweling off. Ridiculous.

When Natalya wakes up fully, the first round of boarding is called for Shane’s flight. He has just enough time to watch her come into the bathroom, tugging at Ilya’s shoulder and saying “G’morning daddy,” while he’s brushing his teeth. He smiles brightly around the toothbrush, spits, and points at the camera. Natalya’s eyes instantly light up.

“Shanya! Good morning!”

“Hi, baby,” he grins, waving at his phone camera. The second boarding group is called, and the team must have noticed Shane’s absence, because J.J. traipses over, jerking his head in the line’s direction. Shane holds his finger up, mouthing “one minute” off screen. When group three is called, J.J. starts to look antsy, and Shane finally has to cut Natalya off mid-rendition of her dream retelling.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I have to go. I’m getting on a plane.”

“Oh, okay,” she pouts, grabbing the phone off the counter to bring it closer to her face. “You want to say bye-bye to daddy?”

“Sure,” Shane smiles, standing from his curled up position near the back wall and slinging the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder. Natalya angles the camera toward Ilya, who’s halfway through shaving.

“Say ‘bye-bye,’ daddy,” Natalya instructs Ilya off-camera. Ilya turns to the camera, face half-caked in shaving cream, and winks.

“Bye-bye, daddy.”

Shane’s breath catches. He feels both incredibly endeared and hopelessly turned on. Going based off of Ilya’s telling little smirk, that’s exactly what he was going for.

“Nooooo,” Natalya laugh. “No, you, daddy. Say bye-bye!”

“I have to cut you guys off,” Shane warns, walking up to J.J. and getting dangerously close. “I’ll see you soon though. Be a good girl, Natasha. Take care of daddy for me, yes?”

“Bye, Shanya!” she yells, probably too loud for a hotel bathroom. Shane ends the call just as he reaches J.J., who’s giving him an odd look.

“Your ‘Lily’ has a kid?” he asks, speed-walking them toward the boarding entrance.

“It’s complicated,” Shane replies, not meeting his eyes.

“Right,” J.J.'s reply comes out short. Curt. “Of course it is.”

“J.J.—”

“Whatever, dude. Just get in line to board. Don’t want coach to have an aneurysm.”

Shane does. He’s seated next to Hayden, across the aisle from J.J.

J.J. doesn’t speak to him the entire duration of the flight. It may not be pointed, as he’s watching a movie the entire time, but it sure feels like it.

***

Shane flies in late Thursday evening. Ilya picks him up from the airport. The hour is nearing midnight, so there's hardly anyone driving in and out of the pick-up zone, and they're both wearing ball caps and winter coats, so Shane deems the indulgence relatively safe. What maybe makes it not so safe is that as soon as he's hoisted himself into the passenger seat of the SUV (a recent purchase, one made necessary when driving around the city with a toddler), Ilya's leaning over the console to wrap Shane up in his arms. They let the hug linger, Ilya's face buried in the side of Shane's neck, Shane staring out the driver's side window, cognizant of the seconds ticking by.

"Baby," he tries, jostling Ilya's shoulder. "C'mon, we can do this at home."

Ilya nods his head, but doesn't make any effort to move. Shane brings his hand up to pet his hair back, letting his fingers linger in the curls at the nape of his neck.

"Do you want me to drive?" Shane tries again, voice subdued. Ilya sighs, his breath ghosting over the baby hairs Shane keeps purposefully cropped at his neckline.

"Nyet, I can drive," Ilya pulls back, sliding his right hand up to squeeze at the base of Shane's neck. "But thank you."

Ilya settles back into the driver's seat, releases the E-brake, and shifts the stick out of neutral. Shane notices he starts revving the engine in second gear, bypassing first completely. He knows this is perfectly safe for most vehicles, especially this one—an SUV with eight cylinders. Still, he'd have started in first, no matter the vehicle's power. It's just another small difference for Shane to chalk up between the two of them.

Ilya must notice him staring down at his hand as he shifts gears.

"What?" he asks, shifting into third gear as they finally start to roll out onto the highway.

"Nothing," Shane replies, smiling at Ilya's serious side profile. "I just think it's funny that even your 'Dad' car has to be a manual. I mean, I get the sports cars, but..."

Ilya shrugs one shoulder.

"You get used to driving one type of vehicle."

"Automatics are easier."

"Ah, but not as safe. Less focus on the act of driving."

Shane turns his smile away from Ilya, directing it at the late-night traffic surrounding them. He can picture it clearly now, Ilya asking the car dealer for all the safety specs of the SUV, making sure the backseat region is covered. Special ordering the manual model so that he's not tempted to fiddle with the dash or his phone while his daughter's in the car. Indulgently, he wonders if Ilya thought of him while picking out the car. He must have, at least a bit, texting Shane last-minute safety-related questions a few days before finalizing the purchase. Shane would prefer not to openly admit how horny it got him answering questions like, "The fuel light turns on at seventy miles. You think this is enough for an emergency?" and "Can you look at the impact time delay this video is showing me? I don't understand why this is important."

Once they're on the freeway, and the car's set comfortably in fourth gear, Shane places his hand atop Ilya's on the gear shift, squeezing his fingers affectionately.

"Hi," he says softly, leaning over to kiss Ilya's shoulder. The tension Ilya had been holding in his posture visibly melts away. His jaw, which had been slightly clenched, softens, his mouth parting slightly. Shane runs his hand up and down Ilya’s arm, warming him with friction. Ilya, keeping his eyes on the road, turns his cheek to kiss Shane’s fingertips when they rub up to his shoulders. Shane still doesn’t fully grasp what’s been eating away at Ilya these past few weeks, but he’s happy to offer comfort in any way he can.

When they pull up to the apartment building, almost all the lights are off.

Ilya grabs Shane’s duffle bag from the backseat and leads them through the labyrinth of his apartment complex until they make it to the penthouse suite. Upon opening the front door, he sets the bag down gently atop the foyer’s small key table and toes off his shoes. Shane follows, tiptoeing down the hallway quietly as he allows Ilya to take his hand and drag him in the direction of the bedroom.

All their sneaking around is for naught. As soon as they pass by the living room, a curly mess of hair peaks up from behind the couch.

“Shanya!” Natalya whisper-yells. She hops over the back of the couch and races toward Shane, wrapping her arms around his thighs as soon as she reaches him.

“Baby,” Shane scolds, paradoxically petting her curls back from her face. “What are you doing up? It’s past your bedtime.”

“Daddy told me you would be here tomorrow. But I don’t want to wait to tomorrow!”

Shane lifts her up into his arms, letting her wrap her gangly limbs around him like a tiny Russian octopus. When he turns to Ilya, raising his eyebrows in question, Ilya just shakes his head.

No scolding for tonight. Seems everyone’s been waiting not-so-patiently for Shane’s arrival.

They take Natalia to bed with them. Shane showers in the en suite bathroom. When he comes out, both father and daughter are knocked out cold beneath the sheets. Shane throws on a pair of boxers, digs around in Ilya’s dresser for a loose T-shirt, and crawls into bed next to them.

He doesn’t wake up until 10:00 a.m. the next morning. By then, Natalya’s gone from the bed, but Ilya’s not.

***

Shane spends approximately twenty minutes cuddled up with Ilya, watching him sleep, listening to the deep breaths he takes, his diaphragm moving up and down beneath Shane’s cheek. Eventually, Shane drags himself out of bed to make them breakfast.

Ilya strolls in just as the eggs are done cooking. He doesn’t say anything, just walks up behind Shane and wraps his arms around his waist, squishing his face against Shane’s upper back.

“Good morning,” Shane says, reaching back with his free hand to pat Ilya’s hip. “You hungry?”

“Mmf,” Ilya grumbles into Shane’s rumpled T-shirt. Shane takes that as a yes.

“Where’s Natasha?”

Ilya turns his head, then slides his cheek up so he can press the full front of his torso against Shane’s back. When he speaks, it is directly into Shane’s ear.

“Sofya has signed her up for morning swim lessons. Then they’ll probably do lunch. Then Zoo, or so she has promised me.”

Shane turns, his face lighting up. He flicks the burner off and sets the spatula down so he can bring Ilya fully into his embrace.

“That sounds fun. Will we be meeting them for lunch then? Or later, at the Zoo.”

He feels Ilya’s full-body flinch before he sees the grimace flash over his expression. He covers it quickly, putting on a tight smile as he says, “If this is what you want to do, then yes. Either.”

Shane frowns, pulling back so he can gauge Ilya’s expression properly.

“Was that not the plan? I’m not trying to impose…”

“No, no. Is not that. Is—” Ilya lets out a frustrated huff, breaking away from Shane’s hold on him so he can run both hands through his hair in frustration. “If you want to go to the Zoo, we go to the Zoo.”

“I don’t want anything in particular, Ilya. I want what you want.”

“Well, what I want is selfish.” Ilya finally spits out. His eyes grow apologetic as soon as he realizes what he’s said, and he turns his face away, staring out the kitchen window like the dull, gray Boston sky might hold all the answers.

Shane tilts his head, stepping forward so he can grab onto Ilya’s hips loosely. He guides him back into his arms, and smiles faintly when he feels Ilya’s shoulders release their tension, his arms dropping to reach for Shane’s body once again.

“You don’t want to go to lunch,” Shane says, pressing the words into the side of Ilya’s neck. Ilya shakes his head minutely, his grip on Shane’s hips tightening. Shane plows forward.

“You don’t want to go to the Zoo either.”

Silence for a beat. Then—

“No.”

Shane mulls over this for a moment, sneaking his hands into the pockets of Ilya’s loose sweatpants. He’s brought back to a time when he was a child, when his mother gave up her position at her financial firm to raise Shane until he was old enough to need a manager. There were a few days, when he was young, that his father would come home from work, scoop him up into his arms, and drag him outside to play for at least thirty minutes. One day, when Shane had drunk three Capri Suns and had to pee immediately, he went back into the house, only to find his mother camped out in the bathtub, fully-clothed, bathroom window propped open. She had a beer in one hand and the latest issue of Vogue in the other. All the lights were turned off and there was no water in the tub. She was just sitting there, sprawled out with her magazine and her alcohol that Shane hadn’t even known she drank. She never saw him, and he snuck upstairs to use the guest bathroom.

“It’s not selfish to want a few hours away from your kid, Ilya.”

Ilya shakes his head, pulling back and rubbing at his sleepy eyes with both fists. The gesture is childish and sweet and has Shane thinking, for probably the hundredth time, that he’s quite fond of this man.

“I know. Is not that. Is— I know she misses you too. That I am not the only one who— who—” he gestures between their bodies, like that explains any of it. “And you miss her. I know this. But it has been many weeks. And All-Stars was filled with her. I hardly even got to touch you. And last night. I just— she is here, all the time. And it feels like she needs me, all the time. But today, right now— and maybe for a while now— I just need— I just need—”

“What?” Shane asks, reaching up to cup Ilya’s jaw. “What do you need, Ilya?”

“You,” Ilya sighs. He closes his eyes and turns his cheek so he can press a kiss into the palm of Shane’s hand. “I need you.”

Shane is brought back to a very cold, but no less vulnerable moment in his life. He’s sitting at the head of the bed, completely naked, legs spread wide as he fingers himself open. He watches Ilya watching him, trying to decipher if that hungry look in his eyes matches the need he feels in his chest, or if the high of winning MVP simply coexists with the same drive he feels in pursuing all things unattainable by most. Fucking Shane, not because he necessarily wants to, but because he can.

He sees now that maybe Ilya needed him all along. Just as much as Shane has always, always needed him.

Are you okay? he doesn’t ask, just as he hadn’t asked after their spat in Sochi, or in the liminal space after they fucked in the penthouse suite. However, he knows he no longer needs to ask. He can see it in the dull, fatigued droop in Ilya’s eyes, in the way he clings to Shane like a lifeline. He doesn’t understand the root cause of this sadness, this loneliness lending itself to clinginess that Ilya so rarely indulges in, and Shane will not ask, not yet, anyway. But he’ll be here. And he’ll touch Ilya. And he’ll feed him, and hold him, and do everything in his power to bring that spark of life back to Ilya’s demeanor, the one that’s been snuffed out for what feels like weeks. Ilya is very good at hiding it around his child, this Shane knows, but he wears it on his sleeve now, this sadness that not even Shane can temper down. He can ride the wave with Ilya though. Make the journey feel a little less lonely, at least for a few short days.

“Okay,” Shane says, clasping Ilya’s hands between his own, using his grip to tug Ilya forward. He kisses him once, chaste, on the mouth. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll eat breakfast.”

“Mm.”

“And then we’ll go shower. Wash off the night, and brush our teeth.”

“Mmhmm,” Ilya agrees, sneaking in for another kiss, but Shane keeps it short.

“And then, we’ll crawl back into bed, and we’ll spend the rest of the afternoon doing anything you’d like. If that’s sleeping, then we’ll sleep. If that’s watching shitty car explosion movies—”

“Fast and Furious is not shit.”

“Then we’ll do that.”

Ilya smiles, a real smile, one that brings out his dimples and tugs at the corners of his eyes. He brings a hand up, covering the one Shane is using to cradle his face. He grasps Shane’s hand in a firm hold and slides his fingers over to his mouth, licking two of Shane’s fingers from knuckle to knuckle before sucking them into his mouth. When he pops off, eyes hooded and cheeks slightly flushed, he asks, “And if I want to fuck you?”

They eat quickly, leaving the dirty dishes and pans to soak in the sink. Ilya practically drags Shane back to the en suite shower, pretending to act surprised when Shane drops to his knees almost immediately.

“Oh, fuck,” he whines, tipping his hair back into the stream of water. He pushes his hips out, far enough that Shane won’t be blasted by the shower stream. So considerate, his Ilya. Shane rewards him by covering his teeth with both his lips and hollowing out his cheeks. Ilya groans, reaching behind his back with one hand to steady himself against the cool granite wall. His other hand finds Shane’s hair, gripping tightly, tilting his head this way and that, until the head of his cock rubs against the ridges of Shane’s upper mouth with every thrust. Shane hums around him, sneaking his hand up to fondle Ilya’s balls, rolling them between steady fingertips, squeezing them lightly. Distracting, dancing movements that will maybe go unmissed as he sneaks his finger back further, rubbing Ilya’s perineum. Just petting it in tandem with Ilya’s thrusts. Until his finger “slips,” slinking further than it’s gone before, brushing up against Ilya’s hole by accident. Or, it could be, if Ilya wants it to be. Shane can play it off as an accident. He feels Ilya freeze in his mouth, feels the rim of his hole flutter against the pad of his fingertip. They stay there, deadlocked for two seconds, until Ilya presses himself back into Shane’s touch, rolling his head to the side and propping his body up against the wall. He watches Shane, clearly intrigued by the next move.

Shane sinks back down on Ilya’s cock, but he doesn’t come back up for air. Instead, he holds himself still, holds Ilya’s cock in his mouth while pressing against his hole with his finger. Just a light pressure, he doesn’t enter. He spreads his fingers across Ilya’s asscheek, shifting his hand so that his thumb rubs back and forth across Ilya’s fluttering hole, teasing. Only teasing. He swallows, letting Ilya feel the clench of his throat around his cockhead. Ilya traces his lips with his thumb, staring down at him in slight awe.

“This is something…” Ilya starts, trailing off when Shane draws his head back to kiss the tip of his cock. Ilya shudders, closing his eyes. He tries again.

“You want this?” he asks, punctuating the remark by rolling his hips forward, then back. He reaches behind himself, pressing down on Shane’s thumb, putting pressure on himself. “This?”

Shane doesn’t answer him. He rises from his position on the tile floor, feels his joints pop with the movement, and slides up Ilya’s body. He kisses Ilya, dirty and open-mouthed, sliding his hands down to Ilya’s ass, squeezing both cheeks fondly. Ilya grins into the kiss, and Shane presses forward, until Ilya’s hair is fully submerged in the shower stream. He grabs the shampoo off the edge of the tub, squirts some in his palm, and directs Ilya to step forward with a sharp tap to his hip. Shane lathers his hair in shampoo, careful not to get any in his eyes. He guides Ilya’s head back when he’s done, a silent request for him to rinse. As Ilya washes the soap from his hair, Shane grabs the body wash and a washcloth, suds up the cloth, and moves to wipe down Ilya’s chest in a tender manner. Ilya keeps his eyes closed, moving where Shane directs him, tilting his head to the left when Shane reaches for his right ear, then his left. He takes Ilya’s hands into his own, folding the cloth around each finger and wiping them off, meticulous in his task. Loving. He loves Ilya so much. He wishes he had this every day. Would worship him, if given the chance.

Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s torso, running the cloth down his back, one vertebrae at a time, until he reaches the cusp of his ass. It’s here that Ilya swats his hand away playfully.

“You go dry off. I’ll get ready.”

Shane raises one eyebrow, but doesn’t argue. He leaves Ilya with a parting kiss, then backs out of the shower. He’s left to wait in bed for upwards of twenty minutes. He finds a crossword book partially filled out on Ilya’s bedside table, and takes to filling out one of the easier puzzles. He’s impressed, flipping through it, to find that Ilya’s answered some of the harder questions. He knows he’s not cheating, as many of the puzzles are left unfinished. Eventually, Ilya exits the bathroom, butt-naked. Shane doesn’t look up from the puzzle he’s currently working on.

“Refinement in language?”

Ilya crawls up onto the bed, slinking forward on his hands and knees.

“Mmm, ‘Polish.’”

“P-O-L-I-S-H,” Shane mouths to himself, filling in the blank. It fits.

“Wow, you’re good at this. Um, Five letters. Just says ’Ring-Ring.’”

Ilya cuddles in close, burying his face in Shane’s armpit. When he exhales, his breath tickles Shane’s underarm hair.

“‘Phone,’ darling. These are too easy.”

Shane fills in the crossword, not feeling like any of these have been particularly easy.

“How about,” Ilya starts, kissing a small path up to Shane’s collarbone, “Five letter word for ‘Tease?’”

Shane finally sets the book down, turning bodily to face Ilya. He boops Ilya’s nose with his own, then dips down for a brief, sweet kiss.

“‘Tease’ is already five letters.”

Ilya groans, slotting his body up completely against Shane’s. Shane sighs as Ilya wraps both of his arms tightly around his body, lying back and pulling Shane’s body on top of him. He noses at Shane’s earlobe, then whispers indulgently, “Shane. S-H-A-N-E.”

Shane leaves hot, open-mouthed kisses down Ilya’s chest, his stomach. He finds himself back where he started, facing Ilya’s erection with purpose. He looks up, meeting Ilya’s eyes as he licks him, root to tip, slowly. Ilya sighs, reaching for the bedside table drawer and digging around in it blindly until he finds— ah— he tosses the lube to Shane.

Shane pulls back, watching Ilya carefully as he uncaps the lube and pours it onto his fingers. He rubs them together, warming the lube with his hands the same way he’s watched Ilya do a thousand times over. Ilya’s eyes zero in on the movement, and he swallows audibly.

“You are sure?” he asks, paradoxically spreading his legs wider. Shane pets his free hand down the inside of Ilya’s thigh, reveling in the feel of the soft, downy hair he finds there.

“You do so much, Ilya,” Shane sighs, moving his hand down, down, until his finger finds Ilya’s hole, his skin warm and clean after the shower. “Let me take care of you.”

Something flashes across Ilya’s expression. Something sad and a little vulnerable. Shane would have missed it had he not been looking. But he is looking, continues to look as he circles Ilya’s rim, watching his face for any signs of visible discomfort. He presses in to the first knuckle, simultaneously stroking Ilya’s dry cock in a slow and lazy gesture. Ilya’s hips jerk, then settle back down into the sheets.

“This is okay?” Shane asks, parroting Ilya’s ancient phrase back to him. Ilya nods, and he remembers their first night together. He presses his finger in further, and recalls the odd, intrusive feeling of it. Ilya had been so gentle then, warm grip on the underside of Shane’s thigh, pressing against the muscle there and putting Shane’s flexibility to the test. Shane had held his other leg up, exposing himself so cleanly. Ilya doesn’t do this. He spreads his thighs, legs bent at the knees, heels digging into the mattress. Shane’s feet had been sticking up, eventually propped on Ilya’s broad shoulders. Shane knows the position Ilya’s taken is comfortable, but tight. He wonders if Ilya knows this, wonders if he’s ever found himself in this position at all.

“I need you to breathe, baby,” Shane says placatingly, releasing Ilya’s cock to pet down his abdomen in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. “You’re tight. Breathe for me.”

Ilya nods, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his cheek to bury his expression in the pillow next to him. Shane watches the muscles of his jaw clench and release. Feels the muscles around his finger do the same. After a few minutes of eased prodding, the tip of his second finger joins the first. He strokes Ilya’s perineum with his thumb as he presses in. Ilya lets out a sharp hiss, and Shane pulls the second finger out.

“Too much?” he asks, kissing the head of Ilya’s cock. He takes it into his mouth, holding it against his tongue. It’s softened slightly, since he’s started.

“Is a lot,” Ilya grunts, fists clenching the sheets beneath him. “Slow.”

“Slow,” Shane agrees, tilting his head to kiss the inside of Ilya’s thigh. When he presses in again with his second finger, he takes Ilya into his mouth and holds him there.

It takes a while, but he eventually manages to get one knuckle deep, then two. Ilya’s cock has softened completely, lying limp in Shane’s mouth, but Ilya is making soft, contented humming noises, his hips eventually chasing Shane’s fingers each time he pulls them out. Once the action is smooth, and Ilya appears to be somewhat enjoying himself, Shane crooks his fingers on the next thrust in, then the next, until he finds—

”Oh,” Ilya breathes out, his hips jerking fervently. Shane doesn’t grin, Ilya’s hardening cock still resting between his lips, but he lets out a satisfied hum, digging his fingers in again and again, aiming for that spot each time.

“Oh, that is nice. I think,” Ilya sighs, squirming to get more comfortable.

Shane smirks.

“You think?”

“Sort of feels like I need to pee, but in a nice way.”

Shane can’t help the bark of laughter he lets out. He pulls his fingers out until just the tips of them rest inside Ilya’s body.

“We can stop if you’re not enjoying it.”

Ilya reaches down, covering Shane’s hand with his own, applying pressure purposefully. He sends Shane a pointed look as he says, “No, is starting to feel nice. But we stick to two fingers, I think.”

Shane nods, sinking his fingers back in. Hand steadily moving between Ilya’s legs, he kisses his way up his torso, until he reaches Ilya’s chin, biting at it playfully. He leans in for a kiss just as he curls his fingers again, and Ilya moans loudly into his mouth.

“Oh,” he says, voice quiet and breathy. “Oh, I think this is very nice, actually. Maybe.”

His eyes have shut again, and he’s tilting his head back, little gasps spilling from his lips in waves of “ah, ah, ah.” Shane kisses around the sounds, lips trailing from the corner of his mouth, to the hollow of his cheek, to the sharp line of his jaw. He feels the quiver in it as he presses in with his fingers, over and over.

“Have you ever done this before?” Shane asks, biting down gently on Ilya’s earlobe.

“Ah, once. When I was young.” Ilya swallows, and he tongues at his teeth like he’s searching for the words. “I did not like it. Was too—”

“Much,” Shane supplies for him, pulling back to watch the shift in Ilya’s expression, the pleasure blooming across his features in real-time. The slack-jawed way he mouths around his moans, eyelids fluttering open, briefly, like he has to keep reminding himself to look for Shane’s face. To gauge Shane’s reaction to his pleasure.

“Is so much,” Ilya keens, arching his back into the movement. His cock, flushed and hard, dripping against his abdomen, bobs with the movement. “Is so, so much. You are feeling this much, when I touch you? You feel this?”

Shane is thrown back again, to the night in his bedroom, Ilya’s fingers finding headway inside his body. “Is okay?” he continued to ask. “You are okay?” He’d leaned forward to kiss Shane obscenely, distracting him from the blunt press of a third fingertip. He’d been so smooth about it, a calming force in the wake of Shane’s slipping demeanor. He knows now the strength in holding one’s self together like that, watching Ilya as he does. He feels like he’s taken a brutal hit on the ice, a strong force knocking the wind out of him as he watches Ilya writhe and twist atop the bed sheets, his hands scrambling for purchase anywhere he can get it. His sweat-soaked curls sticking to his forehead, eyes teary with a mix of emotions Shane is intimately familiar with. Ilya is falling apart beneath his fingertips, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful, more perfect.

“You make me feel,” Ilya pants, bucking his hips wildly, chasing Shane’s fingers each time he pulls them out of him, “so much. I am— I—”

Shane cuts him off with a kiss, swallowing down whatever he was going to say. He curls his fingers in once, twice more, presses his body down on Ilya’s so that Ilya can rub his cock up against his abdominal muscles. He doesn’t need much friction, a couple more thrusts, and then he’s coming, crying out into Shane’s mouth. Shane’s free hand moves to cradle his face, his thumb swiping at the tear track wetting his lashes and cheek.

“Ilya,” he sighs, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his damp eyelids. “Ilya, Ilya. So good. You are so good for me.”

Ilya hums, twisting his neck so he can capture Shane’s lips in another sloppy kiss. Shane holds him, adjusting his body so that he’s lying on his side, rolling Ilya over so he can help him hitch his leg up over Shane’s hip. Ilya rests his head on his chest, and Shane cradles his face to his torso instinctively, holding him close, headless of the mess they’ve just made. He drags the edge of the sheet up to wipe at Ilya’s damp forehead and his sticky cheeks, then settles down, rubbing his thumb back and forth across his high cheekbone. Ilya falls asleep like that, body tucked into Shane’s, fingers fanned out across his chest like he’s feeling for the heartbeat there. It takes a long time for Shane to follow him into unconsciousness, his mind too distracted by the mental replay of Ilya falling apart at his fingertips, the parallel he draws to the first time Ilya touched him like that. How he hopes he offered the same comfort and warmth Ilya had offered him during such a raw and unavoidable display of vulnerability. But he does sleep, eventually, nodding off to the sound of Ilya’s heavy breaths and the steady thud of his heavy heartbeat pitter-pattering against his own.

***

Ilya sleeps for the better half of two hours. When Shane wakes, he spends an embarrassing amount of time cuddled up beneath him, staring down at his sleeping face which is squished halfway between his pec and his armpit. He rubs soothing circles into his lower back, just between his dimples. He pulls his phone out after thirty minutes, reading on his kindle app until he feels Ilya stir in his arms, his lips smacking loudly and his awakening yawn tickling Shane's armpit hair. He peaks one blue-green eye open, and smiles like he'd forgotten Shane was there.

“Good morning,” he croaks, shifting his body so that he's half-splayed across Shane’s torso. He crosses his arms over Shane's chest and props his chin up on his fist.

“It's 1:00 p.m.,” Shane laughs, squeezing Ilya’s nose between two knuckles and wiggling it playfully. Ilya swats him away half-heartedly. He shifts his hand up, curling Ilya’s hair around his index finger.

“Your hair is long,” he comments absentmindedly, almost missing the wince the remark pulls from Ilya’s expression. He backtracks instantly. “It's not a bad thing. I like your curls.”

Ilya grabs his wrist and kisses the soft, blue-green skin below his palm, where his veins are most prominent. He then places Shane’s hand on his head and flattens his palms on his chest, turning his cheek to rest it atop his folded hands. Shane takes the cue, continuing to curl small, golden ringlets around his fingers and tugging them out. Each time he releases them, they pop back into place like slightly puffed up springs. He waits for Ilya to speak, anticipating words too difficult to be offered directly to his face.

“I have been… slacking. Lazy, I think,” Ilya finally admits. Shane is very proud of himself for not interjecting immediately. For defending Ilya against his own self-deprecating thoughts. He stays quiet, curling his fingers tighter in Ilya’s hair and giving him room to speak. Ilya takes a deep breath, then continues.

“Sometimes… sometimes I get like this. Get in my head like this. Or something. I don’t know. I don't—” he sighs, cutting himself off by blowing a raspberry against Shane’s skin. Shane moves his hand down, rubbing Ilya’s earlobe between two fingers.

“Hey,” he says softly, tilting his chin to plant a kiss atop the crown of Ilya’s head. “It's okay. You don’t have to talk about it. Not if you don’t want to.” Not even if I'm really worried. If I want to know so bad it's killing me. he doesn’t add. Ilya shakes his head minutely.

“Nyet, is good for you to know. Is— if you're going to be more involved than before, is probably best for you to know.”

He pauses again, and Shane waits, giving him time to formulate his thoughts, then translate them to English.

“When I was young, my mother did this. Would lock herself up in her room for days. Would go a few weeks very… tired. Walk around our house like a ghost. I could not understand it when I was a child. But I am thinking now, as I grow older, I am thinking maybe I understand her. I understand her sadness. Even if I cannot act on it. I cannot do that to Natalya.”

Shane exerts all his mental energy on focusing on his breaths, making sure they come out even and measured. He hopes Ilya isn't focusing on the beat of his heart, or he'll surely have felt it accelerate against his cheek. He forces himself to stay quiet, to offer Ilya space to finish his thoughts. To not jump in, ready to problem solve, to workshop solutions to a problem Shane fears runs much deeper than he's willing to hear.

“Christmas was very nice,” Ilya pivots. Shane feels him sneak a hand beneath his ribcage, rubbing his thumb over the two divots he can reach.

“I was so happy with you and your family. I think the fall from that high has been hard. And I feel very sad that I do not have this. With you. All the time. And then I feel guilty for feeling this sadness, because me missing your parents’ home is not the same as what my mother suffered at the hands of my father. And I get overwhelmed raising my child, but I have help. My mother had no help. No support. I am so blessed, no cruel man in my home, and no obligation to raise his children. Yet I still find myself here, sometimes, crawling into my bed. Wishing that— wishing that—”

“Ilya,” Shane interrupts him, body going rigid. He wraps both arms tightly around Ilya’s torso, hugging him close to his chest, squishing his pretty face into his clavicle. “Your mother is dead.” He doesn’t mean for the words to leave his mouth so wooden. In retrospect, he shouldn’t have said them at all. Thinking out loud, working through the conclusion Ilya’s been leading him to. Still, he has to ask.

“My mother is dead,” Ilya reaffirms. He sounds wounded, like the reminder has dragged him out of whatever past memories he’d been wallowing in. Shane feels his shoulders tense, steeling himself for the answer to his next question.

“How did—” he pauses, the words thick and heavy on his tongue. But Ilya relieves him of finishing the sentence.

“When I was twelve, I came home after school. Before practice. I was worried about her, see. She had been in one of her moods for a few weeks, and papa had not been kind to her that morning. Something about fucking up breakfast. I really don’t remember.”

“Ilya…”

“And so I come home. Just to see her. And I come into her room, and she is lying there. In her bed. Very still. I think she is sleeping, maybe. At first. She was very tired, you see. All the time, in those moods. So tired. But she is not sleeping.”

“Ilya.”

“And now I have these visions. These nightmares, sometimes, that I come in here to sleep. And Natasha comes to wake me. And she is shaking my shoulders, my hands. And she is crying. But she cannot make me wake up. She is so scared and so alone, and I will not wake up for her. I will not get out of bed."

Shane cradles Ilya's face close to his body. He wipes his thumb beneath his lash line, feeling the damp, sensitive skin bunch beneath the pad of his thumb. He feels his own set of tears spill over from the corners of his eyes, wetting his hairline near his ears.

"I'm sorry, Ilya. Baby, I'm so sorry."

"Ah, so am I." He feels Ilya shift, watches him wipe his snotty nose on the sheets covering them both. “For so long, I have been her defender. Against my brother. Against my father. ‘No, she was not selfish,’ I would think. ‘She was sad and in pain, and she was very kind and very beautiful. She was maybe just not strong enough to endure the things that she was forced to endure.’ And so I loved her, and I still love her. Most days, I still love her. And I miss her so much it makes my chest hurt. But then, some days—” he chokes off again, curling his legs in, making himself smaller in Shane’s arms.

“Some days I am so angry at her. So, so angry. Just like my father. But I cannot help it. I look at Natalya, at my little girl, and I think, ‘How could you do this? How could you have possibly done this to me? I loved you so much, and you were so selfish.’”

“Ilya—”

“Is not her fault,” Ilya sniffles. “I know is not her fault. I know this here.” He raises a hand, pointing to his own temple. “But here,” he moves his hand to his chest, pressing his palm to his heart. “Here is not okay. I think of my child, of everything she has endured. And I think, ‘It does not matter what is going on here,’” he points at his head again. “‘You have to stay now, Ilya. No matter what. No matter what hurts you, you must stay.’ I do not understand how my mother couldn’t see that. How much she was needed. How much I loved her.”

Shane holds him. He doesn’t respond, overwhelmed by the trust Ilya has placed in him by finally allowing him to see the burden he carries. He almost, selfishly, wishes he could rewind the past few minutes. He doesn’t know how to know this about Ilya. Doesn’t have a clue as to how he’s supposed to carry forward from here. Does he ask Ilya to clarify what he means? That he does… think about it sometimes? Wish for it, even? Not to be here? Does he offer to alleviate this pain? But then— how? Ilya said so himself: even though his mother was loved, she still did it. Still followed through with it. So, if love isn’t enough to keep someone around, then what is? Responsibility, as Ilya is framing it? That feels cold. And sad. Is it childish to try and reassure Ilya that everything is okay, that he has so much to live for? To look forward to? But that seems self-explanatory. Plus, he doesn’t want to feel like he’s just reciting a suicide prevention pamphlet when trying to comfort the man he loves.

“Affirmations,” he remembers his therapist telling his mother once, a long time ago when he was still a child. “Sometimes, he’s going to feel overwhelmed. Like the world is too loud or too sharp. Too much. And he’ll come to you.”

“So what do I do?” his mother had asked helplessly. “I can’t just— change how the world works.”

“I’m not asking you to. Just acknowledge his discomfort. ‘This must be hard for you,’ or “I’m sorry you have to deal with this. It sounds tough.’”

“That sounds patronizing,” his mother had scoffed.

“It’s not. I promise. Sometimes, the things he feels will overwhelm him, maybe even overwhelm you. You can’t change him, and you can’t change his circumstances, but you can at least show him that you see his pain.”

Shane scoots down into the sheets, untangling himself from Ilya’s body to curl up next to him. Two closed parentheses, curved around the space where Ilya’s confession lies still and waiting. Their bodies are covered by the top sheet, heads peaking out like baby birds pecking out of their shells. Shane tangles their hands together and meets Ilya’s eyes directly.

“That sounds so hard, Ilya. I’m so sorry. I wish I could take this pain away from you.”

Ilya offers him a tight smile around his teary eyes. He rubs his thumbs over Shane’s knuckles, still the one to offer comfort, even in his suffering.

“You think I am weak, maybe, to tell you these things? To feel them, despite how rich I am. How happy I am supposed to be?”

“You’re not weak,” Shane says, nearly tripping over his words, voice choked up from his tears earlier and the fresh set welling beneath his ducts. “You’re the strongest man I’ve ever met.”

“I do not feel strong,” Ilya croaks, his face contorting in pain. “Sometimes, I feel very, very weak. Like a child. Like a man who has never learned not to need his mamma. Is pathetic.”

“It’s not weak,” Shane tries again, shuffling closer to press their foreheads together. “It’s not weak to need people. To need— support. Or love. Or whatever— whatever it is you think you need. You can ask for it.”

“And if I need help?”

Shane lets out a sigh of relief, unable to keep himself from tilting his head, just slightly, so he can kiss the cleft of Ilya’s chin.

“Then yes. Help. I can help you. Or find someone who can.”

“Someone like— like what you had? A therapist?”

“If that’s what you want, yes.”

“You will not think I am weak for this? For needing this?”

He asks Shane this in the same way children ask angered parents for affection. Shane recalls the rare nights when his parents would fight. One of them would still come in to tuck Shane into bed, but they’d still be angry. Frown lines around their lips and fingers clenched around the blanket as they tucked it beneath his chin. He would ask for a hug, feeling like he was asking for a trip to Disneyland. Like he was diffusing a time bomb. This is how Ilya asks him. Am I weak for this? For needing help? Like you did? Like my child does?

Shane scoots in, laying his head tentatively on Ilya’s chest. I silent request to be held. Ilya takes him up on it, wrapping his arms around him easily.

“Would you have thought your mother was weak? If she had reached out? Asked for help, maybe?” He feels Ilya’s body stiffen beneath his cheek, only for it to soften with the next exhale.

“Ah. No.”

“Then, no.” Shane kisses his pec for good measure. “I do not think it’s weak. To need help.”

“And if I do not? If I decide maybe… maybe is not for me?”

“It’s not my place to tell you what you need, Ilya. I’ll support you either way.”

“You will fuck a broken man?”

Shane grins against his warm skin, happy to be offered a breather during such a heavy conversation. He pulls his head back to nip at Ilya’s chin playfully.

“Your dick still works. Even when you’re sad.”

Ilya laughs, full-bellied and real, and Shane thinks perhaps he’s done something right. As nebulous as Ilya’s pain is, and as ominous as the conversation had been, they’ve stepped through it together and come out the other side. Ilya grasps Shane’s neck with his strong fingers, maneuvers his head so that it’s resting back on the pillow, offering him perfect leverage to lean in and capture Shane’s lips in a messy, salt-stained kiss. Ilya whispers a quiet “thank you” into his open mouth. To Shane, it almost tastes like “I love you.”

***

The long weekend passes too quickly for Shane, as all his time with Ilya does. Still, four days is a miracle in comparison to the scraps of time they’ve been living off of these past few years. Natalya takes up most of their time together, as children are prone to do, but this doesn’t bother Shane, and he’s happy to see it doesn’t appear to bother Ilya either. After that first day they spent together, curled up beneath the sheets and fucking their way through an afternoon after Ilya had lain bare everything he’d been feeling since Christmas, Natalya’s cheer had been a welcome distraction to them both.

On Saturday, they’d all packed up and driven to Rockport. They spent the day walking up and down the boardwalk, letting Natalya lead them into stores she found interesting. Mid-afternoon, they stopped for ice cream, then took it to the beach to walk the shoreline. It was still off-season for tourists, so there were only a handful of people dotting the beach. Sofya joined Natalya in hunting for seashells, explaining all the different types of shells to her, how they formed, what creatures they belonged to, etc. Meanwhile, Ilya spent his time surreptitiously sneaking his hand into Shane’s each time there was a lull in passers-by. Shane didn’t bother putting up a pretext of concern. He curled his fingers around Ilya’s, staring out at the gray, late-winter sky hanging over the equally gray ocean, and imagined, very briefly, that this was simply his life. That he was here with his partner, and their little girl, out on a weekend trip. That he would not have to bottle the memory up and store it on a hidden shelf because tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, he would wake next to Ilya, their little girl cocooned between their warm bodies.

They eventually left the beach, and Shane’s daydreams along with it. It would not bode well to dwell on things he knew he could not have.

Sunday was interesting. Ilya had to go to morning practice, so Shane planned on lazying around the house with Natalya and Sofya. But at 8:00 a.m. sharp, Sofya had roused Natalya from sleep, explaining to Shane offhandedly that she always tried to sleep in during Sunday, knowing she had to get ready for church.

“Oh, right,” Shane had replied awkwardly, hovering at the doorway awkwardly while Sofya helped Natalya pick out her dress for church. “Would you— do you think I should come?”

Sofya offered him a sincere, warm look.

“Would you like to come?”

Which is how Shane had found himself spending his Sunday morning swallowed in one of Ilya’s dress shirts and sitting stiffly between Natalya and Sofya in a not-so-secluded church pew. He had only attended church a handful of times before with his grandmother, each time more boring than the last. Eventually, hockey took precedence over all other weekend matters, and he could get away with telling his mother “no” when she asked if he’d like to accompany her and grandma to Sunday morning service. Even that offer began to die out when the handling of his hockey career became his mother’s full-time job.

Church was fine, if not just as dull as he remembered it being. He spent most of it playing a silent game of hang-man with Natalya. She could only do one or two syllable words though, so the rounds didn’t last very long. They couldn’t speak during service, so if they wanted to ask after a letter, they’d spread out a piece of paper, separate from the one being used for the game, atop the flat surface of the book of hymns. They’d write the letter down, followed by a small question mark, and the keeper of the word would either use the letter or add body parts to the hangman. Natalya wasn’t very good at the game, often repeating letters she had already written down, or not knowing how to properly spell the word, so Shane made sure her hangman never ran out of body parts. This meant he had to add toes, fingers, clothes, scarves, hats, etc. to her hangman, so that after each of her rounds, she ended up with a fully fleshed-out hangman and a win. Once, during a round where Shane was trying to get Natalya to guess the word “kite,” she messed up so frequently that Shane had to give her little hangman each individual eyelash.

The rest of their Sunday passed in a sleepy blur. Ilya returned from practice in the afternoon, and they all lazed around the house until evening. After dinner, Ilya took everyone out to the local movie theater, where they bought tickets for whatever kid’s movie was playing at the time. The movie didn’t matter, because what Shane was actually excited about was the chance to sit in a dark theater and hold Ilya’s hand the entire time. Like a real date, out in public. Only nobody knew, and they weren’t actually dating. Ilya bought Natalya candy and a soda, ignoring Sofya and Shane’s twin stares of disapproval, then reaped the benefits of that decision when she didn’t fall asleep until 12:00 a.m. that evening.

It is Monday now, Shane’s last day, and he has to spend most of the late morning and early afternoon without Ilya. Boston has a home game against Toronto today, and Shane’s trying very hard not to sulk about it.

Ilya leaves him with a goodbye kiss at the door, and a parting pat on Natalya’s head. “Try not to miss me too much,” Ilya tells them both, which is an oxymoron if Shane’s ever heard one.

Shane, Natalya, and Sofya spend the remainder of the morning playing several heated rounds of Go Fish, until Shane eventually has to pry himself away to go use the home gym for a few hours. He’s got his headphones in while working out, which is how he must not hear the doorbell ring, nor the excited voices drifting down into the weight room from the foyer. When he climbs the stairs and enters the living room, he almost stumbles over his own two feet.

There, cuddled up on the couch next to Natalya, paging through a picture book with her, is Svetlana.

“Ah, Miss Jane,” she smiles when she sees him. Natalya glances up from the book, then leaps from her spot on the couch, running over to grab Shane’s sweaty hand.

“Shanya! Come— come meet my friend, Svetya!” She tugs at his hand and he lets her lead the way, following her swiftly to the couch. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that he’s only wearing a pair of loose gym shorts and one of Ilya’s cut-off Boston T’s when she gives him a very clear once-over.

“This is so nice,” she extends her hand, perfectly manicured fingers wrapping around his in a suave, effortless grip. “I finally get to meet my best-friend-in-law.”

Shane chokes, coughing on nothing into the crook of his elbow.

“Sorry, sorry,” she waves her hand at him, eyes gleaming. “You’ve just finished training, no? I’ll let you go get changed. Wouldn’t want you to miss the game.”

Right, Shane thinks, making his way back into Ilya’s bedroom. She’s here to watch the game with Ilya’s little family. She probably does that a lot. Because she’s Ilya’s best friend. She’s Ilya’s best friend, and you need to get over yourself.

He showers, then dresses in a pair of Ilya’s sweats and one of his many Boston hoodies. He bought his own clothes, but he’s feeling, embarrassingly, territorial. He falsely tells himself that he’s only wearing Ilya’s clothes for the smell. That he just misses him. But he knows, in his heart of hearts, that he wants Svetlana to catch him wearing Ilya’s clothes, to watch him cuddle Ilya’s child as they lounge together during the game. He feels petty and possessive, but also, in a small way, vindicated. After all, at the end of the day, Ilya has fucked her.

When he reenters the living room and joins Svetlana on the opposite end of the couch, he tries not to look too smug when Natalya immediately leaves her side to curl up next to Shane. Based on Svetlana’s knowing smirk—a look all too familiar to Shane, only worn by a different pair of lips—he fails miserably.

Sofya doesn’t join them, opting to use the opportunity of Natalya’s distraction to hole herself up in her room and read.

“So,” Svetlana starts, grabbing a carrot stick from the veggie tray Sofya laid out for them before abandoning them for her cheap, harlequin romance novel. She doesn’t expand on the start of her sentence, raising her eyebrows at Shane when he finally tears his eyes away from the pregame interviews.

“So,” he parrots back, trying to maintain eye-contact and failing miserably. She smiles at him, her face opening up in a disarming manner. Shane hugs Natalya closer to his chest, like a child with their favorite stuffed animal when faced with a terrifying new experience. Except Shane is not a child. He’s twenty-six. And his stuffed animal is a wriggling four-year-old trying to reach for the veggie tray.

Svetlana’s composure slips, and she covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a small giggle. Shane’s immediately disarmed.

“What?” he asks, instinctively reaching up to touch his face. Like maybe he’s done something humorous. Is there something on his teeth? “What is it?”

She laughs again, tucking her legs up to hide her eyes behind her knees. For so long, Shane’s built up this image in his head of this woman. Cat-like, smooth, etched from the same grain that Ilya was carved out of. But here, with her face hidden in her lap and her hair falling around her like a buoyant curtain, she looks young. Like a teenage girl. Meeting her—

Meeting her—?

“I am guessing maybe Ilya has not told you what a big fan I am?”

Oh. Wow. Okay, not the direction Shane thought this conversation would be taking. He loosens his grip on Natalya, allowing her to leave his arms so she can go grab something from her room.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s just—” Svetlana lifts her head, waving her hand around like that explains anything. Ilya talks with his hands too, gesturing and reaching physically when he can’t dig up the English word he’s trying to use. So many shared mannerisms. Shane wonders how long they’ve known each other, how many of these traits were traded back and forth throughout childhood. It makes him feel tender toward them both, his jealous streak giving way to something soft and understanding, especially knowing now what he does about Ilya’s mother. He thinks, maybe, he is grateful Ilya had someone around to make him smile.

“You are Shane Hollander,” Svetlana finally says, like that actually explains anything. She waves her hand at him, like he’s forgotten what he looks like. “I mean—blyat— romance aside, I am meeting the greatest player in the league. It’s very surreal for me, no?”

Shane quirks an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you were a hockey fan.”

“Only the biggest,” she grins. “And only of good hockey. And you, Miss Jane, you play very good hockey.”

Shane’s finding it very difficult to feel vengeful toward a woman who very clearly has stars in her eyes when looking at him. She doesn’t seem to be lying either. Maybe that’s how she and Ilya bonded: over their mutual love of the sport.

“Do you play?” Shane asks, but Svetlana’s already shaking her head midway through the sentence.

“Ah, no. My father, yes. He’s a very famous goalie. You would have heard of him, yes? Vetrova.”

Shane’s eyes widen.

“Oh, wow. I didn’t realize—”

She nods her head enthusiastically.

“Yes, he was very good. I loved watching his games as a kid.”

Shane furrows his brow.

“But you never played?”

Her expression dampens.

“Ah, no. My mother, she did not think it was a proper sport for a young lady. They let me try figure skating, but I grew bored of that quickly. I settled on just watching Papa. And later, Ilya, of course. He was easy to cheer on. Best in the Russian junior league by a long shot.”

“But not in the NHL?” Shane prompts her, tilting his head and smirking so she knows he’s teasing. But she responds to his quip seriously.

“I told you. I might be your biggest fan.” She gestures toward the television, and Shane follows her line of sight, watching a compilation of Ilya’s best goals this season. “He has natural talent. And strength, of course. And he is smart. But he does not work through tactics the way you do. I’ve seen some of your plays on ice, how you think through maneuvers two steps ahead of everyone else. It is not just good hockey. It’s like watching a general lead others through war. And you may lose battles, but most of them are not your fault. You’re little soldiers keep letting you down, giving up too early. But not you. You—you are always thinking, always scheming, even in very tight spots. Watching you play is exciting.” She punctuates her remark by tapping her temple.

Shane swallows, grateful that Natalya chooses that moment to make her reappearance. She crawls back up into Shane’s lap with her box full of colored pencils and a Frozen themed coloring book. She sits between Shane's legs, using his thighs as armrests.

“I think you might be giving me more credit than I deserve,” he finally replies, not meeting Svetlana’s eyes. He knows he’s good, has worked very hard to be good. But he’s no tactician, and, contrary to popular belief, having a high hockey I.Q. doesn’t automatically translate to having the ability to play 3D chess on ice.

“You think so?” Svetlana taunts. “So, Philadelphia, 2013, game three of the playoff matches, you weren’t executing a pass used by Denver’s own Micheal Strauss in 84’ to get the puck to your wing, who you knew could take it five more paces to the goal if you had their defender easily distracted? Which you did.”

Shane stares at her, stunned.

“You recognized Strauss’ pass?”

Svetlana flips her hair out of her face hastily, like he’s offended her.

“I told you, Hollander. I am a big fan of hockey.”

“And a big fan of me,” Shane grins, unable to keep from playing along. She smiles back at him.

“The biggest.”

Hanging out with Svetlana is easy after that. They watch Ilya’s game together, critiquing his moves when appropriate, cheering him on when it’s deserved. Shane makes sure to poke at Natalya’s side to remind her when she needs to clap. Oftentimes she doesn’t even look up from her drawings. She just pats his pants leg in the most half-assed clap she can get away with.

Shane’s so impressed with Svetlana’s critiques that by the time Ilya gets home, traipsing through the front door exhausted and hungry, Shane and Svetlana are still camped out on the couch, watching gameplay from the Metros’ past few matches. Natalya’s the only one kind enough (and bored enough) to rip herself away from the television to go hug Ilya hello. He enters the living room carrying her on his hip, catching Shane’s eye while Svetlana’s going off mid-tangent about how, if Shane could convince Hayden to shift a few feet to the left during their power play, they could just—

“Daddy, I drew a picture for you!” Natalya beams, interrupting whatever diatribe Svetlana had been going off on. She wriggles out of his arms and marches over to Shane’s lap, pulling the coloring book off the couch cushion. She makes to walk back over to him, but he scoops her up, cradling her like a baby so he can fall back ineloquently between Shane’s legs. Shane sends a nervous look Svetlana’s way, but she doesn’t even blink, just shifts closer so she can see what Natalya’s about to whip out for the crowd.

“This is a doggy,” Natalya explains, opening to a page of two princesses building a snowman. Natalya’s colored over the image, having drawn a big, black dog with three eyes, a very large tongue, and a pink bow tied to its collar. Shane guesses he hadn’t really been paying close attention to Natalya’s work. If he had been, he’d have tried to explain how a coloring book is actually supposed to be used.

“Wow, she’s beautiful,” Ilya replies, brushing his fingers over the drawing like he’s petting the fake fur of the dog. “What’s her name?”

“I called her ‘Hermione.’ Like from our book.”

Ilya nods solemnly, taking the coloring book business very seriously.

“‘Hermione.’ Is a good name.”

“Mmm,” Natalya agrees, already moving onto the next picture. She also drew a caterpillar that, at least to Shane, just looks like different colored dango, but one has two eyes and a nose (he doesn’t point out that caterpillars don’t have noses), a snake with two heads, and—

She turns to the last picture and hears Ilya’s sharp inhale.

Drawn over a snowy landscape with a castle built on top of a mountain peak are stick figure people all holding hands. Well—mittens. Natalya can’t quite draw hands yet, so she just gives everyone gloves.

“This is you, daddy,” she says, pointing to the stick figure with curly yellow hair and a giant black shirt (Shane assumes it’s supposed to be his jersey). She even put a dot on his smiling face to represent his mole.

“This is me,” she points to the other curly-haired stick figure holding stick-figure Ilya’s hand. “And this is Shanya,” she says, pointing to the stick figure holding Ilya’s other hand. He has a Santa hat on, and what appears to be a hockey stick in his free hand. Shane reaches around Ilya’s body, tracing the smile she drew on his face with his index finger. On the other side of the picture is another stick figure with black curly hair. Natalya gave her a speech bubble that just says “Hokee.”

“Where’s Sofya?” Ilya asks, his voice sounding much more composed than how Shane feels.

“She’s in the sun.”

Sure enough, Natalya drew a sun in the corner of the picture. It’s got long hair and a face.

“You made the sun frown,” Ilya says curiously.

“Because I didn’t eat my vegetables,” Natalya clarifies.

Shane snorts a wet laugh into the back of Ilya’s neck, allowing the humor to drain the tension from his shoulders.

“Is very nice, my love. We’ll have to put this one on the fridge.”

Natalya’s face lights up.

“We do?”

They do. Her family portrait rests just beneath a menu for a local Indian food restaurant that Ilya must order out from a lot, and a printed picture of him and Natalya at some church event. Shane can’t stop stealing glances at it all throughout helping Sofya make dinner.

They spend the evening together, all five of them. They squeeze around Ilya’s dinner table (not small, but half of it is still taken up by Natalya’s Lego projects) and share a meal of chicken lasagna and salad. Natalya very bravely tries one bite of onion, finds that she actually likes it, then proceeds to pick every onion out of the salad bowl before anyone else can get to it. Afterward, they play many rounds of Twister in the living room. Sofya sits out each round, acting as the orator of colors. Surprising no one, Ilya and Shane find themselves battling each other for the winning title most rounds. Ilya likes to cheat, kissing whatever body part of Shane’s he can reach at the time, distracting him enough to get him to lose his balance.

By the time Svetlana leaves, hugging everyone goodbye (including Shane), and Sofya’s left them for her own room, Shane feels warm and whole. Like the entire weekend had been one big, perfect dream.

“Thank you,” Ilya whispers to him later that night. They’re curled up in bed, Natalya lying between them. She’s got her head pillowed on Shane’s upper arm, and she’s drooling on his bicep.

“For what?” Shane whispers back, sneaking his foot over to rub his toe up and down Ilya’s calf.

“For coming this weekend. I know is a little inconvenient…”

“Not inconvenient,” Shane corrects quickly, reaching out with his free hand to brush his fingers over Ilya’s cheek. “A privilege.”

“Mmm,” Ilya hums, neither an agreement nor a disagreement. He closes his eyes and tilts his head so that he can rest his cheek fully in Shane’s palm.

It’s me who should be thanking you, Shane thinks, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Ilya’s rough stubble. My heart is so full, my love. I didn’t think I could ever feel this much.

He doesn’t say this. Instead, he switches the lamp off and burrows further beneath the sheets.

***

“Hollander! We’ve seen the photos of you and Rozanov’s family entering a movie theater in Boston. Care to explain?”

“Can you tell us what you were doing in Boston the week of the seventeenth? Did you go there specifically to meet Rozanov?”

“Hollander, are you and Rozanov friends now?”

Shane battles the urge to groan. Or worse, to bury his face in his arms and ignore the pregame press questions until his coach drags him back to the locker room. He’d gotten the alert that morning, that someone had snapped pictures of him and Ilya’s little crew exiting the movie theater two weeks ago. He wonders if the tabloid was waiting to leak the photos specifically on the day the Metros were set to play Boston before the finals. He hadn’t even had a chance to confront his team about it before getting dragged out to do press.

“Hollander, is your newfound friendship with Rozanov going to affect your gameplay this evening?”

Shane sighs, thinking of the best way to spin this narrative without sounding like an outright liar. He decides to stick as close to the truth as he can.

“Rozanov and I have been friends for a while, so I wouldn’t worry much about either of us throwing games. Plenty of guys in the league have friends on opposing teams. It’s bound to happen when trades are a prominent part of the sport.”

There. A very diplomatic answer. His mom would be proud of him.

The crowd starts buzzing again, another reporter standing out amongst the rest.

“You say you’ve been friends for a while, does this mean you’re close with his kid? Rozanov never publicly confirmed or denied if she’s his niece, the current understood narrative. However, there’s been speculation that the girl is actually his own. Have you met the mother? Can you confirm whether or not the child is really his?”

Shane grits his teeth, not bothering to hide his frustration with the question.

“I’m not in any sort of position to be disclosing information about his daughter publicly.”

“But—”

“Next question,” the PR rep interrupts, glaring daggers at the press. Shane lets out a deep breath, relieved to leave the more personal questions behind. Hopefully.

“Hollander, can you at least tell us what you were doing in Boston two weeks ago? Did you go to visit Rozanov specifically?”

Well, so much for not lying.

“I had some promotional work that needed to be handled down on the east coast. I decided to go see my friend while I was there. That’s all.”

“We heard Rozanov usually lets his nanny just take care of the child, so it was shocking to see you all out together. Is this true? Does he really just hand her off to keep up his normal lifestyle?”

Shane almost balks, wondering how there are really people out here trying to pry every shitty aspect of a story that they can out of a perfectly happy family.

“Ilya’s a great dad,” Shane fumes, ignoring the warning look the PR rep is sending him. “I don’t know who’s been feeding you your information, but whoever they are, they’re wrong. From what I’ve seen, he loves his daughter very much, and is doing everything he can to give her a good life. Sometimes, that means having to go to work. Hockey is great, and I’m sure I speak for most players when I say we wouldn’t want to be doing anything else. But at the end of the day, this is still a job, and you can’t drag your kid out onto the ice with you.”

Follow-up questions are hurled at him, but the PR rep cuts in again.

“Any questions about the actual game tonight?”

The press buzzes, but moves on. Shane lets out a deep sigh of relief when he’s finally let out of the press room, only to remember that he must now go face his team in the locker room.

Great.

As soon as he enters the locker room, an ominous hush falls over his team. Shane rolls his eyes, stepping through the parting crowd of half-naked men to start undressing and gearing up at his cubby.

“What,” he says, not a question. He can feel the stares on his back, even as he focuses all his energy on rolling on his socks.

“Nothing, cap,” their second line winger, Richards, pipes up. “Just, y’know. Didn’t know you knew Rozanov that way, s’all.”

Shane closes his eyes, letting out a deep, calming breath. He can’t afford to panic right now. Can’t afford to let on that this is a bigger deal than it is. So, he’s friends with Rozanov, so what? He knows for a fact that Stevens, their new first line defenseman, still keeps up with a lot of the guys from Toronto, who they snagged him from last year.

“Listen guys, it’s not a big deal,” he lies through his teeth, reminding himself that they can’t telepathically hear him thinking about how he’s been fucking Rozanov for longer than he’s known anyone on this team. “We hit it off after a game one night, and now I hang out with him when we’re in the same city.”

“You hit it off,” Drapeau starts. “With Rozanov. After a game. What, at the fucking strip club or something?”

Shane clenches his jaw.

“No, man. Fuck off.”

“I just don’t get it,” J.J. butts in. “You fucking hate the guy.”

Shane shakes his head, starting to clasp on his pads.

“I don’t. I mean, yeah, he’s still a menace on the ice, but I don’t hate him. He’s cool to be around. And—” he pauses, wondering if he should divulge more than that, but then thinks his relationship with Natalya may soften the blow. “I like his kid. She’s sweet.”

“Right, his ‘niece,’” Drapeau sneers, using air quotes around the word “niece.”

“It’s true,” Hayden cuts in, alleviating Shane from some of the unwanted attention. “Shane brought them over to my house last year, let her hang out with the kids. He’s still, like, Rozanov. But he’s a good dad. And he was good to my kids.”

“Dude, what the fuck?” J.J. asks, looking totally thrown. “Why didn’t I hear about any of this?”

“Because it’s not a big deal!” Shane cuts in, his voice raised. A few of the guys look thrown, which—fair, Shane hardly ever raises his voice, let alone for something unrelated to hockey. He breathes again, in, out, until he feels his heartbeat start to slow.

“Come on, guys. So I have friends outside of the team. It’s not like I fucking shot someone!”

“You may as well have! It’s fucking Rozanov!” Cormeau shouts back.

“Yeah, I mean, fuck dude. You guys have been pitted against each other since rookie year. It’s a little weird seeing you both all buddy-buddy at a fucking kids movie,” Richards tacks on.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Shane replies, shucking his undershirt and squeezing into his compression gear. “I have friends. One of them is Ilya Rozanov. Get over it, I guess.”

“We’re about to go play a game against that fucker, and that’s all you have to say?” Drapeau asks, eyes wide in the wake of Shane’s indignance.

“Yep,” Shane nods, popping the “p” like a prick. He doesn’t care. He knows, in theory, he should probably be freaking out about this a little more than he is. But it’s so small, really, in the grand scheme of things. So the league knows they’re friends. Who cares? They’re the ones who built the narrative around them in the first place. Shane’s never played into the rivalry, not publicly anyways. And while Ilya’s always had fun riling up the press, it’s always been in good fun. Neither of them have ever actually said anything cruel or demeaning about the other to the media. And, while Shane’s never shut down the Rozanov shit-talking sessions in the locker room, he hasn’t actually ever participated. He supposes his silence has always been misinterpreted as agreement.

“And you?” J.J. turns to Hayden, looking more hurt than pissed off. “What, are you friends with the guy too, now?”

Hayden shoots Shane a quick, wary glance, to which Shane offers him a fraction of a nod. He hopes he’s properly relaying, “Say whatever you feel is necessary,” via the ancient eyebrow communication style they’ve both adopted into use over the years.

“He’s alright, man. And the twins love him. Can’t really ask for more than that.”

“I feel like we’re making a bigger deal out of this than we need to be,” comes the quiet voice of one of their rookies. Shane sends him a grateful look, mouthing “thank you” around Richards’ shoulder.

Entering the locker room with the answer to all of Shane’s prayers, Theriault reminds the team that they need to be on the ice in ten minutes, and would they please hurry the fuck up and get dressed? Shane turns his back to him to throw on his shoulder pads, but he feels his coach’s pointed glare on his back. Whatever, a problem for another day. He has to remind himself that he hasn’t committed any sort of crime. That the photos themselves aren’t even that incriminating. Two photos, both taken seconds apart. Ilya carrying Natalya’s sleeping body out of the theater, Shane walking alongside them. There’s a professional amount of space between their bodies, and they’ve both got their heads down. The owner of the photo hadn’t even sold the picture on TMZ. It spread online after they’d posted it to their Instagram story. Just some guy excited about seeing two of the best hockey players out in the wild.

He doesn’t try to offer the guys a pregame speech, not after their little meltdown; but he does tell them to play well as he buckles on his helmet and heads for the door, Hayden hot on his tail.

“Well, that was brutal,” Hayden mumbles under his breath, bumping Shane’s shoulder with his as they head out onto the ice. Shane shrugs.

“Could have been worse, I guess.”

Hayden eyes him suspiciously.

“You’re acting… remarkably cool about this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!” Hayden holds up his gloved hands in faux-innocence. “Just that, y’know, you are the same Shane Hollander who hyperventilated over forgetting your toner at home a few weeks ago. I figured, y’know, this might be… a lot.”

Shane lazily loops around the arena, Hayden right next to him. He gives himself a moment to think through his reply before answering.

“Last night, Ilya sent me a photo.”

“Ew. Dude, gross. Listen, man, I love you, but I don’t really wanna hear about—”

Shane elbows him sharply in the ribs.

“Not that kind of photo, jackass. He and Sofya send me photos a lot. Just little things, life updates. Stuff like that.”

“Oh, okay,” Hayden replies, rubbing at his wounded ribs. “Um. Great.”

Shane rolls his eyes.

“It was of Natalya. He took it after she fell asleep. He had her on his chest, and when I asked him why she wasn’t in bed, he said she’d been trying to wait up to Facetime with me. To say goodnight.”

Hayden scrunches his brows together, the cogs in his brain finally turning.

“We went out last night, though.”

They had. To celebrate J.J.’s girlfriend’s birthday. He’s managed to keep this one around for more than a handful of months, so both Shane and Hayden felt it was only fair to show face.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “Pretty late. Anyway, I didn’t know she was waiting. If I had, of course I’d have, I dunno, at least gone somewhere private to say goodnight.”

Hayden scratches the back of his neck, looking confused again.

“I mean, that’s cool man. But I don’t really get how this is helping you reach, like, a whole new level of ‘Shane Zen’ or something.”

Shane slows as they make it closer to their teammates, everyone spread out on the ice doing their pregame stretches.

“She had tear tracks on her cheeks. I don’t think Ilya noticed, or he wouldn’t have sent the picture. But, still, I made her cry.”

Hayden places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Awe, buddy. I wouldn’t worry about that. Ruby cried last week because the blueberries in her pancakes stained the bread blue. She thought we were poisoning her. Kids are just like that.”

“No, Hayd—” Shane shakes his head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “That’s not the point. I mean, thanks, but—” He waves his hands around, wishing he could explain his nebulous thoughts in a more cohesive manner. “It’s not just him anymore, you know? There’s a kid involved. A kid who really cares about me. And I care about her. And—fuck Hayden—she’s so easy to hurt. It’s scary how easy it is. To hurt her. And I—” He sniffs, looking down at the ice, cutting a small slice into it with the blade near his toes. “None of this really matters. You know?” He looks back up at Hayden, willing him to understand. “Hockey, the fame, the—whatever it is Ilya and I are. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter, because there’s a child in my life now. A child who’s really important to me. And who I want to be a part of my life. And I can’t just do that half-assed. I can’t, like, let my fear take precedence over loving her. So, I mean, yeah, it sucks that people are out there taking photos of us whenever. But, at the end of the day, I’m still glad I went. And I’m glad we went out. Because she’s just a kid, who wants to go to the zoo, or go see movies, or, you know, go play in the park. If I want to be a part of her life, I have to be okay with that. Ilya and I can figure out our shit. And we will. Soon, hopefully. But, in the meantime, I can’t drop the ball when it comes to his kid.”

Hayden stares at him, slack-jawed and speechless. They’ve stopped skating, pausing outside of the perimeter of their team. Shane shuffles his feet, feeling a tad embarrassed over his mini-speech.

“Sorry, I just—”

“No, no, don’t be sorry, I just—” Hayden swallows, smiling around—are those tears in his eyes?

“It’s nothing, I’m just—wow. Shane. You’re—I mean, I always knew you were great with kids, y’know, the way you are with Arthur. And the twins. But I—” He sniffs, bringing his glove up to wipe at his nose on the back of it. “You’re a really good guy, Shane. Like—I knew that. obviously I knew that. But you’re just—fuck, dude. You’re gonna be a really good dad.”

Shane feels the color drain from his face, and he physically blanches at Hayden’s words.

“Wait. What—”

“Ah, what do we have here? NHL’s second best player in the league and Montreal’s fifteenth best player loitering on our side of the ice?”

Ilya skates up around them from behind, then turns to skate backwards, slowly, so he’s facing them, cheshire grin painted perfectly across his expression. He tilts his stick to the side, tapping it twice on the ice.

“You’re dancing space,” he tells them, pointing at the circle of Metros stretching out their thighs in a circle. He then draws an imaginary line on the ice between himself and Shane and Pike. “My dancing space.”

“Oh fuck off, Rozanov,” Hayden huffs, the blow severely softened by the sincere smile he’s still wearing. He bumps his helmet affectionately against Shane’s, then skates off to join the team in their stretches. Ilya skates closer, tilting his head curiously.

“You are okay?” he asks, his brow furrowing. “You look spooked.”

I think I want to be the father of your child, he doesn’t say, because that’s an absolutely batshit insane thought to have. Instead, he puts his arms out, pushing weakly against Ilya’s chest.

“My dancing space,” he jokes, but the words come out weak and winded. Ilya notices, because of course he does.

“Listen,” he starts, voice hushed, “if this is about the photos—”

“It’s not,” Shane cuts him off, the words coming out too quick. Well, it kind of is, he wants to amend. We look really good in them. Like a real family. I think you fucked me so hard you made me want to be your baby daddy. “I’m just—nervous. About the game.”

Ilya doesn’t look like he believes him. Which—fair.

“Right,” he replies, letting the word roll off his tongue slow and questioning. “Well, if it was about the photos, I suppose the least I can say is thank you. For how you handled the press. They were not being very courteous.”

“Oh, no. It was nothing.” But Ilya’s shaking his head.

“Was not nothing, Hollander. You’ve been very… good to me.” He glances over Shane’s shoulder, then around them, checking for listeners. “Good friend. You don’t deserve all that scrutiny.”

“Anytime,” Shane replies with a smirk, lifting his glove to his mouth so he can tug it off with his teeth. He reaches out for a handshake. “See you on the ice, Rozanov.”

Ilya removes his own glove, reaches out to shake Shane’s hand, then uses his grip as leverage to pull Shane in closer, offering him a one-armed hug. He leans in, mouth next to Shane’s ear: “I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.”

He pulls back from the hug, winking at him as he skates back to his side of the rink, and Shane wonders, distantly, how much longer they’re going to be able to keep up this facade before one of them cracks.

***

The game starts off well enough. Home ice advantage for Montreal, but Boston’s been on a winning streak these past three weeks. Ilya’s confident that his team has a good chance at sweeping the floor with the Metros this evening, bringing them one step closer to a position in the playoffs. Ilya’s had a tumultuous year, the press riding his ass every step of the way. It would be nice to be able to show the public that, despite everything, he’s still their best player. And—he glances over at Shane, who’s currently stretching his quads out in an obscene manner on the ice—it would be nice to level the playing field with the Metros. One less accomplishment for Shane to lord over him when they tease each other over the phone.

There is a smaller part of him, a stifled part, if not still loud and unrelenting, that would also like to win because he knows how viciously Shane works for success. He’s attracted to success, longs for it, hunts it down like a dog scenting a bone each new season. And if he cannot find it within himself, he relishes in it every time he lets Ilya fuck him into the mattress. That’s not to say that Shane doesn’t enjoy being around him, doesn’t appreciate his other qualities. He’s proven himself in his undeserved loyalty many times over. But the affection they’ve nurtured over the past year has its seeds planted in soil teeming with success. Shane did not fuck him all those years ago because he was a beautiful man—though, that certainly helped. He fucked him because he was the best. Because they both knew they were meant to be something, something new. Something spectacular. There is a piece of Ilya that has never stopped wanting to be that for Shane. Something for him to take pride in. So that on the off chance that Ilya’s late night fantasies ever came to light, if one day he and Shane could really be something, out loud and brazenly, then there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Shane Hollander is the winner here too. That he has a man worthy of him, of his affection, his love. Ilya doesn’t want to be Shane’s dirty little secret, he wants to be one of his accomplishments.

The start of the game is called, and he joins Boston’s first line at center ice. He watches Shane skate around the perimeter to wave at fans through the glass. As he passes Sofya and Natalya, Natalya rises from her seat and presses her face to the glass, squishing her forehead and lips against it. She waves with both hands, and while Ilya can’t hear her, he very distinctly sees her mouth, “Shanya! Shanya!” Shane smiles at her, his expression open and soft, and waves back.

When he meets Ilya at center ice, Ilya glides up close so that their foreheads are almost touching. They’re surrounded by teammates, so he knows he can’t say anything too incriminating, but he can still talk around the “I love you” clogging his throat.

“Stealing my fans away now, Hollander?” Ilya teases, knocking his stick against Shane’s. Shane’s smile doesn’t leave his face; if anything, it grows brighter, warmed by the reception offered by both Rozanovs.

“It looks to me like they just want some good hockey, Rozanov.”

Ilya smiles so wide he knows he probably looks feral.

“And you will give it to them?”

The puck drops, and Ilya’s off, winning the face-off just barely. He races down the ice, passes, only to find Shane hot on his tail, stealing the puck from Simon’s open stance like a thief in the night. They’re racing toward Boston’s net, Shane skating lightning fast, Ilya a few paces behind him. He’s lost, fucked up his first pass of the game, but he can’t find it in himself to feel anything aside from elation. He admires Shane from this vantage point: the smooth glide of his blades on the ice, the ease with which he maneuvers around his opponents. Ilya can’t see it, but he knows he’s wearing that frustrated little frown, wrinkle in his brow forming when he’s concentrating hard on something. He used to wear that same expression in bed, their first few times together, like he was mapping out exactly what he should be doing in his mind, approaching blow jobs like a new technical skill he could bring to the ice. Ilya had made it his personal mission to fuck that expression off his face as soon as he could. He didn’t want Shane thinking at all when they were together. Wanted him doped up and cock-drunk on the experience. Wanted him drooling into the pillow, not wondering if he was positioned right, if he was touching Ilya correctly, if he was winning at this new sport he’d discovered in Ilya’s hotel bed sheets.

Shane turns slightly, just enough to catch Ilya’s eyes in his periphery. When he sees that Ilya’s watching him—always watching him, he never stops watching him—he smiles, and turns his cheek so Ilya can catch the bright expression fully. When he was a child, Ilya watched Titanic a handful of times. His mother had gotten it from a family friend, some off-market, bootlegged dub that Ilya was too young to dislike. It was his mother’s favorite movie. He distinctly recalls the scene when they find Rose’s portrait, the archivist washing away the ocean sludge and sand from the penciled sketch. That’s how Ilya feels watching Shane turn to face him, feeling the full force of his grin light up his features. His soft lips; his cheeks, still filled with baby fat, even at the ripe age of twenty-six. He’s always had a softer look than what the ice merits successful. It makes his wins all the more exciting. That focused look he gets, bunching his freckles up to the center of his face, it’s completely disarming. It’s how he bullied his way into Ilya’s heart, he thinks. One doe-eyed punch to the gut at a time.

Ilya smiles back at him, foolishly wishing to wave. It’s because he is so hyper-fixated on Shane, on the grace of his skating, on the joyful glint in his eyes, that he also sees the moment that joy gets snuffed out. A microsecond before it happens, Ilya can see it: Marlow, barreling into Shane’s left flank, his shoulder catching his ribs, pressing him cleanly into the glass. Shane’s body, thrown across the ice like a rag doll, rebounds off the glass and slams into the ice. Ilya here’s the sharp crack of his helmet as his head slams into the ground. Ilya breaks hard, spraying shaved ice over Shane’s immobile legs.

He doesn’t hear what’s happening around him. Whether a fight has broken out between the Metros and Boston. Whether the ref has been informed. Even the sound of the crowd has been muffled, their dulled gasps and cheers pressing against his eardrums, a similar feeling one gets when they’ve gone up in altitude too fast and their ears won’t pop. Ilya kneels next to Shane’s prone form, hands hovering over his limp arm uselessly.

“Shane,” he says—or he thinks he says. His mouth is moving, perhaps just bobbing open and closed like a gaping fish. Shane is not moving. His arms and legs are spread akimbo, not even twitching. The only movement presented by his body being the uneven gasps he takes.

“Shane,” Ilya says again, clearer now. Noise is filtering back in, alongside other sensations. He touches the back of Shane’s gloved hand, feels its stillness stir up something ugly and wounded within him.

”Shane.” He can hear himself now, just in time to watch the rush of bodies swarm Shane’s. Just in time to hear the crowd again, partial murmurings interspersed with gruff cheers. In the thick of it all, a sharp cry.

When Ilya was younger, and he was trying to get better at his English, he’d watch the Discovery Channel. The features were nice, soothing, and the narrators always spoke slowly. He’d throw on the subtitles and mouth the words alongside the shows’ narrators. He remembers one late-night special about the Australian outback. The camera crew had been following a group of kangaroos, and one of them had a baby—a “Joey,” the documentary informed him. The “Joey” would leave the pouch, bounding around on its little newborn hind legs. If it fled too far away, it would let out a cry, a “kangaroo cry,” the narrator called it. Sharp sounds that carried a specific frequency, one only its mother was attuned to.

That is what Ilya hears now, in the wake of all the chaos. The ref is pulling him back by the shoulders, forcibly pushing him away from Shane’s body so the medics can get him off the ice, and he hears it. The sharp cry, more like a screech, slicing through the hum of the crowd surrounding him.

“Daddy!” he hears. “Daddy!”

He turns his head, standing on shaky legs as he follows the sound. He glides past the fight, past the other Metros sort of hovering over Shane’s limp body, until he sees her: his child, banging her tiny fists against the plexiglass surrounding the ice.

“Sshhh, shh,” he mouths at her, knowing she can’t hear him, and even if she could, she wouldn’t be listening. Sofya’s got her by the waist, trying to tug her back from the plexiglass, but she won’t budge. She’s dropped her hands to the boards, holding on for dear life. Ilya skates right up to the glass, pressing his nose to it directly across from hers.

“Malyshka,” he says. She still can’t hear him, but he can hear her. He hiccuped cries, interspersed with the parsed way she chokes out, “Shanya.” He hears the grief in her voice, familiar and raw, dragging him back to those first few months after her parents passed. Sometimes, he forgets she was in that car wreck too. That she had to watch them die. He tells himself, resolutely, that that is not what’s happening right now. He has to believe this, or he’ll break down too. He can’t afford to fall apart, not here, in front of all these people. Not when his child needs him.

“Is okay, is okay,” he soothes, over and over again, rapping against the glass with his knuckles like one does to a fish bowl. His little fish doesn’t stir.

Sofya eventually gets Natalya to loosen her grip on the boards. She steers her towards the break in the glass, where others have to hop the boards to walk onto the ice. Natalya lifts her arms, and Ilya reaches around awkwardly, lifting her into his arms, where she immediately buries her face in his neck and continues crying.

Ilya stands at the edge of the rink, decked out in full gear, watching the love of his life get carted off center ice while rocking his crying child in his arms. Shane is strapped to the stretcher, and medics are saying words to him, telling him to calm down, to keep talking. His head is lolling back and forth, so he must be awake. Ilya wants to tell Natalya this, if only to reassure himself of Shane’s safety, but he doesn’t, can’t get a word past the worry clogging his throat. He knows she wouldn’t hear him anyway, too tied up in her own fear, probably reliving old memories Ilya will never be able to bleach from her conscience, no matter how many therapy sessions he forces her to attend. So he hums, softly, just loud enough that the vibrations in his vocal cords will reach her tear-stained cheek. His mother used to do this for him after particularly bad nightmares, hum him back to sleep. He hopes his child finds the gesture just as soothing as he had.

Once Shane is walked off the ice, the ref starts to herd players back to their respective sides of the rink. Ilya’s coach barks out orders to each of his teammates before his eyes land on Ilya, sharp and angry.

“Rozanov! What the fuck are you doing? Get your kid off the fucking ice!”

Ilya feels a sharp stab of guilt wind through his chest as he pulls back from his daughter, thumbing her clenched fists away from his jersey.

“No,” she shakes her head, fresh tears welling along her lashline. “No, no. Daddy, no.”

“Shh,” he hushes her, skating closer to the gate where Sofya and—shockingly—Jackie Pike are waiting for him. “Look, your friends are here.” And they are, Jackie’s little gaggle of kids surrounding her, the twins looking shell-shocked. They must be upset about the hit too, Uncle Shane going down on what was presumably supposed to have been a nice family night out. Watching dad play Boston on home ice. Watching Uncle Shane go down like that had probably not been in the cards.

As he gets closer, he sees that Jackie’s twins and Arthur have tear tracks on their cheeks. Jackie’s cheeks are dry, but she’s wearing a pinched expression, worry written clear across her face. He gets to the boards and Jackie opens her arms, reaching for Natalya.

“Ah, ah, heavy load, Miss Mamma,” Ilya sends Jackie’s baby belly a pointed look, cracking a smile out of her. Natalya must understand he’s trying to hand her off, because she wails, clawing at his forearms and chest relentlessly, trying to worm her way back into his embrace. His heart breaks for her, but he doesn’t cave. He wants nothing more than to hold her for hours on end; rock her to sleep until she forgets what she saw on the ice this evening. Perhaps he could forget as well. But, while hockey may be a form of entertainment for all the onlookers in the arena, it is a job for him. And while it is a job that he enjoys most of the time, it is still a job. He will probably do it poorly the rest of the night, but it doesn’t matter. He signed a contract, he has people on his payroll, he has a child to feed. Shane Hollander is downed on the ice, but Ilya Rozanov has another two hours before he can allow himself to feel the fear he knows has settled in his memories behind a thin film of resolve.

Natalya has no such compunctions about feeling anything.

“Daddy, no!” she yells, clinging to his shoulders as he awkwardly passes her off to Sofya. The press is going to have a field day with these photos. Another compilation to add to the case they’re building against him for being a shitty parent.

“Daddy, no!”

Sofya’s got her in a bear hug, pinning her little arms down, while Jackie pets her wild hair back in a soothing gesture. Natalya stares at him, looking utterly betrayed, her lower lip sticking out in a pout. He hates that he has to leave her. Hates that he can’t leave this stupid rink, grab her hand, and rush her to the hospital with him so he can be at Shane’s side. He leans over the boards, kissing her forehead, whispering to her in Russian, asking her to be a good girl. She doesn’t reply, just resumes glaring at him through her tears. When Ilya rises, Jackie tells him she’ll take them back to her home, that she’ll try to distract her and the twins with some movies or games. Ilya thanks her, hugging her and her children goodbye, then he turns and skates back to his bench, where he proceeds to play the shittiest game of his NHL career.

***

Shane wakes up to bright fluorescent lights shining down on him. He squeezes his eyes shut, flexes his fingers, then his toes. Okay, he thinks, that’s good. Not paralyzed, at least. He moves his right hand, but when he tries to move his left, a sharp pain rises from his collar.

“Oh,” he says, dazed and slow.

“Oh, hey, no buddy, c’mon, settle down.”

He feels a pair of hands grab at his forearm, pressing it back down into the sheets. He opens his eyes and sees a bleary, half-formed image of Hayden.

“Oh,” he smiles. “Hey.”

He smacks his lips a few times, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. He closes his eyes, opens them again, and there’s his mom.

“Shane, sweetheart—” she says, her words uncharacteristically sticky and choked. Her hair’s in disarray, dark circles beneath her eyes. Shane frowns, trying to reach for her with his left hand, and feels another jab of pain.

“Hey,” he says to no one in particular. “That hurts.”

“Then stop moving it, idiot,” Hayden scolds him, pressing down on his arm again.

“Okay,” Shane sighs, settling back into the pillow. His eyelids feel heavy, he’s having a difficult time holding them open. He raises his not-hurting hand to his face and spreads his fingers to hold his eyelids open.

“Shane, what the— what are you doing?” Hayden asks. He sounds like he’s holding back laughter.

“I’m awake,” Shane assures him. But his fingers are slipping, and his hand falls to his chest. He blinks a few times, watching as dark spots begin to dance around his vision.

“Go to sleep, Shane,” he hears his mother tell him. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Mm,” Shane replies, slipping further into oblivion. “Goodnight, ‘lya.”

***

The next time he wakes, he’s a little more lucid, but not by much. He follows the conversation between his mother and his doctor well enough to understand that he’s suffered a serious concussion, that he’s fractured his collarbone, and that he’ll be out for the playoffs. That last bit hurts the worst, but he’s too high to feel the full sting of letting his team down.

His mother stays with him for an hour or so, joined by his father. He’s not up for talking much, his thoughts filtering in and out too slowly, his tongue still wanting to stick to the roof of his mouth, but he listens to them speak, lets their quiet voices wash over him, soothing him. They eventually leave to go grab breakfast, and he settles down for a mid-morning nap. It feels like he’s just drifted off when he hears the door open again. He opens his eyes, only to find J.J. and Hayden at the end of his bed.

“Hi,” he says, squinting against the sunlight filtering in through the blinds.

Hayden offers him a tight smile. J.J. says nothing. Shane’s face falls.

“Oh no,” he panics, rising from his lounging position. “Did I break something else?”

“No—hey, no. Shane. Buddy. Calm down.” Hayden rushes around the hospital bed, pressing down on his good shoulder. “You gotta stay still, man. Doctor’s orders.”

“Oh, okay,” Shane looks at him, then looks over at J.J., trying to solve the world’s most complicated social puzzle. “Why do you look so sad?”

Hayden stands, shifting his feet.

“Not sad. Um. Nobody’s sad. We were just worried about you.”

“Yes,” J.J. says, his voice tight. “‘We.’”

“J.J.—” Hayden starts, but J.J. cuts him off with a scoff, shaking his head. Shane stretches out, far enough that he can tap J.J.’s thigh with his big toe.

“Hey,” he tries to smile, wondering if J.J. had just been worried he’d, like, died or something. “Heyyy, J.J. I’m okay. Look,” he waves his uninjured arm around, hoping at some point he’s gestured to himself. “Oh-kay. Okay. Okey.” Hey giggles out that last part, thinking of Ilya. “Okeyyy.”

“Look at him, dude. He’s way out of it. You really wanna confront him now?”

Shane perks up, looking from J.J. to Hayden, then back to J.J.

“Confront me about what?” he asks. Hayden sighs, shaking his head before shooting a glare in J.J.’s direction.

“Nothing, Shane. Just, uh, well. We’re not the only ones. Um. Here to see you.”

“Oh,” Shane frowns, brow furrowed in concentration. “And that’s bad,” he surmises, based on J.J.’s pinched expression.

“Umm…” Hayden starts, but Shane shakes his head to cut him off, making himself dizzy.

“Is it Coach? Did my mom already tell him I’m out for the playoffs?”

“What? No, Shane. No, nothing like that.”

“Oh.” Shane’s frown deepens. “I don’t understand.”

In an instant, it appears J.J.’s managed to find his voice again, spitting the words out like a curse.

“It’s Rozanov, man. Fucking Rozanov is out in the waiting room. He’s got his kid.”

Shane’s face instantly lights up, uninhibited by the care he typically brings to schooling his expression when Ilya’s mentioned.

“Ilya?” he asks, trying, once again, to sit up. “Ilya’s here? Can I see him?”

“Buddy, you gotta stop doing that,” Hayden scolds, pressing a hand to his chest to push him back down into the mattress. “Yes, he’s here. He stayed with Jackie and I after the game.”

“Awe,” Shane smiles, dopey and saccharine. “That was nice of you.”

“Uh huh,” J.J. says, voice dry and expression still hard.

“He—” Hayden starts, but is cut off by a knock at the door. The knock must be a rhetorical request, because not even a second later Ilya’s peeking his head through, glancing around the room warily.

“Ilya,” Shane sighs, reaching out with his uninjured hand. “Ilyaaaaaaa.”

“Okay, shh, shh,” Ilya hushes, sliding into the room through the crack in the doorway, Natalya seated on his hip. As soon as she sees Shane, she perks up.

“Shanya!” She tries to wiggle out of Ilya’s arms, but he holds onto her tightly. “Daddy, let. Go!” She punctuates each word with a sharp twist of her body.

He says something to her in Russian, and she calms down, but only just. She’s staring at Shane with big doe eyes, and they’re already filling with tears.

“Gentle, malyshka,” Ilya tells her in English, squatting so that her feet are planted on the ground. “You can see him, but be gentle.”

She nods her head solemnly, and when he lets go of her she doesn’t immediately sprint to Shane’s side. Instead, she approaches hesitantly, tiptoeing over to Hayden, where he’s still standing at next to the bed. She crawls up onto the chair that Yuna had sat in overnight, sitting on her knees so she can keep eye level with Shane.

“Hi,” she whispers, like he’s a baby, ready to be spooked at any loud noises. “Are you hurt?”

He reaches for her with his free hand, feels the feather-soft tips of her hair with his fingertips.

“A little,” he whispers back. “Just on my left side. This side’s okay.”

“Okay,” she keeps whispering. She moves her hand to his forehead, petting his messy bangs back, a motion Shane’s watched Ilya do to her countless times. It’s soothing and kind-hearted and Shane’s too drugged up to police the intimacy around others. Hayden already knows, and J.J.—

Oh. Oh, yeah. J.J.’s here.

He glances over at his friend, catching him in a shocked state.

“Can I give you a hug?” Natalya asks, still petting his hair back from his face. Shane forgets about J.J. as quickly as he remembered him, rolling his head again to meet Hayden’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “Can she?”

“Why you asking me?” Hayden chuckles. “I’m not your doctor.”

“Oh,” Shane says, finally looking back at Natalya. “I don’t know.”

“Here,” Hayden moves, pressing against his good shoulder, then his ribs. “Feel okay?”

“Mmm,” Shane agrees, closing his eyes and nodding his head. “Okay.”

“Okay, then, here. Natalya, c’mere.”

Shane’s eyes are still closed when he feels a dip in the mattress next to him. Then a warm, little body is pressed to his side, a familiar head of hair fluffing up into his mouth and nose. He sneezes, wincing at the pain it spikes in his collarbone.

“Ow,” he says, opening his eyes again. Natalya’s pressed her palm to his chest, rubbing her hand in small circles.

“Shh,” she says. “It’s okay, Shanya.”

Shane smiles, using his free, uninjured hand to run his fingers through her curls. Hayden grabs onto her calf, which is half-falling off the bed, and maneuvers her leg so that her knee is bent and her leg is hitched over Shane’s.

“There,” he says, a self-satisfied smile taking over his expression. “Hug accomplished.”

Shane’s eyes slide from Hayden over to Ilya.

“Hi,” he says around a mouthful of hair.

“Hello,” Ilya smiles, standing with his hands in his pockets, shooting an awkward glance in J.J.’s direction. Shane waves him off.

“S’okay. He’s my friend.”

“Right,” J.J. scoffs. Shane’s too high to look into the hidden meaning buried in his blase actions and shitty mood. He keeps his eyes on Ilya.

“Was a hard hit,” Ilya says, stepping closer to the foot of the bed. J.J. moves away from him, sitting on the doctor’s stool near the desk covered in jars full of cotton balls and Q-tips.

“Mmm,” Shane replies, smiling when he feels Natalya dig her nose into his (unbroken) collarbone.

“I’m injured,” Shane replies, words blunted by the drugs. He’s having a hard time following linear conversations.

“Yes,” Ilya says, voice tight. “I gathered that.”

Shane frowns.

“I can’t play hockey.”

“No,” Ilya says, placing his hand on one of Shane’s blanketed feet. He rubs at his heel with his thumb. “You cannot.”

“Coach’sss gonna be so mad. Can’t play. For playoffs.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything, just watches him with those bright, perceptive eyes of his. He doesn’t stop rubbing Shane’s foot.

“Hate being injured,” Shane sighs, using his fingers to pull some of Natalya’s hair away from his lips. “Think Coach will hate it too.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says, the words sounding like they’re being dragged out of him. He’s staring at Shane, his eyes glossed over, and he can’t seem to stop touching him.

“S’okay,” Shane replies, smiling again. “At least I’m not dead, right? Coach would be so pissed if I were dead. Think he prefers me being, um, alive. And stuff.”

Ilya shifts, his posture going rigid. He stops rubbing Shane’s foot, just rests his hand there, fingers wrapped loosely around his ankle.

“Yes,” he says, eyes welling up with tears. “Is my preference too, I—think.” The last word comes out choked, a broken sob, and he brings a loose fist to his mouth, turning away from the room.

“Ilya—?”

Ilya waves him off, shaking his head minutely. He keeps his knuckles pressed to his lips.

Shane looks to Hayden, whose eyes are wide as saucers. He’s staring at Ilya, then looks over at J.J. who looks just as shocked. Hayden shakes his head, like he’s clearing his thoughts of a fog, then walks around the bed, careful to steer clear of Ilya, and grabs J.J. by his upper arm.

“C’mon,” he tells him, voice hushed. He ushers J.J. out of the room, sparing Ilya one last understanding look before shutting the door behind the both of them. Shane is left alone with two teary-eyed Russians, too drugged up to know what to do about it.

“Hey,” Shane tries. He wants to move, but Natalya’s weighing his body down, wrapped around him like an octopus. “Hey, baby, hey—”

“Ah, I am sorry,” Ilya sniffs, wiping beneath his eyes with his knuckles. “Was—was a long night.”

“C’mere,” Shane calls to him, patting the empty spot on the bed next to his hip. “Here.”

Ilya comes, sitting at the edge of the mattress, just as Shane had requested. He takes Shane’s hand between both of his, bringing it to his lips and kissing his knuckles. He holds Shane’s hand to his lips, then tilts his head to press his forehead to their clasped hands.

“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers to both of them. Natalya sniffs against his neck, and she turns her head, her damp cheek resting against his chest. Ah, so she’s crying too. Ilya shrugs. He says nothing, like he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack if he speaks. Shane tugs his hand out of Ilya’s so he can stroke his cheek, his curls, anywhere he can reach.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, grasping his hand again and tugging it down so they can rest their clasped hands on Natalya’s back. “I’m okay, Ilyusha.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, voice crackling beneath the weight of fear and grief and whatever else Shane imagines he’s been holding onto since last night. “But you could have not been.”

“But I am,” Shane insists, shaking their joined hands. Ilya looks up at him, his eyes rimmed red, lower lip puffed out from where he’s been gnawing at it. He’s so beautiful, Shane thinks. So perfect and kind and beautiful.

I think I’ll marry him.

“What?” Ilya asks, eyes widening in concern when he catches Shane wincing at his own thoughts. “What’s wrong? She is hurting you?” he gestures to Natalya, face still buried in Shane’s neck. Shane shakes his head, staring dazedly at Ilya’s perfect face. He’s picturing it now, coming home after a day of hard practice. Ilya’s already there, pulling food out of the fridge so they can prepare dinner together. Natalya’s at the table, her massive Lego collection taking up half the space, a permanent fixture in Shane’s Montreal apartment. There is a shelf at the entryway, lined with shoes of all sizes. A show plays in the background, children’s cartoons, the volume turned down low so Ilya can ask Shane about his day. It’s so domestic. So sweet and silly and unreal, and it has Shane tearing up just thinking about it.

“Shane.” Ilya moves to tug Natalya out of Shane’s lap, but Shane bats his hand away, shaking his head.

“S’not her. M’okay. Okay, Ilya.”

“Then what? What is it?”

Shane looks at him, keeps looking at him. Feels overly fond at the expression of concern Ilya wears, his hands hovering awkwardly over Natalya’s body. Another vision pops into Shane’s head: Ilya, looking nervous as he does now, but not because Shane is hurt. He’s looking at himself in the mirror, adjusting and readjusting his tie, then his cuff links, his collar. He can’t stand still, fidgety and fearful. Shane has to come to him, steady his nerves with a kiss to his cheek, reassurance that he wants this. That they both want this.

I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you, he pictures himself saying. He almost says it now, the words framed as a question.

Would you spend the rest of your life with me?

The vision shifts, and he’s at his cabin. They’re out on the lake dock, Natalya splashing around in the shallow end looking for interesting rocks, Ilya laid out next to him. Smiling up at him, his curls bleached by weeks spent basking in the sunlight, His shoulders dotted with sun-kissed freckles.

Would you spend your summer with me?

This, Shane thinks, elated. This is something he can ask for.

“Would you—” Shane tries, thinking through his question carefully, thinking around the way images continually seem to stick to the edges of his brain. He feels light and easy, like what he’s asking for is the right thing. He thinks, maybe, in a different state he might be nervous, but not now. Not with Natalya’s steady weight grounding him to his body, Ilya’s warm touch keeping his thoughts on track. He is completely surrounded by the two people he loves most in the world—aside from his parents—it’s difficult not to let his bravery bolster him forward.

“Do you want to come to my cottage this summer?” Shane asks, keeping his gaze locked on Ilya’s eyes, imploring. “After playoffs, when the season’s over. Would you stay? With me?” Forever? he doesn’t ask.

Natalya’s breath hitches. She rises from her spot at Shane’s side, careful not to jostle him. She grabs at her dad’s elbow, his sleeve, anywhere she can reach, tugging at him impatiently.

“Please?” she asks, eyes bright and needy. She looks just as desperate as Shane feels. “Please, Daddy, pleeeaaase? I’ll do anything! I’ll clean my room!”

Ilya huffs out a laugh, breaking away from Shane’s intense stare to meet his daughter’s eyes.

“This is what you want?”

Shane knows Ilya’s speaking to his daughter, but he still lets out a breathy “yes,” answering Ilya’s inquiry alongside Natalya. Ilya grins, ruffling Natalya’s hair. He winks at Shane, and stretches out his arm to ruffle Shane’s as well.

“Well,” he says, hand lingering on Shane’s cheek, thumb brushing over his freckles. “We’ll see what we can do.”

***

Ilya and Natalya leave after twenty minutes. They have to catch a flight, and Ilya’s already pushing it. Once they're gone, Hayden and J.J. return, carrying small paper cups full of cheap hospital coffee.

“Hey, man,” Hayden says, handing him one of the cups. “Don’t worry. Asked a nurse if it was okay if you had some. She said it’s fine. Decaff.”

“Wow,” Shane grins, “thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He stands awkwardly next to the bed, fiddling with the rim of his cup. J.J. stands next to him, staring down into his coffee cup and looking like he’s gearing up to say something. Shane sighs into his cup, making little waves ripple along the surface of his drink.

“You can ask,” he says, not looking up because he’s not quite ready to meet J.J.’s eyes.

“There’s nothing to ask about,” J.J. says, his voice coming out strained and slightly wounded. “It’s pretty clear what’s happening here.”

“Okay,” Shane replies, bringing the cup to his lap and turning it around in his hands. He still can’t look up, still can’t face the look of disgust that seems to have been building on J.J.’s face all day.

“Just wish you’d have told me,” J.J. says, the wind having left the sails of his words. He’s left sounding, just, incredibly hurt. Enough so that Shane has to look up, catching his friend scowling down at his coffee cup.

“I mean—shit, man. You should have seen the guy yesterday. Looked fucking distraught after you got downed. Played like dogshit the rest of the game too. And his kid was in hysterics. Would have just been nice to know, y’know? Coulda said something. I mean, hell, Shane, I thought we were friends—”

“We are!” Shane interjects, jolting so hard he almost spills his coffee.

“Well clearly not! I mean—fuck, dude—the guy was crying over you.”

“Was a bad hit,” Shane grumbles, going to cross his arms, wincing, then settling on taking another sip from his coffee. “I’d have been upset too.”

“Right,” J.J. sighs. “That’s the point, man. If it had been him, I would have had no idea what was going on. Woulda had no clue that I should have even been, like, comforting you. Or anything. I’ve been trying to be supportive, you know? I hear you on your phone calls and stuff. I’d have liked to hear about it.”

Shane eyes him warily, taking another sip of his bitter coffee.

“Even if it’s Rozanov?”

J.J. groans, but he shares a secretive smile with Hayden.

“Ah, Capitaine. Yes, I suppose. Even if it’s Rozanov.”

“Mmm,” Shane settles back down into the sheets, watching placidly as Hayden reaches for his half-emptied cup, setting it on the nightstand.

“You should get some sleep, bud. Exciting morning.”

“Yeah,” Shane breathes, already closing his eyes. “Exciting.”

“I’ll bring the girls in a bit later, yeah? They were worried about you too.”

“That’s nice,” Shane sighs, feeling himself drift off. “Lots of people who love me.”

That gets a chuckle out of Hayden.

“Yeah, man. We do. ‘Night.”

Shane doesn’t reply. He’s out within seconds.

***

Shane waits patiently as Ilya works his way through the play-offs. He’s proud of him, watching him fight for a chance at the cup from the comfort of his parents’ couch. In the end, Boston is knocked out in the second round.

It’s been almost a month since the hit. A month of lazing around his parents’ home in Ottawa. A month of seeing Ilya only through the medium of screens: his television, his phone, his computer, when his phone dies and he has to Skype Ilya from his laptop. He misses him desperately, feels his absence like a phantom limb. Something that should be there, that he feels has always been there, and yet is not. Sometimes he presses his palm to his heart like he’s thumbing at a bruise, wondering how long he’s supposed to go on like this. If this is truly how lonely he’s been, stripped down and raw now that the distraction of hockey has been momentarily ripped out of his clutches. He tries not to dwell on it, but he can’t help but wonder if this loneliness will persist into the next season. And the next. If every time he’s off the ice, he’ll find himself wishing Ilya were there with him. He doesn’t think people are supposed to live like this, getting their love in scraps like mangy dogs prowling inner city streets. Even Hayden, after weeks on the road, gets to come home to his family. Shane comes home to a sterile apartment and an empty practice arena. He doesn’t think that’s tenable in the long run. Not anymore. Not when he knows what it feels like to wake up wrapped in Ilya’s arms, Natalya’s little head cradled against his chest. The antithesis of loneliness. He almost wishes he’d never been offered a glimpse into that life, if only to believe that what he has right now is enough.

Ilya calls the night after Boston is kicked out of the finals, ready to pack his bags and high-tail it out of Boston the next day.

“I’ve got a promo shoot in L.A. next week,” Shane explains, “then a meeting with sponsors in New York, so we can’t actually head to the cottage quite yet.” Ilya grumbles over the phone, begging him to reschedule, to let the next three or four weeks belong to them. Just them.

“You are the superstar, Shane. They cannot work around you?”

Turns out, they can. They move the shoot back by two days, getting Shane in and out of L.A. by day after tomorrow. And the meeting with his sponsors? It’s a Zoom call now. Shane tells his mother to schedule anything else that arises in a similar format, or to push it all to August.

Ilya agrees to fly out to Ottawa that following Tuesday, giving Shane a day to air out the cottage, ready the guest room for Natalya (where she will, presumably, never sleep and never hang out). Ilya explained on the phone that he’d shipped Sofya and her daughter off to Cabo for a few weeks, so it would just be them. The thought of having Ilya and Natalya to himself has Shane so giddy he forgets he’s already disinfected the countertops and ends up doing it twice.

The day Ilya arrives in Ottawa, Shane picks him up from the airport in his jeep. “Boring,” Ilya calls it, which Shane immediately disproves by popping the top down and letting Natalya hang her head out the side of the vehicle with her tongue out like a dog.

“Cool,” Shane corrects him, grabbing his spare sunglasses from the dash and sliding them onto Ilya’s face.

They stop at Shane’s parents’ place for lunch. Natalya recognizes the house as soon as they turn into their street and starts bouncing erratically in her seat. By the time they’ve parked, she’s already unbuckled herself and tugs uselessly at her child locked car door. Not one to be defeated so easily, she grabs onto the edge of the car and swings her legs around, hopping down from her perch and racing to the front door before either Ilya or Shane can scold her.

Ilya turns to Shane, raising his eyebrows above the rim of the shades.

“Dangerous,” he combats, and Shane snorts.

“You’ve got me there.”

Lunch with Yuna and David goes smoothly. Natalya hugs Yuna so long that Yuna gives up letting go and carries her to the kitchen. Natalya’s attached to her at the hip the rest of the afternoon.

They linger after lunch. Yuna wants to go over a few more things with Shane at the counter, her “mini-office,” as David so lovingly puts it. “She has an entire office to herself, yet she insists on dragging all her work out here while I’m trying to cook.” It’s a half-hearted complaint. Shane knows his mom brings her work out to the kitchen so his dad doesn’t have to be alone while he cooks. It makes Shane think of all the meals he’s made over the past six months with Ilya’s face propped up on a bottle of olive oil, chattering about his day while Shane cooks.

While Shane and Yuna discuss work, Natalya braids Yuna’s hair. Again. And again. She’s doing a poor job of it, creating more tangles than she is plaits, but Yuna doesn’t seem to mind. Meanwhile, David’s brings Ilya out to the garage to show him some issue he’s having with his Sudan. Turns out, Ilya’s not just full of hot air when it comes to vehicles. Through coveted and rare anecdotes he’s shared about his childhood, Shane’s learned that he actually knows a great deal about cars. “My uncle taught me,” Ilya told him during one of their FaceTime dinner chats. “Said men only need to know three things: cars, cunts, and how to hold their own vodka.”

“Wow, charming,” Shane grimaced. “He should be proud. Sounds like you got around to accomplishing all three.”

Ilya smirked at him through the screen.

“Well, the alliteration still works if we say ’cocks’ instead, though I’m not so sure he’ll be proud of that one.”

“That’s okay. Based on that saying alone, I don’t think we’re missing out on not gaining your uncle’s approval.”

“Ah, no,” Ilya laughed. “He was a shit husband, and a shit father, I think. But he did know his cars.”

And now, so does Ilya. He figures out what’s wrong with David’s vehicle within fifteen minutes.

“Is the alternator,” he tells Shane, walking back into the house with his sleeves rolled up. Shane tries not to drool over his exposed forearms and oil-stained fingers. “Need a heavy object. Like a crowbar or something.”

“There’s an old baseball bat in my room,” Shane suggests.

Ilya jerks his head in a nod.

“That’ll work.”

Curious, Shane drags Yuna and Natalya out to the garage, where they stand awkwardly next to David and watch with equal parts rapt fascination and horror as Ilya bangs the baseball bat against the car’s alternator. Hard.

“Uh, hey kid,” David tries between bangs. “I don’t think—” Ilya stops beating the alternator, then walks back around to the driver’s seat and turns the keys in the ignition.

The car starts smoothly.

“Spring in the alternator,” Ilya tells his small crowd of onlookers. “Sometimes it gets crooked in the housing. You can right it with a few hits. Many people don’t know this and just buy a new alternator.”

“Wow,” David grins, accepting the keys Ilya tosses his way. “Thanks, kid.” Ilya winks at him, then winks at Shane, who’s about three seconds away from jumping his bones. Ilya knows it too, because as they all shuffle back into the house, he crowds in close to Shane’s personal space and whispers directly in his ear, “I’ll bang your alternator tonight, baby.” Shane shoves his face away with his full palm, laughing all the while.

They leave shortly after that. Yuna sends them off with three large tupperware containers full of pasta, fruit, and steamed buns.

“She doesn’t trust me to feed you properly,” Shane sighs as they drive away from the house. Ilya offers him a conciliatory pat on his thigh.

“She probably just doesn’t want my child getting mercury poisoning from eating baked salmon for the next three weeks.”

“Oh shut up,” Shane laughs, swatting his hand away.

The first few days at the cottage go smoothly. Natalya, upon entering the bedroom Shane set up for her, takes one look at it, tells him it’s pretty, then proceeds to sneak out of it at every opportunity to sleep in Shane and Ilya’s bed with them. This would be fine, if she had a timer on her or something. A little bell indicating Shane has fifteen minutes left to come, shower, and look natural before Natalya tiptoes into the bedroom and wedges her way in between the two of them.

“She’s been sleeping on her own a lot more frequently,” Ilya tells him apologetically, on an evening when she slipped out of bed almost as soon as they settled down beneath the covers. “Maybe she is just missing you.” Shane can’t find it in himself to complain after hearing that. So what if his entire vacation consists of a few measly handjobs and the occasional shower blowie? Not a week prior he’d been wallowing in self pity, missing Natalya and Ilya to the point of feeling a physical pain tugging at his chest. His libido can take the hit.

Not that he or Ilya have much time for sex anyway. Turns out, spending a full day with a toddler, sans nanny, is a job within itself. It’s like owning a puppy who can talk and smokes crack. Breakfast is no longer breakfast. It’s an ordeal. Shane learned his lesson the first morning they all shared together. He made pancakes, had even bought real maple syrup to go with them, then proceeded to reap what he sowed about thirty minutes after the meal. Four hours of hide-and-go-seek tag later, he promised Ilya he’d never give her that much sugar so early in the day again.

If they’re not playing they’re swimming. If they’re not swimming they’re hiking. Shane finally caves to Ilya’s knowing smirk by the afternoon of the third day and throws on Blue Planet. Yeah, screen time rots children's brains, but at least the nature documentary will make it a slow death. And who’s Shane to judge, really? He plays a contact sport for a living.

By the end of the first week, once Natalya’s been put to bed, Ilya and Shane are falling into bed together, snoring the day away as soon as their heads hit the pillow.

“I guess maybe this is not what you were thinking your sex retreat was going to be like when you invited me here,” Ilya tells him jokingly one afternoon on the doc. The day is playing out just as Shane had envisioned it back in the hospital. Ilya, lying with his head on Shane’s lap, one arm draped over his sun-kissed abdomen, the other hanging over the doc’s edge, swirling lazily in the lake water. Shane’s threading his hand through his damp hair, in awe of the fact that his curls are already that much brighter with just one week of sun. The only difference between this and his fantasy is that Natalya’s not scouring the shoreline for rocks. She’s burying her legs in the mud, trying to convince the surrounding ants it’s their new home. Shane can’t wait to wash that out of her bathing suit later.

“Little ears,” Shane scolds Ilya, no heat to his words. “And no, it’s not exactly what I imagined.”

He feels Ilya tense up beneath his hands, so he quickly offers him a disarming smile, bending down to kiss him gently.

“It’s much better.”

And it is. Truly, it is. Shane never pictured himself having a family. A Stanley Cup? Yes. MVP award? Absolutely. But a family? Kids? Sure, in some nebulous, far-away land called “the future” where hockey ceased to exist and his dick finally started rising to the occasion for tits, yeah. He’d have a family. But now? At the peak of his career? When he’s still got ten good years of hockey left in him, at least? No way.

Except—

He glances over at Natalya, who’s taken to uprooting all the grass around her and planting it in the dirt mound on her legs.

—way.

That evening, Shane builds a fire for them out on the patio. They roast hot dogs and smores. Ilya even manages to convince him to eat half a smore, and Shane savors the flavor by closing his eyes and moaning around his bite.

“Okey,” Ilya says, accent thick and heavy. “Smores privileges revoked.”

Natalya has a difficult time with the art of marshmallow roasting. She keeps getting the marshmallows too close to the fire, setting them aflame. Shane tries to show her the proper way of roasting them, how they have to be brought near the coals and turned at a steady pace until they grow light brown. She quickly grows bored of the process and begins to intentionally start miniature marshmallow fires. Ilya at least manages to keep them corralled within the confines of the fire pit.

After Ilya and Natalya eat enough smores to make themselves sick, Natalya races back into the house to grab her carry case full of Polly Pockets. Ilya lies down on the couch, resting his head on Shane’s lap with an exaggerated groan.

“I ate too many smores,” Ilya bemoans, speaking the words into Shane’s stomach.

“You don’t say,” Shane says, stabbing at the fire with a poker.

“She’s gonna be bouncing off the walls tonight,” Ilya groans again, purposefully ignoring Shane’s “I told you so” tone of voice.

“Hmm, and whose fault is that?”

“Yours. You bought the smores.”

“Yes, thinking she’d eat two, maybe three at the most. Not six.”

“Whatever,” Ilya waves him off. “Is vacation.”

“Your vacation,” Shane grumbles. “My house.”

“Mmm,” Ilya hums, planting a loud, obnoxious kiss on Shane’s clothed stomach. “Vacation by proxy.”

Sure enough, getting Natalya to settle down for bed later on is taking an act of God. She and Ilya take turns reading three chapters of their Harry Potter book. Shane’s never seen the movies, nor has he read any of the books. He’s only caught snippets of the plotline via Natalya’s bedtime. They must have reached the climax of the book, because Natalya’s locked in. Meanwhile, Shane’s fighting off sleep, having eaten a healthy dose of sugar before bedtime. The three of them are crammed into the full-size bed Shane keeps in the guest bedroom, Natalya tucked in between Shane and Ilya’s large frames. Shane eventually falls asleep, head tipping over to rest on Ilya’s shoulder. He’s awoken some immeasurable time later with a slight shake of his shoulder.

“Hmm,” he grumbles, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes on Ilya’s shoulder.

“Let’s go to bed, before you get a cramp in your neck,” Ilya tells him softly, kissing his forehead before sitting up.

“Oh,” Shane croaks, “okay.

He’d have thought Natalya would be asleep if Ilya was herding him out of the bedroom, but when he rolls off the bed and glances back, he sees that her eyes are still open. Bleary and squinted, but open.

“Nigh’ night, daddy,” she tells Ilya. She opens both of her arms for a hug, and he falls into them easily.

“Goodnight, Malyshka. I love you.”

She gives him a sleepy smile, then turns its full force onto Shane.

“Nigh’ night, Shanya.”

Shane steps around to her side of the bed and sits at its edge. He reaches over, smoothing her hair out of her face. She’s got freckles now, like him, the sun having etched them into her skin. She’s so perfect, the most precious thing in his life.

“Goodnight, Natasha.”

“I love you,” she says, closing her eyes, like she already knows the feeling will be reciprocated. Like she hasn’t just planted a bomb at Shane’s feet and scampered back to dreamland.

“I—” he stops, staring at her prone form before shifting his gaze to Ilya.

Ilya, who looks just as shocked as Shane feels. And maybe it means nothing. Maybe it’s just what Natalya knows she’s supposed to say before bedtime, a rhythm she and Ilya have established. But Shane’s not going to squander this opportunity. He thinks of his lakeside fantasy, of the visions he has of them sharing a meal together, every night, every day for the rest of his life. He thinks of Ilya, lying next to him in bed with his daughter for the first time, staring across the short distance between them and saying, “There are no words to describe how I am feeling.” But there are. There are words for this. And Natalya, Ilya’s perfect daughter, a child spun of all the pieces of Ilya that make him fun and beautiful and joyous, put a name to that exact feeling before Shane himself could.

He looks Ilya directly in the eyes and says, “I love you too.”

Ilya’s eyes widen, like he’s been spooked, like this is somehow coming as any sort of surprise to him. He looks over at his daughter, like somehow she’ll know the answers for any of this. Shane watches him panic, watches him tuck the blankets up beneath Natalya’s chin before leaving the room, not meeting Shane’s eyes. Shane, feeling surprisingly calm after having just laid everything out on the line, follows him out into the living room. As soon as he’s shut the door, Ilya’s speaking, his words coming out hurried and apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he says, running his fingers through his hair nervously. “I’m sorry. She didn’t know. And I know you don’t—” he starts pacing, both hands have made it to his hair now. He’s still not looking at Shane, looking anywhere but at Shane. “I know this isn’t—I mean, you’re not obligated to say—that. To—to mean it. To—you don’t have to do anything, Shane, I’m so sorry. You don’t need to—you don’t—I mean, just because I love you doesn’t mean you don’t—”

“Marry me,” Shane says, feeling his grin spread so wide it hurts the muscles of his cheeks.

“I—what?”

Shane lets out a disbelieving laugh, taking a step forward into the living room.

“Ilya,” he says again, voice confident and clear, “marry me.”

“Okey,” Ilya says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Okey, Shane. I think, maybe, you are skipping a few steps, yes? I think you are freaking out.” He says this while lowering his palms from his head slowly, like he’s placating a child. Shane takes another step forward, then another.

Then drops to his knees.

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Shane—”

“I’m in love with you.”

“You’re not—”

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“You really don’t—”

Shane reaches up, grasping both of Ilya’s hands between his own and tugging them to his lips. He kisses his knuckles, and he looks up at Ilya like he’s holding all the answers to each one of his prayers.

“I love your daughter, Ilya. I love her so much.”

“Shane,” Ilya tries to interject again, but the objection comes out warbly. He’s staring down at Shane with bright eyes, surface tension acting as the only barrier between him and his effervescent feelings.

“Rovanov,” Shane teases, lowering the pitch of his tone and putting on a terrible Russian accent. He tilts his head playfully. “You are having panic attack.”

Ilya laughs, and his tears fall. He slumps into Shane’s embrace, wrapping his arms around his neck. He kisses him, smearing his wet cheeks against Shane’s, and Shane holds him close, feeling Ilya’s legs bracket his own.

“I love you,” Ilya says in between wet, perfect kisses. “I’m so in love with you.”

Shane falls back until he’s lying on the living room rug, Ilya crawling over him.

“I love you too,” Shane whispers. “Holy shit, Ilya. I love you so much.”

“This marriage,” Ilya grunts, already trailing kisses down the column of Shane’s neck, unbuttoning his pants. “You have ideas? To make this work?”

Shane nods, cradling Ilya’s head to his chest.

“I have ideas.”

“Mmm, I also have ideas,” Ilya slurs, bunching Shane’s shirt up beneath his armpits and peppering hot, wet kisses down his chest.

He proceeds to show Shane just how many ideas he can come up with in a single night. It’s only after his third orgasm and about twelve ideas later that Shane, delirious and come-drunk, says, “You never said yes.”

“Mmm?” Ilya is roused from his spot dozing off on Shane’s chest. Shane shakes his shoulder, really trying to get his attention.

“My proposal. You didn’t say yes.”

Ilya props his face up on Shane’s chest and smirks.

“Oh? Third orgasm was not confirmation enough?”

Shane swats at his shoulder, pouting.

“Ilya—”

Ilya shimmies up his body, kissing the cleft in his chin.

“Ask me again,” he breathes, planting featherlight kisses over Shane’s lower lip.

“Ilya,” he sighs. “Ilyusha. Marry me. Be my husband.”

Ilya rewards him with a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. Shane figures it’s as close to an affirmative as he’s going to get.

***

Shane does not, in fact, have any ideas. He spends the next few days secretively scouring the internet for Canadian citizenship laws, adoption laws, Russian adoption laws, the consequences of gay marriage in Russia, etc. All things he probably should have thought through prior to his proposal. But what’s done is done. He’d proposed, and Ilya had (mostly) said yes. It’s now Shane’s job to come up with the plan.

He comes up with several. None of them are ideal, but they’re not… terrible. He brings each one forward for Ilya’s input during a day trip to the Ottawa animal farm.

“First option,” he begins, lifting Natalya up by her armpits so she can pet one of the goats. “We get married ASAP, no public announcement or anything. Just a small ceremony. Then we’re both free agents in a year.”

“Yes,” Ilya nods, his brow furrowing as he thinks it through. “Okay, I’m with you so far.”

“Afterward, we both sign with Ottawa—sweetheart, don’t feed the baby goat your bracelet— we both sign with Ottawa.”

“But how would that work? Aren’t there, eh, salary caps? Things like these? To keep teams even?”

Shane nods.

“Right. We’ll both have to take pay cuts.”

Ilya scowls.

“I do not want you losing money because of me.”

Shane gives him a flat look.

“Ilya, baby, respectfully, my salary is chump change compared to my endorsement funds.”

Natalya wiggles free from his hold so she can reach down between the rungs in the gate and grab some loose hay. She then tries to feed it to the goat, who ignores the hay for her hair. Shane has to tug it out of his mouth.

“Okey, fine. So we take pay cuts.”

“Yeah, and it’s perfect. I mean, my parents will be there, so Natalya can stay with them when we’re on the road. That way, she can attend school, you know? Like, in person.”

“Right,” Ilya rubs at his forehead. “Shit, I haven’t even thought of her formal schooling.”

“Well, I have,” Shane perks up. “There’s a really nice public school in my parents’ district, if you want to go that route. There’s also two renowned private schools; though, one is Catholic. I’m not sure how you feel about—”

“Shane, I love you. I love that you are thinking of this. But what about the harder part, ah? Residency? Citizenship? Can you even adopt Natalya?”

“Kinda, it’s a bit of a three year process for both. Russia can’t technically do anything about it, as long as you, um—” he stutters, watching Natalya teeter over to another goat, trying to feed it the hay that the last one ignored. “—don’t return home. Uh, like. Ever.”

They both watch on in silence as the second goat nibbles at Natalya’s fingertips. One of the petting Zoo owners takes notice, and hurries over to join her. She kneels down, reaches into the pockets of her overalls, and hands Natalya what Shane can only assume is some sort of goat feed.

“I haven’t thought about returning,” Ilya finally says, his voice giving away nothing about how he’s feeling on the subject. “Not much left for me there. Would be sad though, I think. Natalya never seeing her home again. If she wanted to. If that’s something she…” He trails off, and Shane watches him flex his fingers, like he instinctively wishes to reach out to Shane for comfort, but understands they’re in a public space. Shane casts a quick glance around, noting that most of the other families are preoccupied with the animals, then brushes the back of his hand against Ilya’s. It’s brief, but pointed. A small act of comfort in a sea of potential onlookers.

“Well, I don’t know that she could never go back. She’s not, like, the one in a gay relationship. She definitely couldn't as a minor, not if we want to retain custody. But maybe, y’know. When she’s older.”

“Right,” Ilya huffs, then laughs in a disbelieving manner, bringing his hand to his jaw, rubbing at it like he’s frustrated, but Shane knows he’s just thinking. “Fuck, I still can’t believe you— that you want this. To adopt her. To—” he’s cut off by Natalya’s sharp peals of laughter. They both turn their heads, like pointers to a hunt, only to see that the first goat she’d been petting earlier has marched over to her, and she now has two goats, larger than her, eating out of the palms of her hands.

“Oh, I’ve got to get a picture of this,” Shane laughs, squatting down to get a better angle with his phone camera. Ilya stays standing, close enough that his legs brush up against Shane’s side.

“You said you have other plans,” he points out, voice drifting down from over Shane’s head. “Other things you’ve thought through if Ottawa does not work out.”

“Right,” Shane rises from his squat, patting down his pants. “Well, if Ottawa won’t take us—for the salary cap, or whatever reason, who knows—then we can always pitch to a different team. Only problem is that if we end up in the U.S., that’ll complicate the citizenship stuff. Not too bad, but enough that we’d probably have to hire a team of lawyers. And my parents wouldn’t be around. Or—I don’t know, maybe they would be. We could get them a rental or something. Worst case, we still have Sofya, and we can keep Natalya enrolled in online school for the foreseeable future. But, that’s not my favorite option. I think she should be around other kids, you know? Better for childhood development. Actually, I was reading that—”

“Shane, sweetheart,” Ilya smiles as he grabs him by the shoulders, shaking him a bit. “I understand, but stay on topic, okay? What if this cannot happen? That the league will not allow us to play on same team for whatever reason. I don’t know, we are both too good or something. Too much money. What then? We find teams near each other? Somewhere in Canada? So we don’t have to worry about all this citizenship stuff?”

Shane wrinkles his nose in disapproval.

“But—then we’re not together. Not in the same household.”

Ilya shrugs.

“Is not the worst thing in the world, da? You stay with Montreal, maybe I go play for Ottawa. Or Toronto. Or some other Canadian team. We’ve done this distance thing a long time. We know it’s not impossible.”

Shane looks away from him, back at Natalya. Back at the little scene she’s making with the goats. She’s stuck a few bits of hay between her lips and is letting the goats eat it from her mouth so she can give them kisses. Shane would find it gross if it wasn’t so sweet.

“But, then I’m not with you. Not really. And I’m not with Natalya either.”

Ilya lets out a low sound of frustration.

“Yes, but you are still with your team. You are not sacrificing so much for me. You are still with Metros, still winning your cups. We will make the rest of it work.”

Shane shakes his head, looking down at his feet.

“No—you don’t get it, Ilya. It’s not about me anymore. It’s not even about you, really. It’s—” he gestures toward Natalya, who’s giggling at her new goat friends. “It’s about her. She’s our first priority now. And maybe we can live on scraps of each other, but not her. She deserves something more substantial than what we’re currently offering her. Something stable. She deserves two parents who will come home to her each night. A support system. Love. A family.” He stops, glancing up to catch Ilya turning his head, discretely wiping the corner of his eye against the collar of his shirt. Shane wants to reach out, to hold him, but he knows he can’t. He settles for another brush of the hands. A silent “I’m here.” Ilya takes a moment, breathing through whatever he’s feeling, whatever it is Shane has said that’s got him glassy-eyed and soft.

“You would do this?” Ilya finally asks, his voice coming out scratchy with unshed tears. “Leave the team you built from the ground up for a kid you never asked for?”

Shane makes sure Ilya’s looking at him when he shrugs, smirking.

“I got a better offer.”

Ilya lets out a wet laugh, wiping at his eyes again. Shane gives him a moment to compose himself, walking over to join Natalya and her band of goats. He grabs her hand, trying to goad her into continuing on, encouraging her to see the rest of the animals while they’re here, but she shakes her head, planting her feet firmly on the ground, grabbing onto to rail and stubbornly keeping her eyes on the goats. Shane sighs, standing with his hands on his hips, glancing back at Ilya with a “What can you do?” raising of his eyebrows. Ilya joins them, tugging at one of Natalya’s ringlets playfully, letting it slip through his fingers as she kneels to keep feeding the goats.

“If teams refuse to take us together after this year—” Shane opens his mouth to butt in, but Ilya holds up his palm, a silent request to let him finish. Shane acquiesces, nodding at him to continue.

“If— and I know is big “if”—but if the teams will not take both, then I quit. I pack up from Boston, and Natalya and I come to you. In Montreal.”

Shane gapes at him. He rests his hand on the rail of the goat pin, processing the repercussions of what Ilya’s suggesting.

“Ilya—what? I can’t ask you to—”

Ilya shakes his head, a silent interruption.

“You are not asking. I am telling.”

“But what would—” Shane looks around wildly, like he’s searching the perimeter for someone else, someone listening in. So he can ask, “Are you hearing this?” There is no one, of course. Just a sparse smattering of parents with their toddlers. Nobody is paying them any mind, nobody cares that Ilya’s offering to upend his entire life just—because?

Ilya repositions himself, standing behind Natalya’s squatting form, so that the tip of his shoe barely brushes against Shane’s. He smiles, tight-lipped and apologetic, like he hates the thought too.

“What would you do?” Shane asks, ignoring the bigger question: why would you do it?

Ilya shrugs, the nonchalance not quite reaching his eyes.

“What anyone does, I suppose. Get a job.”

“Ilya—”

“Listen, is not—” he huffs out an exasperated breath, throwing his palms out in frustration. “Is not ideal, okay? Is not our first choice. But it is a choice. And I will take it.” He glances over at Shane, shoulders tight, rising to his ears like he’s readying himself for a fight. Shane doesn’t fight him. He lets go of the rail with his right hand, sneaking it over to brush his pinky against Ilya’s, the closest to a soothing gesture that he’s going to get.

“I do not pay attention in church very often,” Ilya starts up again, a complete non sequitur. “I am mostly there if we have off days, you know. So Sofya does not think I am raising a little heathen.” He pauses, smiling down at Natalya, who’s taken to letting one of the goats nibble on her fingertips. “Ah, well, sometimes I am listening. There was a story a few weeks back, it was about a king. And these two women, they bring a baby to him, and they are arguing about this baby, each one claiming it is their own.

“So, the king grabs the baby, saying, ‘Okay, how about this. I cut the baby in half, and I give you each a half of the baby.’ One of the women cries out, saying please no, please don’t kill the baby. Just give him to her, the other woman, but do not kill him.”

Ilya turns, smiling at Shane grimly.

“Maybe you can guess who the real momma is, da?”

Shane purses his lips, wondering where this is going.

“Well, the king figures it out. He gives the baby to the woman who worried over the baby’s life, knowing she is the real mother.”

“Okay,” Shane says, after an appropriate amount of time, once he knows Ilya’s story is complete. “Well, um, that’s nice.” He doesn’t know where this is going. He glances over at Ilya, watching amusement wash over his expression. Ilya bumps his shoulder against Shane’s, letting him know he’s not being made fun of, that he’s not the butt of the joke.

“What I am trying to say, sweetheart, is that I will not cut my child in half.” He brings his hand down to Natalya’s head, patting her halo of curls good-naturedly. “She deserves a full life. She deserves her family, her parents. Just as you have said. And if this means no hockey, then that is what this means.”

Shane sucks in a sharp breath, taking the biggest risk of the day and reaching out to squeeze Ilya’s hand, smiling around tears when Ilya squeezes back. He drops Ilya’s hand quickly, but the warmth lingers, spreading to his chest.

In the end, they don’t settle on one set solution, but at least they know their options. And, at least they know how far the other is willing to go to make this relationship work.

They also never end up leaving the goat pen, spending another two hours standing around hashing out minute details while Natalya ping pongs between the two goats, getting equal amounts of hay and fur all over her smock. Shane knows he’s going to have a trip trying to clean it all off of her before they get back in the car. Not surprisingly, he finds himself looking forward to it.

***

The summer days blur together after the second week, a brief period of time in which Monday bleeds into Tuesday. And suddenly Tuesday is Wednesday. Or is it Thursday? It's only when the third week rolls around that Shane starts to feel time pressing in on him once again. Monday is definitely Monday. Tuesday is solid, leading into a Wednesday that promises only four more days. Four days left of lazy mornings shared on the couch, afternoons in the lake, evenings in bed, the three of them squished in together to watch Blue Planet on Shane's mounted bedroom TV. In four days, Shane will leave for a promotional shoot, and Ilya for preseason meetings with his team. They will not see each other again until the end of August, when Ilya has a short, two-day trip planned to fly up to Ottawa with Natalia so that he and Shane can sign their marriage certificate in his parents' house. Yuna and David will act as witnesses, while David's nephew—who had purchased the right to be an ordained minister online for one of his friend's weddings, and who has been sworn to secrecy—will initiate the wedding. Well, the signing. They haven’t actually decided on whether or not they’ll bother with a ceremony. Either way, Shane will be married. He will have a husband and a child and a half-baked plan to keep them. But, for now, it’s a Wednesday, and Natalya's finally braving the lake water without her floaties.

Shane stands waist-deep in the lake, Ilya facing him from about four meters away. He's holding Natalya from beneath her armpits, bent at the waist to speak into her ear the directions he's been repeating to her each time she's tried to push off from him: keep your head above the water, keep paddling, keep kicking. She nods, her face comically stoic and resolute. She's determined to make it into Shane's arms, despite her last three failures. You look so much like your father, Shane thinks, watching her upper lip stiffen as Ilya starts to loosen his grip on her. Ilya counts to three, letting go of her as soon as he reaches the final number, and she's floundering, limbs flailing and mouthing gasping at the surface of the water like a koi fish. She works her body so hard, yet she gets nowhere. As soon as her head goes under, Ilya grabs her and hoists her up from beneath her arms. She coughs and spits out lake water, letting out a frustrated wail when she discovers she hasn't made it any further than where she started. She beats her fists into the surface of the lake, splashing water all over her and Ilya.

"It's not working," she cries, and Shane can see tears of frustration pooling in her eyes. "Daddy, I can't do it!"

"Shh, you can, Malyshka. I promise," Ilya tries to sooth her. "You are very close."

"I'm not," she argues. "The water hates me."

Ilya sighs, holding her against his chest and sending Shane a "what can you do" look over the top of her head.

Shane understands the feeling well, understands the frustration that accompanies pushing one’s body over and over again, begging it to break past the limitations it's set for itself. He is intimately familiar with failure, remembers spending many days in the junior leagues shooting so many practice pucks into the net that his shoulders ached for days afterward. However, he also knows the reward that accompanies surpassing his own expectations of himself and achieving his goals, has touched the banner of achievement that only the best in every field, every step of life, have attained. Shane is a winner; he recognizes that same, fearsome stubbornness in Ilya, was drawn to it that first face-off of their junior championship final. And he sees it now, recognizes its presence in the dogged perseverance Natalya brings to the task, in the strong set of her jaw, the uptick of her lips. She is like her father, and like her father, she will win.

Shane knows he doesn't need to say anything to encourage her. He just says, "again," ignoring Ilya's exasperated eye roll. So, they let Natalya try again, and again; and each time she finds herself flailing, sinking into the water, just long enough to feel nervous, but not fearful. She clearly trusts Ilya to catch her.

The sun is falling behind the treeline, another precious day wrapping up. Shane can tell from Ilya's repeated sighs that he's over the exercise in futility. He, like Shane, is probably tired; and he, like Shane, probably wants to pull the salmon out to defrost so they don't have to eat dinner at 10:00 p.m. Ilya doesn't call out "one last round," but Shane can feel it coming, just as easily as he can see Natalya's frustration with herself growing. He takes one step forward, then another, but stops when she shoots him a glare, like she knows he's stopped believing in her. He holds his hands out in apology, and steps back. She takes one deep breath, then another; then, without warning Ilya, she scrambles out of his grip, kicks off his thighs, and—

And she's swimming. She's swimming! Albeit, poorly, with her mouth gasping for air and her limbs working double-time, but she's doing it!

"Yes!" Shane whoops, pumping his fist as she doggy-paddles her way towards him. "Yes, baby! Good, keep going! Keep going!" She hears him, smiling into the water. He takes a step back, then another, letting her swim further and further, until she lets out a whine of frustration when she seems to have finally figured out what he's doing. Her limbs appear to give out, her head bobbing beneath the water, and Shane grabs her, helping her break the surface. She gasps and coughs into his face, then turns in his arms to see how far she's come. Ilya waves at them from his end of the lake.

"I did it!" she screeches, turning to face Shane so she can wrap both arms and legs around him. "Daddy! I did it!"

Shane's elation is thrown momentarily. She's excited, but she's not yelling, so unless Ilya was listening carefully over the lapping of the waves, he probably didn't catch everything she said.

"Daddy, did you see? Did you see, I swam to you! I swam the whole way! The whole entire way! I didn't even stop!" she pulls back, very clearly speaking to Shane, her eyes wide and dewy with river droplets clinging to her blonde lashes. She smiles at him, that smile that looks so much like Ilya's. So trusting, so carefree, like she knew the entire time that Shane would catch her. That he'll always be there to catch her. Shane feels like he's the one who's been dunked in the lake water, his ears filling with cotton, the sound of the gentle waves filtering in like an echo. All he can hear is her little voice. Daddy, I did it!

"You did it," he thinks he replies. He can't hear himself speak. Is surprised he manages it, forcing words to swim out around the lump forming in his throat. She doesn't give him time to process his new title, already turning to wiggle out of his arms and race toward Ilya again.

"I'm coming back!" she yells out. "Watch me, okay?"

Shane knows she's speaking to Ilya, but he watches her all the same, his hands numbly letting go of her small body, setting her free to race back into her father’s arms.

Or, he supposes, her other father.

He sinks into the lake until his shoulders are submerged, kneeling and resting on the balls of his feet so that the waves can rock him back and forth, his body floating with the current. He sees that Natalya has reached Ilya's arms, is wrapping him up in an octopus-level embrace so they can celebrate her new skill together. He tries to sear the image into his memory: Ilya spinning his child around, lake water splashing up in the wake of their antics. A few droplets catch the sunlight, throwing small rainbows across their sun-kissed bodies. I was so alone, he thinks, watching Natalya turn once more to swim back towards him. For so long, I was so alone.

"Daddy! You catch me!" She calls out, and Shane is offered the wonderful view of seeing Ilya hear it for the first time. She kicks off his stunned body, and Shane keeps half his attention on her, half on the way Ilya's expression melts into something tender and special. They lock eyes across the lake, and Ilya smiles, that beautiful, brilliant smile, never offered in halves. Just like his love. Just like his devotion. Shane smiles back, winking at him just as Natalya reaches him, sputtering and coughing around a mouthful of lake water.

"You did it!" Shane tells her again, holding onto her waist so she can catch her breath. She drags matted, drenched curls out of her face and smiles.

"My beautiful girl, good job. You did so good."

***

Dinner is easy. They don't talk about it, but every time Natalya calls Shane "Daddy” —"Daddy, I don't want the broccoli," "No, daddy, no more juice," "Daddy!" (when he teases her and tells her there's no dessert)—Ilya’s eyes light up like it's Christmas. The same title for both men is confusing, but Shane figures that's a problem for another day.

Natalya had wanted to linger in the water after learning she could swim, so by the time dinner has been eaten and cleaned up, and she's been given her nightly bath, it's an hour past her regular bedtime. Still, she manages to convince Ilya to read her one bedtime story, "just one" she promises.

Shane knows Ilya, and he knows he'll easily be conned into reading at least two or three, so he sends them off with a goodnight, kissing Ilya's confused look off his face before heading to the bedroom. He knows he's got at roughly minutes to prep. Perfect.

He takes his time in the shower, cleaning and opening himself up in a perfunctory manner. He shaves, moisturizes, leaves the bathroom to lie naked atop the sheets, using his dildo to work himself open a bit more, just enough to allow Ilya to slide in without resistance, without prep. He wants it to be perfect, a perfect end to a perfect day.

He's just cleaned the dildo off and closed it back into the drawer when he hears the door creak open. Ilya's being quiet about entering, so he must think Shane's asleep. Shane uses his hesitance to his advantage, shuffling over to the center of the bed and propping himself up on the pillows. Ilya tiptoes around the corner, then stops, eyes widening as he takes Shane in. Shane smiles lasciviously, then slides his feet up and lets his knees fall open, exposing himself to Ilya like a perfectly unwrapped present.

"You gonna fuck me," Shane asks, slow and teasing, "daddy?"

"Fuck," Ilya breathes out, winded, like he's just run a marathon. His eyes zero in on where Shane has slid his hands down his body and has begun fingering himself, slow, with two fingers, showing Ilya just how ready he is, how he doesn't need to do anything, how he only needs to sink into Shane's body, warm and inviting, where he belongs.

"C'mere," he calls again, unlocking Ilya from whatever temporary paralysis he seems to have found himself in. Ilya shakes his head, then hastily steps out of his pants, only breaking his gaze from Shane's lazy movements when he has to tug his T-shirt off. He steps forward and out of his boxers, throwing them aside as he crawls up onto the bed. He grabs Shane by both shins, spreading his legs even wider. Shane sends a silent prayer up to no one, a thank you for the fruits of his yogi labor.

"Oh, look at you," Ilya practically growls, sliding his hands up to Shane's knees, then his thighs his thumbs pressing into the folds around Shane's groin. "My pretty boy, skipping out on his fatherly duties to finger himself open for me, da?"

"Yes," Shane whines, tilting his head back and bearing his neck for Ilya's mouth. "Please, I deserve it."

"You do," Ilya sighs, his words sounding like a purr. He slinks his hand down until his thumb joins Shane's fingers, pressing in alongside him, forcing a hiss from between Shane's teeth. "You work so hard, daddy. You deserve a reward, I think."

"Ilya!" Shane's hips snap forward. "Fuck!"

Ilya doesn't let him speak after that, capturing his lips in a wet, heated kiss. He slips his tongue in, licking into Shane's mouth as he continues to push his thumb in and out of Shane's body. Slow, languid, like he has nowhere else to be, like his weeping dick isn't pressing a bruise into Shane's lower thigh. He keeps Shane's mouth occupied while he reaches over to the bedside table to blindly search for a condom, pulling back for just long enough to rip the packaging open with his teeth and roll it on with one hand. He then returns, his body cloaking Shane's, sharing his body heat in the already damp, sticky air of the summer, the thick of it cut through only by the soft breeze filtering in through the bedroom window.

"Ilya, please," Shane whines, hooking his ankles behind Ilya's thighs, dragging him in closer.

"'Please,' he says," Ilya mocks, trailing open-mouthed kisses down his throat. "Please, please—-"

"Ilyaaaa—"

"Oh, you say my name so pretty, baby," Ilya groans into the hollow of his throat. He sits up, sliding his hands up Shane's chest, thumbing at both nipples. Shane keens, arching into the touch, simultaneously rubbing his wet entrance against the underside of Ilya's dick. Ilya reaches down with one hand, lines himself up, and fucks into Shane in one smooth stroke.

"Say it again."

"Ilya!" Shane yelps, bucking up into the motion. His hands scramble for purchase in the sheets above his head, grasping uselessly at the material which offers too much give. Ilya pulls out of him, slow and teasing, and Shane bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. He feels full, always so full with Ilya inside him, bordering on painful with the first few thrusts. No matter how much time he spends on prep, it always feels as though Ilya's a hair's width away from pushing him beyond his breaking point.

"Oh, Shane," Ilya sighs, sliding in slow. He knows what Shane wants, knows this pace is damn near torturous for him. Every time. He appears to relish in it, in Shane's silent suffering, pulling out, pushing in, languorous, like he has all the time in the world. He stares down at where they're joined, and Shane, half out of his mind with need, reaches down between them, fingering the spot where they're joined, feeling—

His fingernails catch on the slick edge of the condom, and he suddenly has a heady, excited thought.

He presses the palm of his hand out, stilling Ilya's slow-going motions. He meets Ilya's eyes, who's raised his eyebrows, and scoots up the bed until Ilya falls out of him. He holds Ilya's gaze as he very carefully, very deliberately, circles his thumb and forefinger around the tight band of the condom and rolls it off. Ilya's brows pinch in confusion, until Shane scoots back down, slow, giving him time to process, and rubs the leaky head of Ilya's cock against his—

"Oh!" Ilya gasps, the confusion wiped from his expression, replaced by shocked glee, his eyes wide with delight. They quickly narrow with hunger, then close in their entirety when Shane guides him forward, nudging the thick head of him past the tight ring of muscle. "Oh."

"Mmm," Shane hums, reaching around with both hands to knead at Ilya's perfect, plump ass, inching him further inside, sighing when he's fully seated, his sharp hipbones digging into the underside of Shane's thighs. Shane runs a mini experiment, clenching the muscles of his ass, letting out a soft laugh when Ilya hisses and pulls out all the way to the tip.

"Fuck, baby, you can't—"

"Mmm?" Shane hums, tilting his head in a falsely innocent gesture. Ilya gives his waist a retaliatory pinch between his knuckles.

"You can't do that—Jesus—is way too sensitive," Ilya breathes, pressing in again, slowly, brows pinched and eyes squeezed shut, only to pull back out again, almost instantly.

"I didn't even squeeze that time—"

"I know, is just—" Ilya sucks in air through his teeth, and he flexes his fingers, his grip on Shane's waist turning bruising. "Is a lot. Fuck—"

"Won't you open your eyes?" Shane asks, turning his voice saccharine and sweet. "Won't you look at me?"

Ilya takes one deep breath, then another. He peeks his eyes open, only for them to grow wide with disbelief when Shane sucks his own thumb into his mouth, then slides it down, wet with saliva, to play with one of his nipples. At the same time, he wedges his arm beneath himself, using it to hoist himself up, thrusting his hips up into Ilya's loose grip, taking his cock into his body completely.

"Shit, shit, shit—" Ilya pants, closing his eyes again, holding onto Shane's hips so tight they can't move. "Shane, please—fuck— you're going to kill me."

Shane tries not to show it, but he's feeling— incredibly smug. Since the first time they began fucking each other, that fateful night in a hotel room when Shane came down Ilya's throat within thirty seconds, it's Ilya who has to fight against his own body. Ilya whose eyes are squeezed shut like he's in pain, like he's one light breeze away from blowing his load. Good, Shane thinks, belatedly, getting a taste of your own medicine.

"Ilya," Shane coos, rolling his hips up, slow and tantalizing, suppressing a giggle when Ilya grips his hips, hard, and sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Baby, don't you wanna fuck me?" He punctuates the remark by reaching down, stroking the base of Ilya's dick between the V of his fingers. Ilya grabs his hand, clenching his teeth.

"There isn't going to be any fucking if you keep that up," he says between deep breaths. Shane wonders what he's thinking about as he's trying not to come. When they first started fucking, Shane would try to think of the least sexy scenarios to hold himself off. Like losing a hockey game. Like losing a hockey game to Rozanov. Like losing a hockey game to Rozanov because he'd just scored a beautiful goal against the Metros.

He came all over his own stomach after that.

"Come in me," Shane sighs, arching his back again. He grabs Ilya's hands and guides them up the damp skin of his chest. Ilya takes the hint, thumbing at his nipples as he rocks his hips—only just. "Come inside me, Ilya. I wanna feel it."

Ilya grunts, stilling again. He pants, heavy and fast, and moves his hands to grip Shane's shoulders.

"Shane, please—" But the "stop" is left unsaid, his mouth hanging open, lips pink and puffy from being kissed. Shane heaves himself up onto his elbows and licks Ilya's lower lip, speaking directly into his open mouth.

"I don't care," Shane sighs. "I don't care how fast you come. Just fuck me again. And again. As many times as you want. Because I'm yours." Shane grips him by the back of his neck, tugging him down so that his weight forces him to sink back into Shane's body. "My husband."

"Fuck, Shane!" Ilya cries out, moving his head down to bite his cry of pleasure into the meat of Shane's shoulder. Shane feels the muscles beneath his hands tense up, Ilya’s body locking up as he comes. Shane can feel it, vaguely, the warm sensation easing up from his core. He feels Ilya go limp in his arms, then sappy and sweet as he often becomes post-orgasm, planting tiny kisses across Shane's chest, lingering at a nipple, nibbling at it lightly. A bit annoying, seeing as how Shane's still rock-hard.

Ilya kisses down lower, slipping out of him as he softens. Shane scrunches his nose up in distaste when he feels come start to trickle out of him, surely staining the sheets. Ilya leans back and grabs both of Shane's ankles, hiking them up over his shoulders. He ignores the little "oof!" sound Shane lets out, dragging his palms down Shane's legs until they're cupping his asscheeks, spreading them wide so he can stare down at Shane's asshole like it's some sort of beat up Christmas gift Shane's been hiding from him.

"Fuuuuuck," he groans, eyes going comically wide as he dips his thumb down, slipping it inside Shane with way too much ease. Shane moans, turning his head to the side and biting down on the goose feather pillow.

"Gonna play with you til' I get hard again."

"Fuck—"

"Then I'll fuck you so hard you can't see straight."

"Ilya!" His admonishment turns into a yelp when Ilya hunkers down, using both thumbs to spread Shane wide open, and licks a broad, wet stripe up his asscrack.

"Shit!"

"Mmm," is Ilya's only response. He's too busy tonguing his own come back into Shane's body, the sound sending sharp vibrations up Shane's spine. Shane mindlessly starts humping the sheets, small gyrations of his hips taking the edge off until Ilya pins his lower back down with his forearm, offering no explanation.

"Dick," Shane grunts, twisting his fingers in the damp sheets and trying not to cry tears of frustration. Ilya hums again, and the sound could mean anything. Acquiescence or protest, Shane doesn't care, the feeling goes straight to his dick either way. Ilya takes his time, knowing he's got another fifteen to twenty minutes before he can get it up again. He uses that time to his advantage, tonguing and teasing at Shane's rim so long he starts to shake, the muscles of his thighs quivering in Ilya's strong grip. Ilya eases him back down onto the bed, flips him, then licks a long, wet trail up to the head of his aching cock, swallowing him down while continuing to finger him lazily. He rubs at Shane's prostate, pushing him right to the edge three times within the timespan of twenty minutes or so. By the time he's fully erect, Shane's a gasping, needy mess, mindlessly muttering, "yes, please, more," when Ilya slides back up his body, then turns him by his hips to press his face into the cool mattress. When he slips back inside Shane, the move eased by his own come, Shane's mind completely blanks.

"Now, I give you what you want," Ilya groans into his ear, biting at his soft earlobe as he does exactly that, pounding into Shane so relentlessly that it has him seeing stars.

"Ee—lee—yah—ah—ah—" Shane cries, shuffling up onto his elbows, before promptly giving up and reaching out blindly for the headboard. Ilya doesn't stop. He grabs his hips, angling them up until he's on his knees. He then wraps his hands around Shane's upper thighs and pounds into him fast and sharp, hitting Shane's prostate dead-on.

"Ilya, I—" Shane chokes, wiping his sticky tears and drooling mouth against the pillow. He groans, open-mouthed, still blindly trying (and failing) to hold onto the headboard. "Ilya, I'm—"

"Yes, baby," Ilya grunts, fingers digging into the meat of Shane's hips, no doubt leaving finger-shaped bruises. "Yes, come for me. Just for me, sweetheart."

"Ilya—" Shane tries again, squeezing his eyes shut. He grits his teeth, feeling his orgasm build and build, wishing desperately that he could reach down, or even just lower his hips. Get some sort of friction on his aching cock. Ilya leans down, his sweaty curls tickling the back of Shane's neck as he pants against his deltoid.

"You gonna come on my co—ck," Ilya groans, the harsh "k" of the "cock" coming out sharp and pointed, "daddy?"

"Fuck!" Shane cries out, burying his face in his pillow so he can practically scream out his orgasm. His toes curl, his vision whiting out completely. Ilya doesn't let up, not remotely. He keeps going, pausing only long enough to flip Shane over onto his back, to run his hands up Shane's sticky stomach, his chest, palms sliding down to grip his hips, lifting him bodily to continue plowing into him. He keeps hitting Shane's prostate, and Shane feels overstimulated, bordering on painful. Tears run down the sides of his cheeks, joining his sweat in dampening his hairline. His fingers join Ilya's on his hips, and he opens his teary eyes, staring up at Ilya, begging him, voice slurred, "yes, please, please, Ilya, come in me, fuck me, please, please," like his body isn't pushing itself to its limit. Like he isn't fucked so stupid he can't feel the pain in his joints. He tugs one of Ilya's hands up, sucks two fingers into his mouth and moans around them like they're Ilya's cock. And that must do it, because, suddenly, Ilya's body goes rigid, his muscles locking up, torso curling around Shane's own as he comes, again, deep inside of Shane. He stays there, wilting like a flower, letting Shane hold the whole of him, his cock slipping out when Shane lowers his sore pelvis, and they both groan at the emptiness. He turns a bit, so he's more cuddled into Shane's side then he is fully weighing him down. Shane frees his left hand, slipping it down between his thighs, fingering his puffy, abused rim, gasping up at the ceiling when he slips a finger in, feeling how wet he is.

"God, baby, please," Ilya grumbles, grabbing his wrist and pointedly pulling it out from between his thighs. "I cannot possibly go again. Please don't get me hard."

Shane snorts, rolling onto his side so that they're facing each other. Ilya looks absolutely spent, his golden curls a deep, rich color in their damp state, sticking to his sweaty forehead like a halo. He wraps his arm loosely around Ilya's waist, bringing his face close enough to rub his nose against Ilya's. Ilya smiles at him, dopey and love-drunk, rubbing his nose back.

"Hey," Shane says, planting a soft kiss on the jut of his upper lip. "Remember when I made you come hands free?"

Ilya huffs out a breathy laugh, tilting his head to nose at Shane's damp cheek. Shane grins, whispering into his ear, "Such a good trick." He emphasizes the "oo" sound, topping off the "k" with a loud click of his tongue. Ilya laughs then, a real laugh, and shuffles down to stifle his giggles against Shane's neck.

"I love you," Ilya sighs, disarming Shane completely. "I love you so much, Shane."

Shane swallows, wrapping both arms around Ilya's torso, pulling him close into his chest. He rests his cheek atop his sweaty curls, knowing they'll need to get up and shower eventually. Change the sheets. But, for now, he rests, letting Ilya doze off on his chest, drawing mindless shapes against the peppered skin of his back. He wonders, distantly, if he'll ever get used to the feeling of having Ilya fall asleep with him, if the novelty of it will dull with time. And then, he is elated, knowing they will have time now. Soon. And he vows then and there to never, ever take advantage of this feeling. That it can't possibly lose its luster. Like hockey, Shane goes into each game with a fresh mindset, a fluttering in his stomach that stems from getting to be exactly where he wants to be. Every time. That will be this life, Shane thinks. This life with you. A constant hum in my veins. A feeling in my gut, knowing that I'm finally where I belong.

Here, with you, he thinks.

My husband.

***

Shane wakes up around 4:00 a.m. and can't fall back to sleep. His mind is racing, fear circulating in with the warm and tender memories he's made over the past two and a half weeks. He lies there wondering how the upcoming year will pan out. This final year of separation. One more year of coveting Ilya's touches over weeks of longing. Of logging the changes in Natalya's appearance in large spans of time. Large enough that the changes are prominent, that he'll actually notice them, instead of watching them occur in real-time. He wonders how much this will hurt her, this distance her family insists on, and she can't understand why. Why they're not together all the time, like this. Why wouldn't they be together all the time, when it clearly makes them so happy? And it's not like Shane can just—drop everything and fill all his free time with the two of them. Not now, when he needs to invest as much sponsorship money as he can in the next year; he and Ilya both. Just in case. In case their plan goes south. In case—god forbid—he and Ilya get dropped from the league once the cat's out of the bag.

And the cat will be let out of the bag, it's only a matter of time. Whether their outing be voluntary, or accidental, it will have to be soon. They can't ask a child to hold onto a secret like this. She doesn't deserve that. Her father doesn't deserve that.

Shane drags himself out of bed. He grabs a throw blanket off the back of the living room couch and heads out onto the veranda to stew over his intrusive thoughts on the porch swing.

Maybe, he thinks quietly. Maybe I don't deserve that either. Living with the fatigue of hiding himself. Hiding the way he loves Ilya, has probably loved him for a long time. He'd hidden it from himself for too long, he doesn't think he can keep it from the rest of the world for much longer. For the first time in his life, he wants what seemingly everyone else surrounding him has, takes advantage of, even. A partner, a family. Someone to come home to after those grueling practices. Someone to hold him after long stints on the road. Someone who makes it all worth it: the money, the fame. There is someone else in Shane's life who will reap the benefits of his success. He thinks he's starting to get it, this unique sort of love that only parents seem to possess. This isn't about him anymore. It's not even about Ilya. It's about a little girl who feels no compunctions throwing her wiry arms around his neck and screaming "Daddy!" at the top of her lungs.

"Is very early," he's startled from his thoughts, head jerking away from the lakeside view to see Ilya leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He's thrown on sweatpants, but not a shirt, the light of the moon reflecting off the lake's surface and casting him in a blue-green hue. He's so handsome, Shane thinks. Has always been so incredibly handsome. It makes him think of their first night together: Ilya, smaller in stature, still larger in life in Shane's eyes. He'd been so young then. Eighteen, baby fat still filling his cheeks, curls framing his face like a halo, making him look like a grumpy, mean-mugging cherub. The lighting had been different, a soft glow of lamplight cast across those cheap hotel sheets. Ilya had touched him so purposefully, exuding an air of confidence Shane could only ever dream of carrying. He understands now that even then, even in their clumsy manhandling and half-baked blowjobs, they'd been building something. Laying the foundation for years to come. Years of Ilya running from something, and Shane chasing after him. Chasing and chasing, their bodies changing in time with them. Changing, restructuring. Growing stronger and fuller, cast in all different shades of light, shadows thrown across different angles of their bodies. Yet still, across time spanned in seconds and weeks and years spent apart, Shane has always looked at the man before him and never ceased to think that he is beautiful. In every stage, every era of their lives, he has always been beautiful.

Ilya pushes off the door frame and strolls over to Shane's place on the bench. He doesn't sit next to him, opting instead to stand before him, stepping in between Shane's legs, which spread naturally in Ilya's presence. His view of the lakeside is blocked, replaced with Ilya's abdomen. Ilya raises his hands and grips Shane's jaw loosely, angling his head up.

"What has you up this early?" he asks, manually tilting Shane's face this way, then that, like he's checking for physical signs of fatigue. Shane snakes his hands up, rests them on the naked dip in Ilya's hips. He leans forward instinctively, kissing the happy trail just beneath Ilya's naval.

"Just thinking," he nearly whispers, not wishing to disturb the quiet hush of the night surrounding them. The sound of the summer crickets, the lapping of the tepid waves against the lake shore. If he listens closely, the gentle breaths leaving Ilya's body, the push-pull of his lungs, pressing his stomach to Shane's lips before pulling away.

"We only have four days left, and there's still so much to plan." He closes his eyes and turns his cheek, resting it against Ilya's stomach, listening to the quiet gurgling noises made by his digestive system. "But, I don't want to spend that time planning. I just want to be with you."

Ilya doesn't say anything, just listens, scritching his fingernails at the short hairs growing at the base of Shane's neck.

"I suppose I could outsource a lot of the planning to my mom and my manager," he muses, half his mind already drifting off, losing focus to the soft press of Ilya's fingers. "But we shouldn't put off the wedding. The sooner we can work on yours and Natalya's citizenship, the better." He pulls his head back, gauging Ilya's expression. "Do you want to do anything special for that? Or does a courthouse wedding work for you? Or—actually, maybe the backyard is better. The less people we have to disclose our marriage to, the better." He stops at Ilya's amused look, huffing out a dry "what" in retaliation.

"Nothing," Ilya smiles. "Just very confident for a man who never received an affirmative to his marriage proposal."

Shane freezes, his mouth going dry.

"I—what?"

Ilya's thumb drifts up from his jaw to his mouth, rubbing against his lower lip.

"If you recall, I never actually said yes."

Shane tries to reel back, feeling his stomach give; feeling, suddenly, like he might throw up.

"I—"

But Ilya holds him still, holds him in place, staring down at him with warm eyes and an open expression, like he hasn't just pulled the rug out from beneath Shane's feet.

"Is so hard, you see. You spend months thinking of this. Years even. Thinking, in the vaguest terms, 'Someday, I will marry that man. Someday, I'll make him my husband.' And when you are young, and you are only seeing him occasionally, your dreams start very small. 'I will marry him, so that he will stay through the night. And I will wake up to him, maybe. Make him breakfast. ' 'What does he look like,' you wonder, 'when he gets home from practice? Or in the mornings, when he just wakes up? Who gets to see this?'"

Ilya moves one of his hands down, cradling Shane's neck. Shane puckers his lips, kissing the thumb Ilya's kept pressed to his lower lip. He eyes him curiously, wondering where this is going.

"And suddenly, one day, the wondering grows. It becomes an ache. A mourning. 'This is not fun anymore,' you think. 'I am in love with this man, and I can never, ever have him.' But, despite all this, you carry on. Because he is still—despite the pain of missing him when he is gone—he is still the most wonderful thing in your life."

Ilya pauses again, staring down at Shane, like he's imploring him to understand what he's thinking. Where this musing might be leading. He pulls back, just far enough to lower himself to his knees, before he shuffles back in between Shane's legs. He rests his elbows on Shane's upper thighs, loosely holding onto his diaphragm. Shane feels each of his breaths press his ribcage into Ilya's palms. He moves his own hands to Ilya's shoulders, resting them there. Waiting.

"And then," Ilya starts again, his words coming out choked. And it's then that Shane realizes that the brightness in Ilya's eyes is the moonlight reflecting off his unshed tears. "You have a child. And you love her. And you know, intuitively, that you're going to have to give up a lot for this girl. Your time, your freedom. Your late nights out and your terrible food choices on days when you feel lazy or sad. You will give up this self-pity you've been wallowing in since you were a child. But worst of all—" He cuts himself off, swallowing in a flimsy act to hold his tears at bay, but he keeps looking at Shane. Never stops looking at Shane. "Worst of all, you know you will probably have to give up the only man in your life who has ever made you feel like you are worth something. The only man you have ever loved, because you cannot possibly ask him to stick around for this. To want this."

Ilya smiles at him, a thick, watery smile. Shane lifts his hand, knuckling at the delicate skin beneath his eyes, wiping away tears on the verge of breaking through their own surface tension. He feels something warm and nebulous building in his chest, pressing against his ribcage and putting pressure on Ilya's palms. He wonders if Ilya can feel it, this love that Shane's carried around with him since that fateful day in Saskatchewan.

"But come to find out," Ilya whispers, his voice now croaked and scratchy, "you did not have to worry at all. That this man, this beautiful—" Ilya lets go of Shane with one hand, sneaking it down his side. "—perfect, man—" He slips his hand into his pocket, grabs something, and starts to pull it out. "—not only continues to love you, but also loves your child. And you do not think much of God, not really, not since your beautiful mother was taken from you. But, you think he got this one right. That despite everything wrong you have done in your life, you have still been gifted this man."

He shifts back, not far enough to break Shane's hold on him, but enough that he can bring the thing from his pocket up between them. A black, velvet box. Still unopened, resting innocuously on the palm of Ilya's hand.

"So forgive me, my love, for not answering you earlier. For not giving you the affirmation you asked for. But, you have to understand, I have seen you give and give and give, to me. To my daughter. All without my asking. All because you are generous, and kind, and—somehow—still in love with me. So, I hope you understand that I must do this. That, at least in this, you grant me the opportunity—" he opens the little black box, a sliver of moonlight glinting off the smooth, silver band nestled in the silk cushioning. “—to lay myself at your feet, Shane Hollander, and ask you to be—" he chokes, more tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Shane reaches for them instinctively, ignoring his own tears collecting along his waterline, and wipes them away with both thumbs.

"My husband."

Shane sobs, once, smiling through the tears that now fall freely down his cheeks. The pressure in his chest releases, spilling out of his mouth in a quiet "Ilya," the name holding so much reverence that Ilya cannot miss it. Surely, he can't miss it.

"Shane," he says, tears falling from his eyes, landing on the pads of Shane's thumbs. "Marry me."

Shane tackles him to the porch, leaving the swing rocking behind him with his momentum. He wraps his arms around Ilya's neck, settling on top of him, kissing any place he can reach: his cheeks, his chin, his neck. Ilya is making a half-laughing half-crying sound that is mostly soft hiccups interspersed with relieved giggles. He moves his arms, setting the ring box next to their prone bodies before wrapping Shane up in a warm embrace. Shane tugs the blanket off the porch swing and throws it over their intermingled legs, then he rests his cheek on Ilya's chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat as he stares out at the lake water. Ilya curls his big hand around the back of his neck, cradling his face to his chest. Together, they breathe through the elation of falling in love, over and over again. Shane closes his eyes, and visions of grandeur shine beneath his eyelids. Days and weeks and years that will no longer be wishful dreams, but will, in fact, be his perfect reality.

"Is this a yes?" He feels more than hears the words rumble against his cheek. He turns his cheek, pressing a kiss directly above Ilya's heart. He nods, digging the jut of his chin into the strong muscle of Ilya's pec. He turns his cheek again, watching the first light of dawn begin to peek over the treeline.

"I love you, Ilya," he says, the truth of it settling around them, drifting like a lightweight net used to capture years-worth of words they failed to offer one another. "I love you so much."

They rest there until morning, bodies tangled together atop the overhanging porch, watching the sun rise over the distant mountain range, the feathers of its rays glinting off the lake's shoreline before bathing it in a white-gold light. It reflects off the deep blue water, the resulting molten mix of gold and cerulean casting Shane back into every memory in which he's caught Ilya's beautiful eyes.

He smiles, thinking of the many years to come in which he'll get to bear witness to this exact view.

Chapter End Notes

i have like 8 billion epilogue scenes floating around in my head, but this is the end of the main story.

cheers! y'all's feedback has meant the world to me! sorry it took so long to get this chapter out! i thought it was only gonna be like 15k words max... and i wrote most of it in my notes app in beijing lol. also sorry for grammar errors. i got drunk on sake and pounded out the editing all in one go.

funny story, i got totally trashed on cheap sake in japan at a local bar, tried to write the ilya fingering scene while absolutely fucking hammered, then abandoned the effort halfway through the scene to make friends with a couple of salary men and the bartender. we got to be quite chummy! the bartender even let me hold his baby, who was wearing a cute little gucci onesie! id send a picture but i don't know u guys, so you'll just have to believe me.

also sorry for all the christian jump-scares. My bookclub and I are balls-deep in the Torah rn and I simply cannot escape the religious imagery.

anyway, much love, xoxo !!

Chapter 6: Epilogue I

Chapter Notes

many of you asked for the wedding scene. so, I give to you: the prenup discussion

Ilya just barely makes it home from the Raiders’ Monday morning preseason practice when he gets the Facetime request from Shane.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. A little late, let me get to my computer."

"No rush," Shane reassures him, shuffling some papers on his end of the call. He's got his reading glasses on (his "Clark Kent" glasses, as Ilya likes to call them) and he’s wearing an adorable, canary yellow polo sweater. The sweater softens his features, brings out the warm tone of his cheeks and the light brown speckle of his freckles. He's so adorable, sometimes. Ilya wants to eat him. "The lawyers still aren’t on for another five minutes."

"Daddy, daddy!"

Ilya stops to stoop down, hugging an excited Natalya who's just run out of the kitchen to greet him.

"Daddy, you want to see my soup? I made it for you!"

Ilya looks at her, trying to decipher what she could possibly be talking about, when Sofya pokes her head out of the kitchen.

Soup? Ilya mouths at her, keeping Shane's face in his periphery while Natalya chats his ear off about all the ingredients in her "soup."

"I gave her the potato skins, onion shavings, things like that while I was prepping dinner," Sofya smiles warmly. "She gathered them all and made her own little 'soup' with them."

"Daddy, you wanna try it?"

"Ilya," Shane cuts in, the pitch spiking in his tone. "Three minutes."

"Right, right," Ilya nods. He turns to Natalya. "Why don't you bring me a bowl of soup to my office, da? Make it nice for daddy. All the garnishes and what have you. But I need to go talk to Shanya—"

"Daddy!" Natalya squeals, only just now catching on that the "talking to Shanya" is happening in real-time. She makes grabby hands at the phone, clearly wanting to say hello.

"Hi sweetheart," Shane says through the tiny phone speaker. Ilya feels warmed by the fact that Shane softens his tone, taking care to be sure Natalya can't hear the panic in his voice. "It's good to see you."

"I miss you," she says, point-blank. "When are you coming home?"

Something in Shane's expression shifts. Something vulnerable and achy. It makes Ilya's breath catch, makes his heart sting. He knows Shane feels guilty enough as is being so far away from Ilya. Mixing a child into that yearning is gut-wrenching. They both have to remind each other constantly that they'll be together soon. One more year. A few more logistics to hash out—like today's meeting—so that Natalya doesn't have to wear that doe-eyed look of confusion each time Shane tells her he won't be home that day. "Just tell him to come home," she'll tell Ilya, like the solution's that easy. Like they aren't fighting tooth and nail for that exact outcome.

"Soon, baby," Shane soothes her. "Soon, I promise. Ilya?" His voice is redirected towards Ilya, rising in pitch again. He's panicking.

"Yes, yes. Okay, baby?" He faces Natalya, stroking her soft cheek, rosy and still chubby with baby fat. "I need to go to my office, okay? But you can bring me a big bowl of soup there, yes? I will be so, so grateful."

She pouts, but quickly abandons her sorrow for Sofya, who's dangling a strawberry by its leafy green top out of the kitchen door. Ilya shoots her a look of gratitude, then races to the home office. He boots up his computer, turns on the monitor, and has Skype pulled up with one minute to spare. Shane's already in the meeting, so Ilya ends their Facetime call and throws on his gaming headphones. Yuna joins about three seconds later.

"Ilya, hi," she smiles at him through the screen. "Are your preseason practices going well?"

"Hello, Miss Yuna," he breathes, sinking back into his office chair and stretching his legs out beneath the table. "Has been hectic, but fun." He doesn't mention that he feels like he's been going through the motions, knowing, in theory, that he enjoys this. Enjoys sussing out the energy of the new players. Testing them to see if their play styles and energy will jive with the rest of the team. Instead, ever since leaving the cottage, he's felt as though he's been floating through some sort of liminal space. He's left bereft on the ice, gliding around aimlessly, without any place to touch down on. He's tried to keep his less savory feelings at bay, but even Sofya's managed to catch onto his morose mood.

"Are you ready for this?" she asks pleasantly. This, being the drafting of a prenup with the Hollander family lawyer. When Yuna had first suggested the document (a few weeks back, after Shane had broken the news of their engagement to his parents), Shane had been appalled. "It's the first thing she asked me about after, 'Congratulations!'" Shane had seethed over the phone. "I mean, what the hell kind of response is that?"

Ilya had stewed over it for a second, chewing on his lip as he thought through the best way to join in on his future mother-in-law's side of the argument.

"A pretty reasonable one, I think," Ilya finally relented. He could picture, very clearly, the tips of Shane's ears going red with rage.

"Ilya—"

"No, listen, she has a point, da? Let's face it, you are much wealthier than I. With all these endorsements and brand deals. All this money your mother has helped you accumulate, and invest properties—if I know anything about Yuna—then yeah. I can see her hesitation. If we are, God forbid, to get a divorce, she does not want me robbing you blind. And—" Shane tries to interrupt, but Ilya cuts him off with an, "Ah, ah, ah—no, listen—and with the kid involved, you need to make sure I cannot use her as ammunition."

"But what if I want her to have money! And, I trust you, Ilya. I know you wouldn't—you would never---if we—I mean, shit, babe. It's not like you're joshing for money or anything."

"I know, kotik. I know you think this now. But what if our plan falls through, yes? So the Ottawa plan doesn't work out. Okay, so I do have to quit my job. I do move to Montreal to become, I don't know, a car parts shop employee or something. Do you see now? I have much more incentive to fight for your money."

Shane stayed quiet after that, breathing through the tiny phone speaker into Ilya's ear. Then, meekly, he replied with:

"You wouldn't do that. I trust that you wouldn't do that."

Ilya sighed, running his hand over his face.

"Sweetheart, of course I wouldn't do that. Is not the point. Is—"

"No it's—let me finish." Shane stopped him, his voice rising in confidence. "You wouldn't do that. I know you don't have it in you to ask for something like that. But—shit, Ilya. After a sacrifice like that? Quitting hockey? Quitting your career for me? For us? Of course you deserve my money."

"Okay!" Ilya borderline yelled, letting his frustration slip out. "Okay, you see now? This is why prenup is good, yes? You can say that. Stipulate it. You want me to have your money? Fine, tell me how much. You want to keep your investment accounts untouched? Then you make sure I do not touch them."

"And Natasha?"

"Yes, yes, you tell lawyer whatever you'd like to give her. You see now, sweetheart? Is okay to establish boundaries before walking into a marriage. I mean—fuck, if we cannot talk about these things now, what makes you think we could reasonably talk about them during divorce?"

"We're not getting divorced," Shane said, blunt and petulant.

"No—Shane, I know." Ilya pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Is not what I'm saying. I know we will not divorce. Because we love each other, yes?"

"Yes," Shane replied, hurriedly.

"And if we love each other, then we must trust each other. We must trust that we will not fuck each other over if things end... poorly. Okay? Do not think of it like... I don't know, like preventative measure. Think of it as us showing each other respect, yes? Like, 'Ah, yes, I respect you. And I respect that you want to take care of me, and want the best for me, even if the best is not me.'"

Shane had seen the light after that, begrudgingly agreeing to the meeting with the lawyers. Apparently he'd said something to Yuna, because not three hours after their marginally heated conversation, Yuna had texted Ilya a simple, "Thank you!" apropos of nothing. Ilya doesn't deign the tell her that he'd mostly been speaking out of his ass. That he's just as scared of this conversation as Shane. He has no idea what he's allowed to ask for, what would be considered stepping over the line, or what even a prenup covers. Is it just financial? What counts as an asset? How will Natalya play into all of this? Are kids at all touched on in a prenup? When he'd called Yuna earlier that week to ask, she admitted to not fully understanding how prenups worked either ("David and I were both broke college graduates when we got married. What was there to protect?"), but she'd reassured him that it's not uncommon, and even encouraged, to ask questions during the initial meeting.

The lawyers pop up into the Skype call around the same time. Two of them, one for Ilya, one for Shane. Both chosen by Yuna (Ilya wants to make a joke about her sabotaging his odds, but he refrains, knowing Shane is already on edge about the whole ordeal).

The meeting starts off easy enough. Ilya is walking into the marriage with a few high-end vehicles. These, he will keep. The penthouse in Boston is also his; whatever he makes off selling it will belong solely to him. Then, his lawyer brings up his measly retirement fund, the first point of contention.

"I've been granted access to Ilya's financial records, with his permission of course," the lawyer pauses to nod at him (and subsequently everyone) through the screen. "His investment portfolio is, well, for lack of a better term: slim."

Yuna looks confused.

"I don't understand. Ilya's the highest paid member on his team. Ilya," she directs her question at him, "did Boston not provide you with a financial representative? Someone to help you get your affairs in order? I know most teams are offering this, especially to teens with such high starting bonuses."

Ilya itches his nose with his thumb, unable to look up at the camera.

"Well, is... you see, is not—"

"Ilya was supporting his family back home," Shane cuts in for him, his voice cool. "He was the primary provider for his father, brother, and his brother's daughter."

As if to punctuate the statement, Natalya chooses that moment to teeter in, carrying a large bowl of, well, allegedly soup. As she comes closer, Ilya sees that it is indeed just Sofya's dinner trimmings (onion peels, the rooted ends of carrots, potato skins, etc.) thrown into a bowl with water poured over them. It looks as though Sofya's allowed his daughter to sprinkle it with pepper.

Lovely.

"Here, daddy," Natalya says in Russian. "Here's your soup!" She holds it up to him like a proud chef, waiting for him to sniff. He grabs the bowl with both hands, then leans in, taking a big whiff of what is essentially just compost, pretending it smells delicious.

"Mmmm, thank you, Natashenka. It smells delicious."

"Is that Daddy?" She points to the screen, clambering into Ilya's lab, barely cognizant of the sloshing bowl of "soup" he has to move out of her way. "Hi, Daddy! Hi, Gamma!" she grins, waving at the camera with both hands. She points at one of the lawyers on the screen. "Who's this?"

Ilya tucks his head around her shoulder and says, "Our lawyer."

"Hi, 'our lawyer,'" she grins, waving at the solemn-faced man on the screen."

"Hi again, baby," Shane smiles, waving back. Yuna waves too, but her eyes are furtive. She appears to be nervously checking the screen for any signs of discontent from the lawyers.

"We're in a meeting, Malyshka," Ilya says softly into her ear. "You may stay, but you have to be quiet, okay?"

"Okay!" she chirps, settling back against his chest to watch the screen.

"Ah, so, anyway," Ilya's lawyer clears his throat. "His investments. He'll be bringing in a pretty solid brokerage account, one he's been contributing to and dipping into since the start of his first season. But the retirement accounts are, ah, pretty pitiful. He's only just begun maxing out his IRA within the last year, something we typically assume is a standard for most athletes, even the ones lower on the pay scale."

"Ilya?" Yuna asks, looking stunned at this new information.

Ilya shrugs, staring down at the keyboard and playing mindlessly with Natalya's fingers to give him something to do with his hands. How does one admit to their mother-in-law that they weren't exactly banking on living past the age of thirty until very recently?

"His father's medical bills stacked up by the end there," Shane cuts in for him again. His blessed fiance. Ilya wishes he could reach through the screen and smooch him. "He had to hire a full-time caretaker. Pay for the testing, the screenings, all his medication. He was still paying Alexei what I'd consider to be a full-time salary—"

"Shane," Ilya interrupts him, sighing into Natalya's curls.

"What?" Shane asks, sounding flabbergasted. "It's true!"

"Yes, I know. I know is true. But I also know I could have had, eh, better spending habits when I was a kid. I could have still been a lot better. My family is not all to blame here."

Shane looks stung.

"I wasn't blaming them—"

"No, no, sweetheart, I—blyat, I know—"

"Little ears!" Natalya interrupts them, covering her ears dramatically and glaring up at Ilya from her perch on his lap. It eases the tension, getting laughs out of everyone in the call, including Shane. Ilya boops Natalya's nose with his own.

"Sorry. Sorry, Malysh."

"Let's try to get back to the topic at hand," Shane's lawyer interjects. "I think what I'm garnering here is that we need to keep Ilya off the descendants list belonging to his current retirement accounts. If the couple wishes, they can open a joint account after the marriage, and pay into it as they see fit. They can split that fifty-fifty if they decide to divorce."

Ilya's nodding along. To him, this seems reasonable. But his lawyer is frowning, and so is Shane.

"I don't think that's reasonable at all," Ilya's lawyer argues. "Especially if Shane does come out of this being the sole provider. So, what, they split fifty percent of what he contributes to this 'joint' account?"

"Agreed," Shane nods along, ignoring his mom's sharp "Honey."

"I think we should allocate a set percentage of the current accounts to Ilya walking into this."

It's Ilya's turn to interject.

"Shane—"

"No," Shane interrupts him, his voice hard. "You chose to take care of your family, now I'm choosing to take care of mine. You get at least twenty-five percent."

"Fourty," Ilya's lawyer cuts in.

"Absolutely not—" Yuna starts, but Shane ends the conversation with a short, quipped, "Done."

Ilya groans, burying his face in his palm. Natalya pats his head, consolatory.

Much of the rest of the meeting follows a similar trajectory. A hard line forms, establishing two fronts: Shane and Ilya's lawyer on one side; Yuna, Ilya, and Shane's lawyer on the other. Natalya is a bored, tired Switzerland.

Shane ends up winning most of the arguments. It's his money, after all.

"We're discussing this later," Yuna tells her son coolly, after he agrees to leaving Ilya with at least thirty percent of his cottage's worth. His argument had been that the cottage had been built with Ilya in mind in the first place (Ilya can't tell if this is a lie or not. He tries not to think about it, knowing he's bound to tear up at the thought of Shane building his large, lakeside mansion with visions of them swirling around in the forefront of his mind all the way back in 2012).

"Discuss all you want," Shane retorts. "It's my money."

Three hours later, after hashing out the landmine of finances (Ilya ending up with far more than he believes he deserves), the lawyers ask if they have any other questions.

"Yes, I do," Shane says. "Custody. Child custody. Do we cover this in our prenup?"

Ilya's body tenses up beneath Natalya's (now sleeping) form. His eyes shift over to his lawyer, who seems to be looking at Shane curiously.

"Unfortunately, no," Shane's lawyer answers. "Child custody battles have to take place during the divorce process."

Shane looks at the screen, utterly confused.

"Then... how do I guarantee I'll get to see my child?"

"Well, Mr. Hollander," Ilya's lawyer cuts in, clearing his throat. "Most families come up with reasonable set-ups. Fifty-fifty weeks, shared weekends, things of that nature. But, ultimately, ah, nobody can guarantee custody of your child. I'd say focus on working through the adoption process. If everything pulls through, you'll have the same leg to stand on as any other parent, if anything should happen."

"But, what if it happens before I can officially adopt her? I've got about a three year waiting period."

Silence falls over the meeting. Nobody is looking into the camera head-on except for Ilya and Shane. Finally, after a few tense moments, Yuna cuts in.

"Shane, honey, unfortunately, um—" She glances around, like maybe one of the art pieces hanging around her office will offer her the proper words. "Well, unfortunately, there's not anything you can do. She's not technically yours."

Ilya takes pity on him.

"Sweetheart, you do not have to fight for child who is not even yours. Not if we are—"

"Not mine?" Shane asks, looking like he's just been slapped. "What the fuck do you mean, 'not mine'? Just because you're no longer mine in this fucked up, hypothetical scenario doesn't mean she isn't," he says hotly. His cheeks are flushed, and he's breathing faster than normal. He's genuinely very worked up about this. Ilya's never felt so tender for such a riled up scene.

"Okay, Shane? Okay, listen to me, baby. This is not real, remember? You are not divorcing me. I am not divorcing you. We are not even married yet, but we are very much in love, remember?"

Shane nods, seemingly coming back to himself. He indiscreetly wipes beneath his eyes, taking a deep, grounding breath.

"Good, yes. Okay. I will not keep her from you, okay? If we—God forbid— if we do not make it through these next three years, I promise you I will never, ever keep your baby from you, okay?"

Shane nods, staring down at his keyboard with flushed cheeks, looking abashed.

"Okay," he says softly.

The meeting wraps up quickly after that. Shane's the first to log off, citing a late-night meetup with J.J. and Hayden. The lawyers are the next to leave, promising to have the first draft of the prenup written up within the week. Finally, it's just Yuna, Ilya, and a sleeping Natalya. Sofya had snuck in at the tail-end of the meeting, grabbing the soup concoction Natalya had brought in earlier. She promised to dispose of it discretely, so that Natalya will believe Ilya ate all of it.

Kind lady, Ilya thinks. She thinks of everything.

Yuna looks as though she's about to log off, offering her goodbyes to Ilya with a gentle nod.

"Wait!" Ilya stops her. He feels nervous about what he's wants to ask, but his voice comes out firm, giving nothing away. "Wait, I, um..."

"Yes?" she prompts, raising her eyebrows. Ilya huffs out a laugh, her mannerisms so much like her son's that it's oftentimes eerie.

"I, ah, I have a question to ask you. Is—well, is not bad, I do not think. No worse than what we all just struggled through—"

"Ilya," Yuna interrupts him, her voice going soft. "Honey, what is it?"

He scratches at the back of his neck, chewing his lower lip nervously.

"Is... would it be okay with you and David, you think, if I ask Shane for his last name? For—ah—for your family's last name, that is?"

She remains silent on the other line for a few moments, just watching Ilya. Not scrutinizing him, as he imagined she would, but eyeing as much of him as she can through the small camera frame.

"That's what you want?" she finally asks, her voice having softened now that she's not battling for Shane's money.

"Is what I want, yes."

"But your name, Ilya. You've built a legacy."

A legacy, he thinks bitterly. Yes, the Rozanov name. Strong men. Cruel men. Men who abuse their wives and abandon their daughters. I will not be one of these men.

"We can make it work. Obviously, for the next year or so, I mean. Until we are out. But yes, I—I would like my husband's name, if this is something you can support. Something you..."

"And your daughter?" Yuna asks, her gaze dropping to the sleeping child in Ilya's lap. "She'll take our name?"

Ilya swallows thickly, following her line of sight, staring down at Natalya's peaceful expression. He lifts a hand, brushes a stray curl off her rosacea-stained cheek.

"Yes," he replies, the word coming out a croak. "I would like for her to have her father's name."

He hears Yuna's breath catch through his headphones. When he looks up again, she’s staring at him with tears in her eyes. You look so much like your child, Ilya wants to tell her. In all the best ways. Too kind-hearted, the both of you. How could I not want to carry your name?

"Okay," Yuna sniffs, wiping beneath her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. "Okay, we can figure something out. Have you asked Shane yet?"

"Nyet," Ilya shakes his head. "Wanted to ask you first. Is your name, after all."

"No it's—" she stops, takes a deep breath, like she's steeling herself for something. "Ilya, honey, it's his name too. His to give. If he wants you to have our last name, then we do too." She smiles, reaches out, almost like she wants to touch him through the screen, only to remember they're not actually sitting there together. That they're many miles and one time zone apart. She pulls her hand back and tucks it into her lap.

"We'd be honored to share our name with you."

They log off after that. Ilya stretches his legs out beneath the desk, careful not to jostle his daughter. He smiles to himself, staring down at her again, listening to her puff out little breaths against his chest. Very quietly he whispers, "Natasha Hollander." He runs his fingers down her spine, watches her cheek twitch, her eyelids flutter. "How do we like the sound of that, Malyshka?"

Chapter End Notes

i will be starting on my phd research project soon, so if i am not as forthcoming with the smut as i usually am, just know it is because I'm getting my balls crushed by static structural analysis.

also sorry, im working on my comment replies !! i am not ignoring you and i love all your feedback <333 i promise!

Update: I had a long-winded rant written up here about some Twitter drama. But I don’t even have Twitter. So idk why I felt the need to engage. I will leave this part of the rant here tho, no context provided:

Oh and just FYI. Donald Trump can, in fact, eat shit.

Chapter 7: Epilogue II

Chapter Notes

here's your wedding, angels

A few nights after the dreaded prenup discussion, Shane Facetimes Ilya, as he does every night; as he’s been doing every night for the past six months.

“Question,” he starts, in lieu of a standard “hello.”

“Which jeweler did you purchase my ring from here in Ottawa? I thought it would be nice to get a match set.”

“Ah,” Ilya smiles at him conspiratorially through the phone screen. “Bold of you to assume I got ring in Ottawa.”

Shane’s mind blanks out for a moment. He watches his own face in the bottom corner of the screen, his mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish.

“Not—you didn’t—”

“I can, however, send you contact information for the jeweler here in Boston.”

Something in Shane’s chest cracks open. He feels like he’s just taken an improper step on the ice. That his skates got caught up in their laces, and he’s falling, falling, but the landing isn’t the hard, cold surface of the ice like he expected it to be. He just keeps falling.

“I thought, maybe, after I proposed—that you snuck out to get it, or—or—”

“Oh?” Ilya raises his eyebrows, mouth settling into a winning smirk. “And when would I have done this? In the fifteen minutes between reading Natasha her bedtime stories and fucking you into the mattress?”

“Ilya—”

“Or maybe at the petting zoo? When you both took like seven-hundred bathroom breaks?”

“It’s important to stay hydrated—”

“I’m sure, baby. Beside the point. I’m trying to tell you there was no time between being full-time father and full-time doting boyfriend to slip away and purchase ring.”

“You weren’t technically my boyfriend,” Shane grins down at his screen. He’s supposed to be making dinner, but he’s just standing in the center of his kitchen like an idiot, idly rolling a bottle of olive oil back and forth across the counter.

“Right, yes, forgot,” Ilya returns his grin. “We go fuck-buddies to co-parents to husbands. Do I have this right?”

“Right,” Shane agrees. “And so, what, you had the ring shipped out or something? After I proposed?”

He watches Ilya roll over onto his stomach, shoving a pillow beneath his chin and propping Shane up against the backboard of his bedframe.

“You are making a lot of assumptions about my plans to marry you.”

Shane freezes, palm held steady over the bottle of olive oil. He feels his face twitch, feels it morph into some mix between shock and confusion.

“I—what do you mean?”

Ilya rolls his head to one side, then the other, taking his time cracking his neck, like he knows the anticipation is actually driving Shane mad.

“What makes you think I bought the ring after you proposed?”

Shane lets go of the bottle of olive oil and grips the edge of the counter, sinking down into one of his bar stools in a daze.

“I don’t—I guess I just thought—” he swallows, scrutinizing Ilya’s Cheshire grin through his tiny phone screen. He wishes he were there with Ilya. Well, he always wishes he was with Ilya, but it feels especially palpable right now. Like if he can’t run his fingers over that smile, have tangible evidence of Ilya’s impending confession, then it’s not actually real.

“You have thought wrong,” Ilya finishes his sentence for him. He watches him through the screen, smile dimming as he gauges Shane’s reaction, like his admittance to loving Shane for any number of days will somehow disappoint him.

Shane takes a deep, steadying breath, thinking of all the implications accompanying Ilya’s open-hearted confession.

“How—” he starts, swallowing around his own emotions. “How long? How long have you…” Loved me? Wanted me? Thought of me? How long have we been wasting our own time?

“...had that ring?”

Ilya looks at him for a long time. He doesn’t look nervous, or sheepish. He looks calm, his lids at half-mast as he continues to watch Shane. He tilts his head, purses his lips, and Shane feels the age-old impulse to kiss his plump lower lip.

“That is for me to know,” Ilya finally answers, his voice coming out a near-whisper. “And for you to never, ever find out.”

“Oh, come on,” Shane whines, a dog with a bone. “We’re getting married, Ilya, surely it can’t be that embarrassing.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums, noncommittal. Shane chews at his thumbnail, determined not to let this drop.

“Was it before Christmas?”

“Maybe, who’s to say?”

Shane knows that tone. That tone is a yes. That tone has become synonymous with, “I love you, sweetheart.” With, “I miss you, Shane.” Or earlier, remarkably so. “Is okay?” Shane hears, words pressed into the skin of his upper back, hot and molten, rounded vowels and dropped articles, just for him. Shane’s been learning Russian. Not aggressively, not in any way that will make him conversational anytime soon, but he’s learned the alphabet. And he’s learned about this letter that appears after other letters, “soft sound” the Russians call it. That’s what Ilya’s tone is with Shane. A soft sound, words folding over one another like silken curtains, drawn back from the window to let morning light in.

“Before the season? Before—before Natasha?”

Ilya reaches out, his hand leaving the camera’s view. Shane can’t know for sure, but he wonders if Ilya’s stroking the side of the phone with the pad of his thumb.

“Ah,” Ilya sighs, “wouldn’t you like to know?”

“You really won’t tell me?” Shane asks, begs, heart in his throat.

“Maybe someday,” Ilya teases, “after we are married. And it costs money to leave me.”

Shane huffs out a laugh, dropping it for now.

For now.

***

Ilya waits patiently as his team files out of the locker room. First preseason game, home, thankfully. They did okay. Not stellar, many of the kinks still needing to be worked out with the rookies, but Ilya’s proud, overall. When enough players have left, he crowds in next to Marlow, asking quietly: “You come by my place tonight? I have something I need to ask you.”

Marlow shoots him an odd look.

“Just ask me here, man.”

Ilya shakes his head, glancing surreptitiously around them, eyeing the few teammates lingering in the locker room.

“Nyet, not here. My home, da?”

“What if I’ve got plans?”

“Then cancel them, dickhead. This is important.”

“Okay, okay. Jesus, who crawled up your ass and died?” Marlow hits back with, holding his hands up placatingly.

“Sorry,” Ilya backs off. “Sorry, Marley. Is just—ah—a little stressful.” A little is an understatement. He trusts Marley. He’s convinced Shane to trust Marley. Now if he could just—barrel past the hard part.

Marlow eyes him warily.

“Shit, man. Family stuff again? I mean, you’ve run out of parents to die off, so it can’t be that—”

“Shut the fuck up, you moron,” Ilya laughs, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. “Just come by my house later, da? Not too late, baby’s bedtime is nine.”

“Yeah, yeah, old man.” Marlow ruffles his hair as he passes him by. “I’ll be there. Save me a plate of dinner.”

“I am on dinner duty tonight. Not Sofya.”

“Ah, well, in that case, I’ll eat beforehand.”

Ilya shoves at his big shoulders as he heads toward the door, but he’s smiling.

***

Ilya’s busy helping Natalya with her phonics homework (assigned by Sofya), so Svetlana is the one to answer the door.

“Woah! Hey, sorry. Wasn’t expecting you here,” he hears Marley sputter. He can almost see Svetlana roll her eyes through the back of her head.

“Get in, lunkhead.”

Marlow rounds the wall cutting off the kitchen from the entryway, shooting Ilya an exasperated look.

“Didn’t know your girlfriend would be joining us.”

“Not his girlfriend,” Svetlana says, while at the same time Ilya makes a gagging motion.

“Hey, kiddo!” Marlow grins, hunching down to face Natalya directly in her bar stool. He holds a fist out for her to bump, and she does so graciously, giggling the entire time.

“Zdraste, Marley,” she laughs, patting the bar stool next to her.

“Zdraste, little foreigner. Whatchya workin’ on?” He doesn’t wait for her answer, leaning over her shoulder to check out her homework. “Oh, yuck! That looks complicated.”

“It’s not,” she laughs, scooting her bar stool over so she can show him her homework. “See? This is two e’s, so it makes the ‘ee’ sound. Like ‘eel,’ or ‘keep.’”

“Man, you’re so smart,” Marley replies. “Wish I was as smart as you back in school. Maybe I could have been something cool. Like a doctor. Or a lawyer.”

“Marley,” Ilya interjects dryly. “You are literally a millionaire.”

Marlow leans in close to Natalya, whispering conspiratorially into her ear: “Don’t listen to daddy, Natasha. Being a doctor is cooler than being a millionaire.”

“I don’t want to be a doctor,” Natalya pouts. “I want to be a shark!”

Ilya rounds the kitchen counter, heart warming as he listens to his two friends and Natalya bicker over the mechanics of becoming a shark. He pulls dinner out of the oven—sheetpan veggies and baked turkey—and rests it atop the stove to cool. He watches Marlow’s eyes land on the meal, widening in shock.

“Woah, you made that?”

Ilya laughs.

“Ah, with lots of input. Don’t give me too much credit.”

Marley turns to Svetlana, grinning.

“Ah, I see who runs the ship around here.”

Svetlana shakes her head.

“Was not me. Was Miss Jane. Should have heard her over the phone before you got here. ‘No, Ilya, too much garlic. Ilya, don’t forget the rosemary. Ilya, smaller carrot chunks, do you want our daughter to choke?’ And you think I am bossy.” She flips her hair back over her shoulder, dramatically punctuating her remark with a sigh.

Marlow’s eyebrows have risen to his hairline by this point, and he turns back to Ilya, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“She’s met Jane?”

“Jane?” Natalya looks at Ilya, little blonde brows scrunched in confusion. “Who is Jane?”

Marlow’s eyebrows somehow, impossibly, are raised even higher in shock.

“Your kid’s never met Jane?”

“Oh, Christ,” Ilya groans, running a palm over his face. “Maybe is time I settle this now.”

“Settle what?” Sofya joins them from the living room, swatting at his shoulders. “And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

Ilya rolls his eyes.

“Yes, mom.”

Sofya grabs plates from the cabinet, and Ilya starts shoveling piles of the sheetpan meal onto them. A larger portion for himself, smaller bits for Natalya. “You sure you are not hungry?” he asks Marlow. “Is just leftovers if you don’t help.”

“Uhh, yeah. Okay. I should probably eat something.”

“Good idea,” Svetlana nods. “Will be nice to have food in your stomach for this conversation.”

“What conversation?” Marlow looks spooked again, whipping his gaze back and forth between Svetlana and Ilya. “You’re stressin’ me out man. What’s going on?”

“Nothing bad,” Ilya tells him, plating his dinner and handing it over to him across the counter with a fork and knife. “Nothing, I promise. Is just some news. Good news. I think. Or, is for me, at least.”

“No, it’s good news,” Sofya corrects him, kissing his cheek as she grabs her plate and steps around him so she can bring her dinner with her back to the living room. “Have fun, kiddos!” she calls over her shoulder.

“Where’s she headed?” Svetlana asks, already digging into her own plate.

“Mexican soap operas,” Ilya smiles, handing Natalya her plate. She unsubtly scowls down at the roasted brussels sprouts.

“Does she speak Spanish?”

Ilya shakes his head.

“Nyet, but she insists they’re quality TV. And who am I to judge her after spending all day with this little monkey?” He points his fork in Natalya's direction, who notices immediately and retaliates by sticking her tongue out at him. Ilya shifts the prongs of his fork, directing them at Svetlana, who’s still horking down her food like a starving woman. “Your food’s not blessed yet, you heathen.”

“Ah, fuck,” she sets her plate down, wiping her mouth off on her forearm. “Sorry.”

“Swear jar,” Marlow and Natalya mumble at the same time.

Ilya says a quick prayer, then they all stick to the counter, Marlow and Natalya eating at the bar stools, Svetlana and Ilya looming over their plates where they stand.

“So,” Marlow starts around a mouthful of turkey, “this ‘Jane’...”

“Ah, yes, ah—” Ilya wipes his mouth off with a napkin, sends one last final prayer out to the aether, hoping he’s made the right judgement call, then plunges into the news head first. “We are, um, getting married.”

Marlow, forkful of food risen halfway to his mouth, freezes.

“What?”

“And she is a he.”

The food falls from Marlow’s fork.

Ilya swallows, staring down at his cooling plate of food.

“And he is Shane Hollander.”

Marlow’s fork clatters to his plate.

”Dude.”

“Okay, well, good talk. Time to finish meal now, yes?” Ilya rushes out, his sentence rising in pitch with each word. “Wow, best sheetpan meal I’ve ever made. Miss Jane really is a miracle worker, huh?”

“Rozy,” Marlow tempers his tone, speaking to him like he’s trying to talk down a wild animal. “Buddy, what is going on? This isn’t, like, some kind of prank is it?”

Ilya looks up from his plate, meeting Marlow’s eyes. He can tell, as soon as Marlow sees his torn expression, that he knows it’s not a prank.

“Oh,” Marlow breathes out, raising his arms and folding both hands behind his head. He lets out a deep breath. “Oooohh boy, okay. Wow.”

“Yeah,” Ilya answers, his mouth going dry. “Wow.”

“So Shane is—”

“Jane, yes.”

Marlow smiles slightly at that.

“Montreal Jane.”

“Shanya,” Svetlana corrects.

“Daddy!” Natalya pitches in her two cents, probably thinking they’re Facetiming him again.

Marlow’s eyes widen.

“Daddy?” he asks Ilya, the word coming out a near squeak.

Ilya shrugs sheepishly.

“She is quite, ah, taken to him.”

Like Shane heard her call from three-hundred miles away, Ilya’s phone starts ringing with a Facetime request.

“Ah,” Ilya wheezes. “Perfect timing.”

He answers, turning away from the counter so he can get Natalya in the camera’s view. When the screen finally loads though, it’s not Shane’s face that pops up, but Yuna’s.

“Ilya, hi,” she starts, sounding a bit breathless, like she’s in a rush somewhere. Natalya’s expression perks up on Ilya’s teeny, tiny video of himself in the corner of the screen.

“Gamma!” Natalya cries out, dropping her fork to raise both hands in an enthusiastic wave.

“Hi, honey,” Yuna waves back.

“Marley and Svetya are here too,” Ilya says, panning the camera around the kitchen so she can see them both. “Say hello to my mother-in-law, guys.”

“Hi, ‘mother-in-law’!” Svetlana waves, voice overly-chipper. It makes up for Marley’s slack-jawed silence.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Ilya, am I interrupting dinner?”

“No, no,” Ilya shakes his head, repositioning the phone so just he and Natalya are still in the frame. “We were just finishing up.”

“Yay!” Natalya cheers, setting her fork down atop her untouched pile of brussels sprouts.

“Not you, munchkin,” Sofya scolds, popping back in from the living room to wash her dirtied dishes. “You still need to eat at least one of those.” She points her fork at Natalya’s brussels sprout-covered plate.

Ilya refocuses his attention back on Yuna, not wanting to be pulled into the middle of a very familiar argument.

“What’s up, Miss Yuna? Where’s Shane?”

“Oh!” she flips the camera for him, showing Shane’s back. He’s at the kitchen sink, loading the dishwasher. “He’s right there. Sorry. His phone was just closer than mine.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” Shane calls out, not looking up from his task. He’s so precious. Ilya wants to squeeze him.

“Anyway,” Yuna huffs. “I just called because I was thinking, well. Right now we’ve got it set up so that Shane’s cousin officiates the wedding. But I didn’t even think about it! You’re religious, right? Should we be doing this in a church?”

“Ah,” Ilya scratches the back of his neck with his free hand. “I am not that religious, actually. So I do not care.”

Yuna looks thrown, turning to look back at Shane like he’s been feeding her false information the past six months.

“But—don’t you attend church?” She turns back to face Ilya. “And Natalya was pretty insistent we pray before meals last time you guys were here.”

“Yeah,” Ilya says, voice uneasy. “That’s more of a Sofya thing. I am not actually much of a God kinda guy. I mean. I’m sure he’s great, or whatever, but I mostly go because is nice.”

Yuna gnaws at her lip.

“Still,” she says, “you’re practicing. I mean—hell, Ilya—we don’t even know what denomination you guys are.”

“Deno—what?” Ilya asks.

“Denomination,” Svetlana pipes in. “Like, what kind of church you attend.”

“Oh!” Ilya nods enthusiastically. “Yes, okay. Well, Eastern Orthodox when I was little. Obviously. But, ahh—you know? I am not sure what we attend now. Sofya?” He turns to Sofya, who’s washing her dishes at the sink. “What is our dee-noh-mi-nay-shon?”

“Whatever is convenient,” Sofya responds without looking up from her task. Ilya nods, like that settles it.

“There you are, Miss Yuna. We are whatever is convenient.”

“They all believe in Jesus, so it does not matter to me,” Sofya elaborates.

“What about me? I don’t believe in Jesus,” Marley butts in, his first real contribution to the conversation. Ilya rolls his eyes.

“Why, because you are atheist?”

“No, because I’m Jewish, dickwad.”

“Little ears!” Natalya shouts, covering her ears dramatically.

“I did not know this,” Ilya frowns, wracking his brain for any instance this may have come up. Maybe it did, but Ilya’s spent about sixty percent of his time black-out drunk around Marlow. It could have come up a lot, actually, and he’d be none the wiser.

Marlow starts to sink into his chair, a bit sheepish.

“Well, not a practicing Jew.”

“That’s okay,” Natalya pats his shoulder. “We’ll still let you come to heaven with us if you promise to stop cussing.”

“Oh my God,” Yuna laughs. “This conversation is so bizarre.”

“Ah,” Ilya grimaces. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s—no,” she waves him off, laughing. “When I was growing up, my mother was Catholic, but my father was Buddhist. It was a serious point of contention in our house.”

“Ah,” Ilya nods solemnly, “And you came out…”

“Staunchly atheist,” Shane yells out from his corner of the kitchen.

“But David’s agnostic,” Yuna supplies, like her atheism is some kind of moral failure she needs to compensate for. “Which means Shane worships—”

“Hockey,” Ilya interrupts her. They all erupt into laughter at that one, even Shane, who turns to flip Ilya a tiny bird through the tiny screen.

“Alright,” Yuna relents through dying fits of laughter. “Well, I’m not going to worry about it then. I guess the only person whose toes we’ll really be stepping on at this wedding will be my mother’s. But she’ll just have to get over it.”

“I don’t know,” Ilya wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe we should ask Catholic priest to officiate our gay wedding. Could be interesting.”

“Okay, Ilya,” Yuna sighs, tapping out. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Bye-bye, Gamma!” Natalya shrieks. “Bye-bye, daddy!”

Shane turns from his spot at the sink to wave goodbye alongside his mother.

“Bye-bye, baby.”

Ilya blows them both an obnoxious kiss, then ends the call.

“Well,” Marlow starts, voice tight. “I guess you weren’t kidding.”

Ilya sets his phone down on the counter, eyeing Marlow warily. He feels Sofya come up behind him, resting a warm, grounding palm on his lower back.

“And…” Ilya starts, sucking on his lower teeth. “Is okay?”

Marlow’s eyes widen.

“Oh—dude, of course it’s okay. Christ, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just in shock. I mean—” he shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s Shane Hollander.”

“Yeah,” Ilya smiles, watching Natalya take a teeny, tiny bite of one brussels sprout leaf. “Shane Hollander.”

“And here I was waiting for you to lock this one down at some point,” he leans back in his chair, clapping Svetlana on her shoulder in a good-natured gesture.

“Yuck,” Svetlana answers dryly, fake gagging into her meal.

“Well, I’m happy you told me. Was wondering if I’d ever get to meet this mysterious Jane.”

“Ah, well, you can,” Ilya replies, scratching behind his ear nervously. “Is actually why I asked you over here, aside from, ah, obvious reasons.”

“Oh?” Marlow raises his eyebrows again. Ilya will be surprised if they don’t become permanently affixed to his forehead by the end of the night.

“Yeah, ah—well. So we are getting married.”

“Yeah,” Marlow eggs him on, giving him an ”And?” look.

“And Sofya will be there. And Svetlana. For me, that is.”

“Uh huh.”

Ilya swallows thickly, meeting his friend’s gaze head-on.

“And that’s it. Um. No family, aside from Natalya. Just them.”

Something strange passes over Marlow’s expression. Something uncomfortably close to pity.

“Oh. Oh, man. That’s—”

“Yeah,” Ilya supplies for him, nodding along. “Is… not a lot. And I thought, maybe, you know, we have been friends for a long time. I thought maybe you’d like to be there too. As my friend.”

Ilya drops his gaze, embarrassed. He feels like a child, approaching another child on the playground, asking him if he’d like to be his friend. How juvenile, he thinks, flexing his fingers and releasing them from their tight grip on the lip of the granite countertop.

“Roz,” Marley responds, scootching around the counter so he can wrap Ilya up in a big bear hug. “Brother, I’d love to be there. I never thought I’d see the day.” He pats Ilya on the back, twice, then pulls back from the embrace, grinning like a madman. “Absolutely batshit to me that you managed to bag Shane fucking Hollander. Man’s a beast!”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya agrees, stepping back from the embrace, feeling ten feet tall. Feeling relief, compounded with an overbearing affection that, if Marlow’s not careful, might result in another much-too-revealing hug. He doesn’t know how to express his overwhelming gratitude, so he offers the next best thing.

“Would you like seconds?”

Marlow scarfs down three servings of sheetpan turkey by the end of the night.

***

In the end, the wedding is less a formal event, and more a nice brunch in David and Yuna’s backyard. Cliff and Svetlana fly in the day before, insisting on taking Ilya out for his last night as a single man. They’re not prepared for his new toddler schedule, however, and rib him heavily when he starts nodding off around 9:30 p.m. Not that they were up to much anyway. They’re in Ottawa, a handful of dive bars to choose from. Ilya’s bachelor party morphs into burgers and beers, a couple rounds of pool (which Svetlana demolishes both him and Cliff at), and a drop-off at the Hollanders’ home around 10:00 p.m.

Shane’s bachelor party doesn’t fare much better. Hayden picks him up, promising him a surprise, only for the surprise to be dinner reservations at an upscale restaurant advertising organic ingredients and gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free, fun-free dishes. The surprise must be the part where J.J. shows up five minutes after them, meeting them at the host stand.

J.J. and Shane hadn’t spoken much after the hospital. J.J. had texted him a handful of times, asking for updates on his recovery. Shane had responded in kind. He’d sent a few texts of his own, mostly during Metros games. Sending J.J. tips for the next game, or congratulating him on a few good scores. All of their conversations have remained brief, surface-level. Shane hadn’t mentioned Ilya, and J.J. hadn’t either. J.J.’s wedding invite had been interesting.

Hey, so, I know this is sort of new to you. And I know we haven’t talked about it much. But I’m getting married next week, and I’d like for you to be there. As my friend.

Sent via text last Sunday.

Unsurprisingly, J.J. hadn’t responded.

He’d been fine during preseason practice. He hadn’t acted overly friendly towards Shane, but he wasn’t being cold either. He’d just been J.J. Happy, easy-going, enthusiastic J.J.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Shane tells him once they’ve been seated. They’re in a booth, Hayden and Shane on one side, J.J. on the other. J.J. shrugs, playing with his water glass nonchalantly, though Shane suspects he feels a lot more chalant about this than he’s letting on.

“Was my best friend’s wedding,” J.J. sniffs, not meeting Shane’s eyes. “Even if he does not seem to know he is my best friend.”

“J.J.—”

“No, it’s cool. I love being left out of this little,” he waves his hand between Shane and Hayden, “whatever this is. It’s very nice, thinking you are friends with a guy for five-plus years, only to find out he is in love because he’s been knocked out on the ice.”

“I didn’t mean for you to find out that way,” Shane says stiffly.

“You did not mean for me to find out at all.”

Shane stares down at the table, picking at his cuticles.

“No,” he replies, voice quiet. “I didn’t.”

J.J. seems thrown by that response, like he’d expected Shane to push back, to reassure him that, “No, J.J., you’re one of my closest friends. Of course I’d have told you.”

Shane barrels forward.

“I wasn’t going to tell anyone. Not ever.”

“Well, seems you had no problem telling Hayden,” J.J. grumbles, itching the side of his nose.

Shane takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders.

“Not until recently,” Shane explains. “Not until I really needed him. When Ilya really needed him, I mean.”

“Oh gee, thanks,” Hayden laughs under his breath. Shane elbows him in the side.

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, I don’t,” J.J. huffs out. “What the fuck do you mean?”

Shane takes another deep breath, preparing himself for a timeline reveal that almost sent Hayden into cardiac arrest when he found out. He doesn’t imagine it’ll go any differently for J.J.

“The, umm, the kid. Natasha. When she entered the picture it, ah, changed some things. Gave us some perspective. Sort of forced our hands at…being more open, um, expressive with our affection, I guess. Our love.”

J.J. shakes his head.

“Wait,” he interrupts, looking confused as hell. “Into the picture? As in: there was a picture before the kid?”

Shane hears Hayden snort next to him, loudly. He throws another elbow to his gut.

“Uh, yeah, J.J. There was a picture. Before the kid.”

J.J. narrows his eyes.

“How long?”

Shane gulps, averting his gaze.

“How long, what?”

“How long was this ‘picture’?”

Shane squirms in his seat.

“Well, I guess it sort of depends on your definition of, um—”

“OhmyGod, dude,” Hayden blows out in one breath. “Just tell him.”

Shane steels himself, squeezing his eyes shut. At least they’re not in a moving vehicle this time.

“Since, um. Since rookie year.”

When he’s met with complete and utter silence, he dares to squint one eye open, only to catch J.J. staring at him in wide-eyed shock.

“You have been in love with Ilya fucking Rozanov since rookie year?”

Shane winces.

“Jeeze, J.J. say it a little louder, why don’t you?”

J.J. shakes his head, still in disbelief.

“Sorry, Capitaine. I am just—are you serious?”

“Well, yes and no. The ‘in love’ part is a gray area—”

“Debatable,” Hayden grumbles.

“But,” Shane hisses over him, “we sort of had to face the fact that it wasn’t, ah, as casual as we thought it was. When Natasha came into the picture, that is.”

J.J. eyes him suspiciously.

“So, what, you were just, like, fucking?”

Shane shrugs.

“I mean, yeah? Is that so hard to believe? You do it all the time.”

“Yeah, but I am me,” he gestures to himself before waving both hands in Shane’s direction. “And you are you. It is different, I think.”

Shane glares at him.

“Different how?”

J.J. shrugs, taking a brief sip of his water.

“I know you. You do not do casual. We go to all these cities, surrounded by all these beautiful people, and you do not fuck any of them.”

“That’s because I’m gay, idiot.”

“Ah, no,” J.J. points an accusatory finger at him. “I said people, not women. The only time I ever saw you dip out of the locker room for a puck bunny was in Boston.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Shane grumbles.

“I am just saying,” J.J. starts, his tone growing serious once more. “I think I am a better friend than you are giving me credit for. I’ve known about your ‘Lily’ for a while. I never pressed you about her, not really. Not in the way it matters. Maybe you did not know you were in love, but I did. And it would have been nice, you know, to have been a part of that.”

Silence rests over the table after that, allowing Shane a few moments to take in what J.J. is saying. J.J., who has always been eerily perceptive on the ice, appears to be just as omniscient off it.

“That’s what I said,” Hayden speaks up, breaking the silence. “I mean, shit man, I get why you hid it from us, from everyone, but it’s nice, y’know. To be there for your friends when it really matters. We just wanted to be there, like you’ve been for us.”

Shane looks up from the table, meeting Hayden’s eyes, then J.J.’s, trying not to feel like the world’s biggest asshole while simultaneously trying not to cry. What could he have possibly done in a past life to deserve friends like this?

“Thanks guys,” he manages to force out, voice a bit gruff. “I’m sorry, I—it was so much. So much was happening, all at one time, and I—I didn’t know where I stood. With Ilya, or with myself, really. And I should have come to you guys, maybe. For support, or—or something. But I just thought—I was so alone. You don’t know how lonely it can feel, wanting one thing, but knowing you can’t—or thinking you can’t have it. I guess.” He swallows, glancing back down at the table. “And I wanted it. For a long time, I really wanted it.”

“Ah, Capitaine,” J.J.’s cheerful voice cuts through the stilted air, alongside the hand he brings down on Shane’s shoulder. He jostles him playfully. “It’s okay now, yes? You have it! Or, you are going to have it sometime tomorrow. Tonight, no more feelings talk! It’s giving me hives. Tonight, we celebrate, ah?” He holds his glass of water out. “To our Capitaine!” Shane and Hayden raise their glasses, joining in on J.J.’s toast.

“And to ‘Boston Lily’!” Hayden shouts, clinking glasses with them again. J.J. nods enthusiastically.

“Ah, to ‘Boston Lily,’ the luckiest girl in the NHL!”

Shane laughs, feeling a heavy burden lift from his shoulders that he hadn’t even realized was there.

To my friends, he thinks, as they toast one more time. To J.J.

***

The wedding slash brunch slash mini-Hollander family reunion was supposed to take place at 10:00 a.m.

It’s 11:15 a.m. and Shane’s cousin, who was supposed to officiate the wedding, hasn’t yet arrived.

“Traffic,” he told them, when Yuna had called at exactly 10:01 a.m. “I’m tryin’ guys, I’m sorry. But Google’s tellin’ me the accident’s like three miles ahead.”

He’s sent updates in fifteen minute increments since. All bearing the same news. “Slow going. Still no clean-up. ETA in a few hours.” Ilya suspects Yuna would probably be having an aneurysm if not for the fact that the two grooms seem perfectly content to laze about the yard and watch the kids play a very intense game of “Monkey in the Middle.”

“Well,” Yuna huffs, sweating out her frustration in her pretty, white sundress. “I guess we could at least eat while we wait.”

“Let’s hold off for one more round of this,” David gestures toward the game, where Jade and Ruby are throwing a stuffed animal back and forth over Natalya’s head. “I wanna see how long this can go on before she gets ticked off and it starts getting physical.”

“Knowing her genetics,” Shane butts in, side-eyeing Ilya with a smirk, “not long.”

“Hey, I resent that,” Ilya shoves at his shoulder playfully. “I am very respectable player. Always fair. The picture of ‘zen’ on the ice.”

“Uh huh,” Hayden agrees sarcastically from his spot laid out on one of the lawn chairs. He’s fanning himself with one of the place settings from the table Yuna has set up for their backyard lunch, sweat dripping from his brow.

“Dude, are you sure you don’t wanna change out of that suit? I’ve got some extra T-shirts upstairs,” Shane offers.

“He insisted it would be inappropriate to dress casually for your wedding,” Jackie explains. She too is fanning Hayden with one of the place mats. Ilya glances down at his own slacks and white, linen button-down. Is he underdressed for his own wedding? Hayden showed up in a suit and tie.

“Is fine out here. I don’t know why you children complain,” Yuna’s mother cuts in from her perch beneath the awning. The shady awning. Where there’s shade.

“Gamma, I don’t think you get to weigh in,” David tells her, also fanning himself. He’s starting to form pit stains, his starched, cotton button-down clinging to his arms and torso. Ilya decides that, no, he is not underdressed for his wedding. He is very happy he let Shane talk him into the cool, linen shirt. He does not want to smell like B.O. on the most beautiful day of his life.

“Wait, why can’t Gamma weigh in?” Shane asks.

“Is obvious,” Ilya drapes his (pit stain-free) arm over his shoulders. They’re lounging together on one of the patio couches, feet kicked up onto the rim of the unlit fire pit. “Your Asian genetics. They make you less stinky. You're not allowed to scold us nasty, sweaty Europeans.”

“What? That’s not true,” Shane turns to Yuna. “Mom?”

Yuna’s giving him a sympathetic grimace.

“It’s sort of true, honey. Something about a mutated gene.”

Shane furrows his brow, clearly confused.

“But that doesn’t make sense. I smell awful after games and stuff.”

“Ah, yes well,” David shrugs sheepishly. “That’s probably my fault. Sorry kid, bad genetics.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Ilya grabs Shane by the chin, turning his face toward his. “You have very good genetics.” He punctuates the remark with a brief peck on the lips.

“Oh, man,” J.J. groans. “I love you, buddy, but that’s gonna take some serious getting used to.”

Ilya rips his gaze away from Shane’s pretty face, raising an eyebrow in J.J.’s direction.

“Why, because I am a man?”

“No, because you’re you, dickhead.”

“Watch it,” Svetlana scolds, pointing at a jar—yes, an actual, real jar that Jackie brought from home—resting on top of the lunch table, labeled “SWEAR JAR” in bold, bright, sparkly letters. J.J. rolls his eyes, pulls out his wallet, and drops a twenty into the jar.

“Jeeze, dude,” Hayden gawks. “It wasn’t that bad of a word.”

J.J. shrugs.

“I do not carry much cash, so—”

He’s interrupted by a high-pitched cry coming from the direction of what was previously a friendly game of Monkey in the Middle. Natalya has the stuffed animal, and has taken refuge in one of the sugar maples littering Yuna’s backyard.

“Give it back!” Ruby yells up at her.

“Nyet! I caught Theo,” (the stuffed animal), “I am the winner now!”

“You’re not!” Jade screams back. “Ruby threw it, and you caught it! Now you throw it to me and Ruby has to try and catch it!”

“Yeah! You don’t get to keep Theo! That’s not how the game works!”

Ilya sighs, patting Shane’s thigh as he stands to go wrangle his daughter down from the treetops.

“Time to rescue the monkey.”

“Good luck out there, champ,” Shane smiles up at him, squeezing his hand as he leaves. “We’ll be cheering you on.”

“Try not to get sap on your nice shirt,” Yuna adds, worried.

“Is not my shirt,” Ilya calls over his shoulder. “Is your son’s.”

“Oh great,” Yuna replies dryly. “That makes me feel much better.”

As Ilya gets closer to the tree, Jade and Ruby look up. They run to him, holding onto his legs and gazing at him imploringly, like he's Theo's personal savior.

"Uncle Ilya," Ruby begs. "Tell Natasha to come down! She stole Theo!"

"Yeah!" Jade chants. "That's not how the game works!"

"Yes, ladies. I hear you." He pats both their heads in a consolatory manner, then trudges forward toward the tree, one twin affixed to each leg. When he gets to the branch Natasha's hiding in, it's no higher than eye-level for him. She's clinging to the branch with one hand, Theo with the other. She eyes Ilya warily, like she doesn't trust him to have her best interests at heart. When he reaches out for her, she jerks, bringing Theo closer to her chest and wobbling precariously on her perch. Ilya pulls his hand back and holds them both up, placating.

"Malyshka, what's wrong?"

She sniffles, hiding her nose in stuffed animal's fake fur.

"Natashenka," he tries again, ducking beneath a low branch to get closer to her.

"You have to give it back, Natasha," Ruby pipes up unhelpfully from her seat on Ilya's foot. "You can't keep it! That's not how the game works!"

"But I won it!" Natasha rebukes, looking at Ilya with pleading eyes. "It's how it works!"

"Baby," Ilya tries, reaching out again, this time with success. He runs his fingers down her back, petting her like he would a spooked animal. "I don't think that's how it works. Not if you want to keep playing the game."

Natalya sniffs, wiping her nose on the stuffed animal's furry head.

"I do want to play," she says petulantly, like she's not paradoxically hugging the toy close to her chest.

"Then you have to play fair. You have to toss the toy so that your friend can try and catch it."

"But if she catches it, then it's her toy again."

Ilya smiles grimly, tucking a loose strand of wild hair behind her ear.

"It was always her toy, sweetheart. She was just being kind enough to let you play with it. But if you keep hoarding it, she probably won't want to keep playing with you, or letting you play with her toys."

Natalya looks at him, then tilts her head down to look at Ruby and Jade, scrutinizing them. Then, reluctantly, she loosens her hold on the stuffed animal and drops her arm so that Ruby can reach up and grab it from her.

"There, good girl. Now, why don't I help my little monkey out of her tree?"

Ilya props her up on his hip once she's properly detangled from the tree branch. He helps her fix her hair, a rats nest of leaves and tree bark from all her finagling. When he gets back to the group, everyone conglomerated around the fold-out table, he's happy to see that Marlow and Rose are back from the corner store with a couple bags of ice. Ilya plops Natalya down next to Shane, correctly assuming he'd be better at plying the twigs out of her hair more delicately than he would, then joins Rose and Marlow in filling cheese cloth with ice and taping it in front of some box fans David's pulled out of the garage.

"Millions of dollars, and I still cannot buy outdoor AC," he grumbles, throwing power cords in David's direction so he can plug them into extension cords.

"This should work fine enough. Good call, Rose," Yuna says, carrying out trays of food and setting the table for their very late brunch. Svetlana helps, pulling off saran wrap and tin foil as dishes are brought out.

"You learn a lot trying to host outdoor parties in L.A.," Rose laughs. She laughs harder when she manages to slip a cube of ice down the back of Marlow's shirt, causing him to jump up and shriek, itching at his suit jacket.

"Evil woman!"

Ilya sends Shane a look over Natalya's shoulder. Or, he tries to, but Shane's much too busy painstakingly tugging tree bark out of Natalya's hair strand by stand so he doesn't pull at her scalp and hurt her. Ilya walks over to Shane's grandmother, offering her his arm so he can walk her over to the lunch table.

"Oh, thank you, young man," she raises her free hand and pats his cheek lovingly. "Do I get to sit next to you?"

"He's literally getting married, mother," Yuna scolds, not looking up from her task of sticking toothpicks into individual chunks of watermelon.

Yuna's mother grins up at Ilya, standing on her tip-toes to whisper-yell into his ear: "Not married yet."

"Gamma!" Shane scolds.

"You would not think him so handsome if you had to wash his dirty socks," Sofya says offhandedly, moving to the couch to help Shane tug twigs out of Natalya's hair.

"Oh, now, they are not so bad," Ilya tries, in vain, to defend himself.

"They're pretty bad, daddy," Natalya offers, the little traitor.

"I remember Shane's dirty laundry hamper going nuclear back in high school. Must be a match made in heaven," David shrugs, plugging in the last of the box fans.

"Oh, jeeze. Thanks dad. Any other negative qualities you wanna air out before Ilya's locked in?"

Ilya walks around the table, back to the couch. He leans down and plants a loud, obnoxious kiss on the top of Shane's head.

"Darling, you could have the stinkiest feet in the world and I'd still love you."

"Ah," sighs Svetlana. "And they say romance is dead."

They eat after that, assuming Shane's cousin is a lost cause for the next few hours. He must have caught a second wind after the wreck was cleared off the road, however, because he shows up twenty minutes into lunch. Everyone's just settled down at the table with platefuls of food. Ilya's plowing through a giant pile of quarter-cut sandwiches while Shane's meticulously counting out how many cubes of watermelons he wants to add to his plate when his cousin crashes into the backyard, looking way more windswept than necessary for a guy who just spent the better half of four hours sitting stagnant in the cab of his truck.

"Sorry!" he says, speed-walking over to Yuna to accept a hug and peck to the cheek. "I'm really sorry, guys. I had no idea the freeway was gonna be that bad."

"It's okay," Shane smiles, very polite. Very Canadian. Ilya knows he's hiding his stress as best he can. "Why don't you sit and eat with us, then we can sign the document. We're not in any rush."

Well, Ilya mentally corrects. Broadly speaking, we are in a bit of a rush.

As lunch wraps up, and Yuna starts to slice into the kind-of wedding cake, which is actually just a few pans of cheesecake. ("Cheesecake is not a wedding cake, sweetheart," Ilya had laughed at him when Shane told him his choice. "Yeah, but it's my favorite kind." Ilya wasn't about to press the matter. Not when he's already accomplished the small miracle of getting Shane to agree to eating cake.) As she begins passing slices around the table, Shane sends Ilya a look, and Ilya is ninety-percent sure he's not misinterpreting this look, so he claps his hands twice, getting everyone's attention, and asks if they can just sign the marriage contract now, get it over with, so he can shove cheesecake into Shane's face like a proper husband.

"Oh!" Yuna exclaims, mid-cut. "Okay, do you want to, um, do you want to stand? Or—"

"No, right here, mom," Shane replies, refusing to look away from Ilya's growing smile.

People shift around the table, making room for Shane's cousin to sit next to them at the head of the table. Yuna and David join them in standing, leaning over them as Shane's cousin lays out the marriage certificate. Shane's parents sign as the witnesses, but before Shane's cousin can lean in to sign off as the officiate, Yuna asks: "Wait! Don't you two want to, I don't know, say something?"

Ilya looks at Shane, who looks back at him, equally confused.

"Uh, like what?" Shane asks, turning back to his mom.

"Well, I—do you guys not have vows? Or something?"

"Ah, no," Ilya counters. "This is a Canadian thing. We don't do vows in Russia."

"We don't do gay marriage in Russia either," Svetlana butts in, "but here we are."

"What, you are saying you want vows?" Ilya asks, exasperated.

"I mean, yeah," Marlow answers for her. "They're romantic."

"Right," Ilya turns back to Shane. "Romantic."

Shane sits back, squaring his shoulders. He glances around the table, gauging the looks everyone's sending their way. He then reaches into his pocket, pulls Ilya's ring out, and grabs Ilya's hand. He helps him unfurl his fingers, then places the ring in his palm and curls his fingers around Ilya's.

"Ilya," he says, very serious, too serious for the moment Ilya thought they were having. It feels less playful, suddenly, less like a cute quip shared between two friends and more like a promise shared between lovers. A vow. He swallows down the joke he'd been about to make and matches Shane's gaze.

"Shane," he says, feeling the metal of the ring heat up between their palms.

"Ilya," Shane repeats, leaning forward, like he's sharing a secret. A secret the entire table is waiting with bated breath to be let in on. "I—"

"Yes?" Ilya breathes out, coming closer, close enough that if he were to tilt his head up, if he pressed forward just a bit, he could kiss Shane. He's already going cross-eyed trying to maintain eye-contact.

"I," Shane sighs, "love you more than hockey."

And it's a joke. It lands as a joke, for most of the table, who are all laughing now, sharing in Ilya's joy. But Ilya's joy does not stem from Shane's humor, because when he pulls back a fraction of an inch, just far enough to meet Shane's eyes, he sees it is not a joke. Shane squeezes his hand, an affirmation, and Ilya leans in for a long, obnoxious kiss.

"No! You're not at that part yet!" Ruby chirps from across the table. Ilya pulls away from the kiss, grinning.

"Ah, no. You are right. I still have my vows."

"Good luck topping Shane's," Hayden teases. "That's the most romantic sentence I've ever heard leave that man's mouth."

"I think I can top it," Ilya grins, staring into Shane's warm, brown eyes shamelessly. He watches them soften at his words, the micro expressions of Shane's need so blatantly obvious to him now. He wonders how he ever mistook this heady glance for anything aside from absolute adoration. Ilya breaks eye contact to lean forward, pressing his lips to the shell of Shane's ear.

"Hey, now, uh-uh. Nothing dirty!" Marlow chastises. Ilya shoots him a wink.

"Is not dirty," he says for the table, then turns back to Shane's ear, saying, in a softer tone: "Is just a secret."

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the ring he's been holding for Shane, the one he's been holding onto since that fateful day in Boston, when he walked into some random jewelry store, bought the first ring he could find that didn't have any unnecessary embellishments, and purchased it on the spot.

"Do you need it resized?" the jeweler had asked. No, Ilya had told him. I do not need it resized. Not because it is a perfect fit, but because I do not know the size of this man's ring finger. Just as I do not know his favorite food, his favorite color. I do not know anything about him, really, except that he makes me feel something. Something other than fear or frustration or anger. He makes me feel elated, the way I felt the first day my mother took me out onto the ice with my skates laced up. He makes me feel warm, like I can sink into him, just keep sinking into him, until we cannot decipher where my body begins and his ends. Like if I wrap this blanket around our joined bodies a little tighter, I can trap him here, hold him to my chest until I am frail and wrinkled with age. But I cannot do this, because he is him, and I am myself, and so I do not need this ring resized because it will never be fitted onto the finger of whom it belongs.

So it will sit dormant, for years, waiting bleakly in a little black box in the back of my bedside table drawer. Some nights, when I am feeling particularly lonely, I will pull it out and look at it. I'll finger the cool metal, the soft, plush felt that it's seated in. I'll put it on my own finger, heat it up for use, so it will not be so cool when pressed into his skin. When he is here, I will think of it, occasionally, in the brief moments he offers me breath. As he's turning, I will think, oh yes, the ring. There is a ring here for you. And as he spreads his legs and grabs onto my hips, guiding me forward, I will say, it's what you think it is, my love. It's exactly what you think it is. I will press his body down into the sheets, pepper kisses across his chest, his neck, those pretty, pretty freckles smattered across his cheeks like a slightly more symmetric Pollock painting. I will do this, and as he's panting, open-mouthed against the heated skin of my jaw, I will say, it's for you, darling. It's all for you. Everything is for you.

I will fuck him, slow and aching, like he has not let me fuck him before. Because I am not fucking him now, I am making love to him. I will tell him this, remind him of this. I love you, Shane, I will say, over and over until he believes me. You can't imagine how I love you.

And when we are done, I will pull his body into mine. I will slip the ring onto his finger, because he is mine, now. He is mine and he will stay.

I do none of these things. Instead, after we have fucked, because we have fucked, he will shower first, because I am generous like this. And he will darn his frumpy, post-game suit. And he will say something benign. See you, Roz. Or worse, have a good summer. And I will not have a good summer. I am determined not to, now, watching him leave my bedroom. I will listen to him shut the door to my penthouse, the one with three bedrooms and nobody to occupy them, and I will think of the ring I did not slip onto his finger. The one collecting dust in the back of my bedside table drawer.

There are many days when I am not fucking him. When I am fucking someone else. I will not think of him at all, actually, until I am. Until I am reaching into the drawer for lube or condoms, and my fingers brush the fine velvet of that little black box. And suddenly, I am no longer fucking a stranger. I am looking at him, at those big brown eyes of his. He is asking me if I'm okay, and I'm trying to tell him that I'm not. That I haven't been in a long time, but maybe I would be, okay, that is, if he could stay. Just for a while. Just long enough for the metal to warm up against his heated skin. But he does not stay, and my finger slips from the black box, and I slip between the warm thighs of a stranger, trying not to stare too deeply into irises that arouse nothing in me.

So, nyet, Mr. Jeweler. I do not need the ring resized.

"Shane," he whispers into his beautiful husband's ear. He presses the ring to his palm, the one he did, in fact, need to get resized.

"Ilya," Shane breathes, closing his fingers over the ring, holding it in his large first, callused with years of use out on the ice. Ilya latches onto that fist, pulls it to his mouth so he can kiss each one of Shane's knuckles before he presses forward, cupping his hand around Shane's ear so that no one else can listen in.

"Shane," he repeats.

And then he whispers a date.

Chapter End Notes

I am slowly working my way through all ur comments <3 I recently transitioned to owning a flip phone, so I have to reply to you the old-fashioned way: via computah.

also this means i don't have google maps anymore, so if you don't get a story update in the next few weeks, just assume i got lost and died on my way to fill up gas in my own 5 mile X 5 mile town.

and sorry for the rambling way of writing i experiment with at the end there. I am reading Robert Bolano's 2666 right now and felt inspired. I was like oh? sentence structure? don't know her

Works inspired by this one

Epub Cover inspired by "Who Will Love A Little Sparrow" by Weeb_Grass by skargasm