Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander, Alexei Rozanov's Daughter & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Hayden Pike, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Cliff Marlow, Alexei Rozanov's Daughter, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Girl Dad Ilya Rosanov, Depression, Minor Character Death, Secret Relationship, Outing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Kid Fic, Introspection, POV Alternating, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Major Character Injury, Secret Children, the cabin, Good Friend Cliff Marlow, Yuna Hollander Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Hand-wavy law, Love Confessions, Miscommunication, Angst with a Happy Ending, Shane Hollander Has Anxiety, Ilya Rosanov Has Anxiety, Everyone Has Issues, Hockey

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-15 Completed: 2026-02-26 Words: 41,342 Chapters: 20/20

You don't have to be sorry (for doing it on your own)

Summary

The house where his mother killed herself is nothing but a pile of ash. It should satisfy him, maybe, that the building that was once her prison is gone. It was his prison too, for years. But something about the way the charred brick has crumbled in on itself makes him feel empty.

Suddenly, Ilya Rozanov is a single parent to his orphaned niece. Suddenly, he has a whole lot more to lose.
The only way to keep his love safe, is to keep it secret.
(Its not like he doesn't have enough of those already)

Notes

:)

Chapter 1: A Pile of Ash Where the Heart Should Live

February, 2017

The house where his mother killed herself is nothing but a pile of ash. It should satisfy him, maybe, that the building that was once her prison is gone. It was his prison too, for years. But something about the way the charred brick has crumbled in on itself makes him feel sad. The windows are blown in from the force of the fire, and the neighbouring houses are scorched on the sides from the flames. Ilya hasn’t been here in years, the memories had been too difficult to face, and now he regrets it a little bit. 

In the past, when he came back to Moscow he would stay in his own apartment, visiting his father’s new place with Polina, or Alexi’s when absolutely necessary. Nobody really used the old house, and that had never sat right with Ilya but it’s not like he was any better equipped to face his mother’s ghost.

He doesn’t understand exactly what twist of fate led to his family all staying the night there. He doesn’t understand how the fire started, or how it grew so devastating, or why nobody was able to get out on time. He certainly doesn’t know what to do now, hasn’t since he received the call from some stern Moscow official letting him know that there had been a horrible accident (accident - a word he knows all too well), and that his family was dead because of it. His father, his brother, his sister in law, everyone. Ilya doesn’t remember getting home that night, but he does remember Marlowe’s guiding hand on his shoulder as the older man helped him to a seat on shaky legs, pulling up flight details and calling management to get him some time. He had to sort out funerals and estates and debts and god knows what else, but it had to be done in Russia.

On the plane, he had let himself doze off, whispers of dreams playing at his subconscious. He lets himself pretend there is a strong hand in his hard, carding through his curls. The imagined hand is attached to a fantasy version of Shane Hollander, who is exactly the same as the real Shane Hollander except he is here, and he has nowhere else to be. Ilya doesn’t dwell on how pathetic it is to want something so soft. 

Five hours into his flight he realizes that he hasn’t texted Shane since this morning. Going some eighteen hours without contact wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary for most of their relationship - if you could even call it that - but things were different, now. Since the All Star game, since Tampa, since Ilya finally allowed Shane a tiny piece of his truth and with it, his heart. It hadn’t resolved anything, but they both knew, now. Knew that they wanted more than stolen glances across the ice and frenzied hookups in whatever bed was closest. It was a fresh sort of terrifying Ilya had never believed he would experience, this fear not of being left, or ignored, but of being known so completely. Loving Shane is the scariest thing he has ever done and the man doesn’t even know it yet.

It had been the worst, probably, when Shane had dated Rose Landry. Brilliant, perfect, uncomplicated, she had been perfect for Shane. Ilya knew he had chased the other man away, that time in his Boston home. He had come too close to saying the truth, opening up his tightly guarded heart only to have it wretched from his body. He had shown too much of his hand and Shane had run straight into the safety of a heteronormative relationship so high profile it simply had to work out. Except it hadn’t. Shane had waltzed into that bar in Tampa in nice clothes and ordered a beer and had confirmed that he and Landry were incompatible. The gaping chasm in Ilya’s chest had mended itself back together, a little bit. And later, when Shane held him while he cried because as much love as he felt, nothing could ever be done, the chasm had mended a little bit more. 

Since that night of almost-confessions, they had been texting more. Shane would probably worry about him when the news of this got out. Boston Bears Captain Ilya Rosanov Abandons Team to Deal With Russian Family. Captain Ilya Rosanov Runs Away Mid-Season Because his Priorities are Wrong. Rosanov in Russia: Does he Even Care? The headlines he imagines are certainly worse than whatever the actuality will be, but that doesn’t stop his racing mind from spiralling. It's times like these that he is most like his mother.

He doesn’t know why he goes to the house before even his apartment, never mind the lawyer’s. If anything, he should eat a meal and get some proper rest before attempting to sort out whatever bureaucratic nightmare awaits. But he stands before the shell of the aggressively normal house in which he grew up and he lets himself remember the feeling of his mother’s chest rising and falling against his own after running all the way home from the rink. She would kneel in front of him, her hands hugging him tightly, and in those moments nothing had mattered because he knew he was loved. 

He only resented her a little bit, for dying. He couldn’t hold it against her fully, no matter how much he wished he would. After all, once she was gone, he became the target of all his father’s untethered aggression and anger and, had he not been too much of a coward, he would have followed in his mother’s footsteps. The only thing that saved him, as he got older, was that he became too good at hockey for his father to risk breaking his ribs. Smaller bruises were fine, they blended in with the hockey injuries like a beautiful painting of hurt, but anything too bad, too damaging, was off the table once scouts started showing interest. Ilya doesn’t know where his father put all that anger once he lost his second-choice punching bag, because it wasn’t Alexi or Polina, but he stopped caring long ago. 

The appointment with the lawyer is at two in the afternoon. He hasn’t eaten since before the game save for the sad airplane meal he forced down his throat, and so he throws together a sandwich in his apartment and tries to feel a little more human before the meeting. 

The woman at the reception desk recognizes him before he can introduce himself and he pretends not to hate it. 

“Mr. Rosanov,” she says, “Mr. Popov is waiting for you.” She smiles at him and he tries to make his own face mirror it, with limited success. He walks down the stale hallway - he hates this soviet architecture, it reminds him too much of his father - and comes to a stop in front of the single door at the end. Ilya debates knocking before deciding he simply does not care, and walks in like he belongs.

Popov is a balding man of maybe forty-five, and he wears glasses that are three times too small for his face. He looks up at Ilya when he enters the room, before nodding to the chair on the other side of his metal desk. Ilya sits.

“Good afternoon,” he says, because Popov hasn’t said anything and he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Mr Rosanov,” Popov greets, “thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I will go through what we need from you, and what the state will handle, and then you can ask any questions you may have.” Ilya nods, and thanks whatever god is out there that this man is not going to beat around the bush with him. “The most pressing matter we must discuss is timing for the funerals. If you want the state to organize the ceremony for your father and brother, due to their status within the police, we must submit that request as soon as possible. For your sister in law and mother in law, you will have to organize that yourself, or you can choose to forgo a ceremony entirely. Do you know how you would like to proceed?”

Ilya doesn’t know what he would like to do. He would like to sign some papers and get on the next flight back to Boston. He would like to wallow in this state of not-quite-grief for a thousand years. He would like to honor his family’s memories. He would like to spit on his father’s burned corpse for all the man put him through. But something sticks out. 

“What about Katya?” he asks, eyes flicking up from the dent he had been intently examining in the desk. Katya was his niece, and he had only met her a handful of times, but he remembered her brilliant green eyes and her uncanny resemblance to his mother that Alexi must have just hated. She was probably the one he was mourning the most, her life cut so tragically short. He knows the state used to provide some sort of extra service for children's funerals, and he doesn’t know if he wants that, but Alexi definitely would have, and maybe that matters. But then Popov is looking at him with a strange expression, saying

“Katya is not dead, Mr. Rosanov.” The words send a bolt of shock and relief and sorrow through him and that emotional medley would be enough, but Popov isn’t done, “Since your brother had no listed next of kin, she has been brought to a state orphanage. I would have brought this to your attention earlier, but I assumed you wouldn’t care, after all, you’re a busy man.” 

Whatever emotions had been flooding his system, they are replaced with outrage. Katya, sweet Katya. Alive. Orphaned. Remanded to a facility that would cram her in a room with eight other children, feed her twice a day, and say that it was enough. She is four years old, he thinks, mentally scolding himself for not knowing even this crucial detail. And Popov, just assuming that because his life is in America and his career is demanding, that he wouldn’t spare a second thought for his niece? For his only living family? Ilya bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood because yelling at this lawyer will not fix anything. 

“You assumed wrong,” he grits out, barely concealing the emotions that threaten to undermine whatever power he holds in this meeting, “I want to see her.”

Popov looks surprised, but nods good naturedly, “Of course, we can arrange something in the next few days-”

“No,” Ilya cuts him off, “I will see her today.”

“Mr. Rosanov, we have a lot to get through today, I’m not sure if…” Popov trails off as Ilya allows his glare to intensify, signaling that this is not a matter up for discussion. “I will go through things as quickly as I can, and then I will arrange a meeting at the orphanage for this evening,” he concedes. Ilya nods, and this is still too long, and he knows whatever else is said in this meeting he will not be understanding, because all he can think of is Katya, and how afraid she must be, and how desperately he needs to see her. But he can be patient, despite what people might think. So he makes decisions and consents to state involvement if only because Popov seems to think it's a good idea. Forty-five minutes later he has an address in his hand and is out the door.

Do not worry Katya, he thinks, I am coming.

Chapter 2: Where the heart is

Chapter Notes

wow! so productive! another chapter!

The orphanage smells like sadness. Maybe that doesn’t make the most sense, but Ilya can’t think of another way to describe it; it's a pervasive feeling of unwantedness that he can’t help but sympathise with. He introduces himself to an older woman in a shirt buttoned all the way to her throat, and she leads him to a sort of dining room, rows of tables all packed with kids. 

Ilya looks for Katya in the crowded hall, and their eyes lock as the woman calls her name. Ilya feels his heart shoot into his throat as Katya’s face morphs from a blank canvas to something more hopeful, if hesitant. She abandons her plate and hesitantly makes her way through the crowd. He drops to a knee as she approaches, and she seems so unbearably tiny he can’t even wrap his mind around it. 

“Hi Katya,” he says softly, and her eyes go wide for a reason he can’t quite place, “do you remember me? My name is Ilya.” He introduces himself because it seems wrong to assume she would remember him, a man who sends her gifts and visits for a week every year. Somebody drops their plate on the ground, and the resounding sound isn’t even that loud, but Katya flinches violently, stiffening in front of him. He looks up at the woman who is, presumably, in charge. “Could we move to somewhere a little bit quieter?” he requests, and she takes them to what appears to be an unused office. He nods his thanks, and she bows out. 

Katya is still looking at him like she doesn’t know how to act, and he can’t really blame her for it. He sits against the wall, knees to his chest, and pats the ground next to him in offering. Hesitantly, Katya takes it, and mimics his position next to him. They don’t speak for what feels like a thousand years. 

“Why are you here, uncle Ilya?” she asks, her use of his title at least telling him that she remembers him a little bit.

“I’m here for you, of course,” he replies, and she looks at him, confusion clear on her face now.

“Why? My dad is dead now. So you don’t have to care about me anymore.” There is so much wrong with that sentence that Ilya doesn’t know what to say at first. If anything, Katya has been the reason he cared about his brother, these last few years. That she thinks the opposite is true breaks his heart.

“No, Katya. I care about you. I always will, ok?” She looks at him, disbelieving, but nods regardless. “I am here,” he starts, but then he hesitates, not wanting to push anything on her too quickly, not wanting to scare her away, “I am here because you are my family, and because I wanted to make sure you were safe here. Happy.” He hopes his message is clear, but from her face, he realizes it probably was not. “Are you happy here, Katya?” he asks.

“No,” she whispers, looking almost ashamed of it, “I don’t like it here. I want to go home.” 

Ilya’s heart breaks a little bit more. Hesitantly, he puts a hand to the back of her head, and when she doesn’t flinch away he pulls her towards his side. She goes surprisingly willingly, and he wonders when the last time somebody held her like this was. 

“I’m so sorry malishka,”  he murmurs, because that is probably the one thing he simply cannot make happen for her. Her eyes are filled with tears she is too Russian to let fall, and that kills him a little bit too because never has he been more reminded of his mother. He was going to wait before asking this, he should definitely have at least spoken to an American lawyer or his agent or somebody, but he doesn’t really care in this moment. “Would you, maybe, want to come with me to my home? It is not the same, I know,  but it will be better than here, I think.”

“Isn’t your home in America?” Katya asks, perceptive even at four years old.

“Yes, it is, but I like it there. And Sveta, you remember Svetlana, she is there too.” His heart races as he suddenly realizes that this is the only way he wants this to end, with Katya in his Boston home where he knows she is safe. Sveta might kill him for this.

“Don’t they speak English in America?” Katya asks, “Because I don’t know any English.” If this is her biggest worry, Ilya can certainly work with that. 

“It will be alright, Katya,” he assures her, “I will teach you, and in no time you will be even better than me.” 

“Really?” She doesn’t look like she believes such a thing is possible, and that childlike wonder brings a small smile to Ilya’s face.

“Really,” he confirms. 

It is surprisingly easy to take Katya back to his apartment that night, the orphanage workers easily accepting his two pieces of government ID as he signs a form that grants him immediate familial custody in the eyes of the Russian government. He sets her up in his bed, and she is asleep before he even closes the door. As Ilya settles on the couch, he makes a mental list of all the phone calls he needs to make in the upcoming days. He has to plan funerals, and hire someone to deal with estates, and get Popov the paperwork he had promised would be sent over four hours ago. Then he should call his agent, probably, because he would definitely know the league rules for what to do when you suddenly adopt a child who has never left Russia before. If there even are any. Ilya can’t think of any players who are single parents, and that is probably because it seems like an impossible task. His hours are irregular and he is sometimes gone for weeks on end and the more he thinks about it the harder it seems. 

Two hours later and Ilya is still overthinking everything, but at least he has had the chance to speak with his agent, who reassured him that his work visa would extend to Katya, since she is now legally his daughter. It should be a relief, that this is one legal hoop he doesn’t have to jump through, but all he can think about is how horribly unprepared he is for all this. Nobody, in the history of the world, has ever thought that Ilya Rosanov was father material. 

He does the only thing he can think of. He calls his best friend.

“Ilya,” Sveta says his name in a way that tells him she has heard the news. Maybe she tried calling him already, but he has been horrible at checking it these last thirty-six hours. “How are you doing?” she asks, and it’s unintentionally a loaded question.

“I have done something,” he starts, “and it is either really good, or really stupid. Probably both.” 

“Oh?” Sveta asks, clear in her voice that this was not what she was expecting to hear. Which is fair, because he wasn’t what he was expecting to say either.

“Katya,” he doesn’t dwell on the way his voice catches a little on her name, “she made it out of the house, Sveta. She made it out and they didn’t even tell me she was alive because they didn’t think I’d care and she’s just so small. And if I hadn’t done it, she would still be in that horrible place with all that noise and I could just tell she hated it, even before she told me and so I had to do it, even if maybe it was a horrible idea.” Ilya forces himself to stop talking, fully aware he has left out about half the important details, but trusting his friend to understand him anyway.

“Oh Ilushka,” she breathes, “you agreed to take her, didn’t you?” Svetlana speaks in a gentle way he doesn’t think he quite deserves. He nods, and maybe it's the use of the childhood nickname, but tears find their way into his eyes.

“I couldn’t leave her there, Sveta.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“She is covered by my visa, and she has a passport, so getting back to Boston will be fine.”

“And after that, Ilya? When you are playing hockey halfway across the country? Do you have a plan for that?” Sveta is being so gentle with him and it makes him want to scream.

“No,” he whispers, “I have no fucking idea. But I’m going to figure it out, for her.” 

They sit in silence for a moment and Ilya watches the call time tick up on the screen of his phone.

“Are you sure about this Ilya?” Sveta finally says, “Because if you aren’t, then you need to stop this right now. Don’t drag this poor girl across an ocean just to decide it's too much for you.” She means it well, Ilya knows, but he can’t pretend it isn’t hard to hear.

“Sveta I have never been more sure of anything. There is no choice for me here. I have to do this.” He says the words with a conviction he didn’t know he held, and it seems to work because Sveta doesn’t question him further.

“I will help,” she offers, “for your away games, I will watch her.” Ilya is filled with gratitude for this woman who has always been there when he needed her most.

“Sveta thats…” he doesn’t even know what to say.

“I will help, Ilya, but I cannot be a permanent solution here. Eventually, you are going to need a real plan.”

“Yes, of course, I… thank you.” Ilya sighs deeply. “Thank you.” He doesn’t agonize in the silence that falls after he hangs up.

The last call he makes is the one that feels the hardest, and he hates that. Four missed calls from Jane blink away at him, and they’ve never called before but Shane started it and he clearly wants to talk and things between them have been better, recently. Not that they were bad before. Ilya goes out onto his balcony and lights a cigarette and presses call. Shane picks up on the first ring.

“Hey,”

“Hi,”

“How are you doing? I heard. About your family. Ilya, I’m so sorry.” This might be the first time anyone has actually said that to him, I’m sorry. It's a stupid Canadian habit, Ilya thinks, to apologise to a grieving person. Unless you were the one that killed them, the apology is meaningless. But the way his name sounds on Shane’s tongue is comforting enough that he won’t begrudge the other man for his weird North American manners.

“I am…” Ilya lets himself trail off because he doesn’t really know how he is, “I think I am probably very bad,” he confesses finally, “This city, these people, they always make me worse. And now everyone is dead. I have no reason to come back here, now. Except for…” except for his mother. But Shane doesn’t know about that, doesn’t know quite how broken he is, and this isn’t the time. “I’m sorry,” he says instead, “English is too hard right now.” 

Shane seems to sit with this for a moment, and Ilya is almost wondering if he had already said too much again, when the other man is responding.

“I know, maybe, this is stupid but… you could always tell me what you need to say in Russian? I won’t understand, but maybe it’ll help?” Ilya falls a little more in love with him in that moment. 

“Ok,” he says, and then he does. He talks about his mother and his father and the bruises on his heart that never quite fade entirely. He talks about Katya and his brother and the way society itself seems determined to make him feel powerless, here. And then he talks about love. Love for Katya, which he didn’t see coming and doesn’t really know what to do with, how already he feels so protective over her, but at the same time completely useless. He talks about love for Shane, too. Words he would never let himself so much as think in a language Shane understands, but are so incredibly true regardless. “I love you,” he says, “And it makes me so afraid, because I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do about it.”

Chapter 3: Despite it all

Chapter Notes

me when i actually have time for my hobbies

March 04, 2017 - Two Weeks Later

Svetlana Vetrova is maybe the best person on the planet, Ilya thinks. It’s 2am, and he feels like he could pass out any second. Katya is in his left arm, her head against his shoulder, half asleep like she has been since the plane. He has her pink backpack on his back, and his own duffle in his right hand, and the feeling of relief that washes over him when he sees Sveta’s sleeping form on his couch is unparalleled. These last two weeks, he has felt unbearably alone. Between sorting out the funeral arrangements and slowly building some sort of trust with Katya, he is beyond emotionally drained. Sveta has been here, setting up one of his spare bedrooms for her. The walls are now a soft pink, and the dresser is full of more clothes than she could ever wear, but Ilya had handed over his credit card and told Sveta to get everything she could. He hasn’t talked to Shane since that first night, but they’ve exchanged a few texts and Ilya has let that be enough for now.

With a sigh, he drops his bag in the entryway, toeing off his shoes. He takes Katya to her room, and wakes her gently. As much as he would like to let her sleep, she will be disorientated when she wakes if he doesn’t. Wordlessly, he helps her change into pajamas, and tucks her into the soft bedsheets he ordered off amazon a week ago. “Welcome home, malishka,” he whispers, a hand on her cheek, “sleep well.”

Back in the living room, he goes to pick up his duffle and head to his own bed, when his eyes meet Sveta’s.

“She’s settled?” she asks, and Ilya nods.

“For now, yes,” he murmurs, and Sveta lets out a hum.

“You’re really doing this, aren’t you?” It’s not really a question, so Ilya doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he places a soft kiss on her head, and calls out to her as he walks away.

“Goodnight.”

March 07

These past few days have been good. Tomorrow he has his first practice back, and really he probably should have gone back today, with playoffs steadily approaching, but he stays home instead. Sveta has agreed that she will stay with Katya in his place when he has away games, and has made it clear that will be the extent of her involvement. She wasn’t looking for parenthood, and Ilya can’t begrudge her that - he wouldn’t want her to do anything more, anyway. They were best friends, certainly, and the sex had been good, before Ilya went and fell in love with Shane Hollander, but they would be horrible co-parents. 

Ilya does worry about Katya. She is so quiet, and reserved, and when Ilya had thought about what his children might be like (one day, far down the line, after retirement), he had imagined they would be like himself: loud, energetic, rowdy. He had never thought about what he would do if his child was shy. And the shyness itself wouldn’t concern him so much if it weren’t for the way it was coupled in a sort of shaking fear. Katya reminded him of some sort of prey animal, always waiting to bolt from danger. 

Yesterday, Ilya is pretty sure she had a panic attack. It had been early in the morning, and he had stepped outside to smoke half a cigarette before making breakfast. He hadn’t noticed her waking up, or walking towards him, but he definitely noticed when her eyes went wide, darting between the butt in his hand and his face. She had stood there, frozen but breathing all too fast, and when he stepped towards her, she flinched. Slowly, he had instead placed the butt in the ashtray he kept outside for this reason, and lowered himself to the cold concrete, extending a hand. “Katya,” he had said, “what is wrong?” In this position she must have viewed him as less of a threat, because she allowed him to pull her closer, and mumbled something into his shoulder that he couldn’t quite make out. “Sorry, what was that?” he asked.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she had said, and Ilya had held her even closer, whispered promises of 

“No, never,” falling from his lips. 

He had understood better that night as he helped her bathe, noticing for the first time a series of little circular scars that dotted her shoulders and upper arms. In the moment, he had maintained his composure, but in the aftermath the anger he felt at his  brother had been so strong that he had cried in his bed like a child. The man was dead and Ilya had never hated him more.

An hour later Ilya had thrown out every pack of cigarettes he could find, and ordered seven boxes of nicotine patches to get him through the next few days.

March 28

Away games are the hardest. He calls Katya from every hotel room he finds himself in, telling her nonsensical stories in an effort to get a laugh. Ilya makes it a point to repeat certain phrases in English, after saying them in Russian. Katya’s daycare is run by a Russian woman, which is good for her, but bad for learning the language she will need when she starts Kindergarten in the fall. Sveta insists that it is easier to learn a language when you’re so young, but Ilya figures it can’t hurt to throw in these English words when he can. 

They just beat Seattle 4:2, and Marlow is insistent that they go out and celebrate the win. Half the team is still in the locker room, and they have all agreed to celebrate their win out on the town.

“Come on, Rozy, you haven’t been out with us in ages,” Marlow complains, and it’s said jokingly, but Ilya can hear a thread of genuine concern beneath the older man’s words. He knows he hasn’t been social as of late, and while he could probably tell Marlow why, he hasn’t. It feels too fragile, too important, too all-encompassing, to combine these parts of his life.

“Marly,” he says, “as much as I would like to go to some boring fucking club and dance with boring fucking women, I do have standards and,” he offers a shit-eating grin, “Seattle is below them.”

His chirping earns him a round of laughs from the guys and a pat on the back from Marlow,

“Damn, Roz, be that way I guess,” the man says, and with a smile and a good natured shake of his head, Ilya makes his way out of the locker room.

That night, after laughing with Katya about something some boy did at daycare today, he lies awake for far too long. What the fuck is he doing? It was stupid to think this would all be easy, but he didn’t expect that more than a month into this, he would still feel like everything he did was wrong. He is never around for Katya, not really, not in the ways that matter. He can only comfort her over the phone when she has nightmares, and even then he never knows what to say. How can he possibly raise this child when he feels like a child himself? Whatever life events normal people have to prepare for this, Ilya finds himself sorely lacking. 

He has been neglecting his team, begging off of every invitation they extend to him, ignoring his duties as captain to maintaining a team dynamic. It hasn’t affected them yet, but it will, eventually, and then it will be all his fault. If today’s locker room conversation is anything to go off, Marlow already thinks there’s something wrong with him. It won’t be long until the rest of the team feels the same, and then they will take away his captaincy and that will be that. 

And then there's the Shane Hollander of it all. Ilya can’t pretend he hasn’t been neglecting the other man recently. In the past, every text from Shane would get an immediate response. That was before Katya, though. Katya who is young and innocent and has gone through so much, and who deserves to have stability. He thinks of Sveta’s warning, that first night. That he has to give everything he can to Katya, has to dedicate himself to keeping her safe. Part of keeping her safe is keeping her out of the public eye, and nothing would ruin that mission more than the biggest hockey scandal of all time. So even if it kills him, he has to pull away from Shane. When they were the only ones at risk with their secret, things were manageable, but now… Now Ilya has to think of someone other than himself, and his selfish desire for unattainable hockey players with beautiful freckles. Plus, Shane didn’t sign up for this. He didn’t sign up for dealing with a kid, and everything that comes with that. Really, Ilya thinks, leaving Shane Hollander on read might be the most selfless thing he has ever done.

April 02

Ilya has never been good at being selfless. Maybe that's why he fires off a text to Shane in the minutes before he has to get on the ice to warm up. He has been telling himself for weeks that this won’t happen. That last time was the last time. They’ve hooked up twice now, since Katya, both times in Montreal. When Shane texts him in Boston, he pretends not to see the message until it is far too late for anything to happen and then they have fantastic phone sex instead. The feelings they all-but-acknowledged at the All Star game made it seem like maybe they could have something more than this, eventually. And the texts they have still, despite Ilya’s best efforts, been exchanging multiple times a day, suggest the same. When Shane is in his arms all he can think about is a version of the future where this is forever. Reality usually comes crashing back in when Shane is in the shower and Ilya realizes that once Shane learns about Katya, this will all be over. If first names sent him running into the arms of a woman, there is no way that a child doesn’t make him leave too, even if things are different now. 

His phone vibrates with a response to his text.

L: I think I will make you cum once for every goal I score tonight

J: Thats stupid. 

J: You won’t be scoring any goals tonight, and I want to cum at least once.

Ilya huffs out a laugh. He really is hopelessly gone for this man. Like every time before, he wishes he didn’t care so much. He doesn’t bother lying to himself that this will be the last time. He puts his phone up in his locker and heads out onto the ice. By the end of the game, he has scored three goals. 

Shane gives him an easy smile when he opens the door, dragging Ilya in by the tie of his game day suit. Before Ilya can think, Shane has pushed him against the wall and is kissing him with a little bit of rage, the way he always does when Boston beats Montreal. It is delightful. Maybe one of the best things in the world. Ilya returns the kiss with all of the passion but none of the rage, because even if Boston had lost four-nothing, he would never be able to be even a little mad at Shane. 

An hour later, and they are both naked in Shane’s bed, his head against Ilya’s chest, and everything is perfect. Shane’s hair is still wet from their shower, and Ilya plays with it half-mindedly. 

“Hi,” he says. Shane twists to look at him.

“What?”

“I do not think I said it earlier. Hi.” Shane laughs, and twists back into Ilya’s body, pressing a soft kiss to his sternum.

“Hi.”

Eventually, the calm is ruined by an insistent buzzing on Ilya’s side of the bed. He reaches over to check his phone, and feels a spike of anxiety when he sees Sveta calling. It's late, and she wouldn’t call for no reason. He goes to get up, but Shane’s body is so warm against his.

“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to his phone. Shane looks surprised, but shakes his head before setting down against Ilya. He answers. “Sveta? Is everything alright?”

“She had another nightmare, Ilya,” she says, and Ilya curses internally. Katya’s nightmares have only been getting worse, and he doesn’t know how to help her, especially because she refuses to talk about them.

“I can talk to her,” he offers.

“No, I think we’re ok now, she is almost back asleep.”

“You could have called me.”

“I know, but,” Sveta pauses, “I also knew that you would be with your Jane tonight. I did not want to interrupt.”

“Sveta.”

“Its important to relax sometimes, Ilushka, even for you. Especially for you, even.”

“Thank you for calling me, even if it is handled,” Ilya says in lieu of a response.

“Of course. But Ilya-”

“I know. I’ve been looking into finding someone for her to talk to. A professional.”

“You have?” Sveta sounds surprised, "That's good, Ilya. And maybe…” she trails off. 

“Maybe what?”

“Never mind. Good night Ilya.”

“Goodnight.” Sveta hangs up first, and Ilya sighs as he puts the phone back down on the side table.

“Everything alright?” Shane asks, and Ilya hums non-comitally, pressing a kiss to the other man’s forehead.

“Yes, Shane. Everything is alright.”

Despite it all, in this moment, he isn’t even lying.

Chapter 4: Alright

Chapter Summary

Shane POV! this chapter takes place in the same time frame as the last one if that isn't clear

March 11

Shane doesn’t know what to think. He has just played (and lost) a game against Boston. In Boston. Usually, that would warrant a fantastic night of ill advised, frenzied sex with Ilya, the other man quick to gloat over his victory. Tonight, though, Shane has checked his phone no less than twenty-two times, and Ilya hasn’t responded once. Maybe Shane should text again. Then again, maybe four texts in a row was already too desperate. His last message definitely had been. It's not like before the All Star game - they are talking, generally speaking. Just not tonight apparently. It is hard to pinpoint when exactly Ilya started acting weird, but Shane is very sure that he is. It had seemed, after Ilya had broken into tears in his arms, that they were on the same page about what they wanted, even if they couldn’t have it. The phone call when Ilya had been forced to rush back to Russia had felt significant. Even though Shane hadn’t understood, he could hear in Ilya’s voice how much pain he was in, and he felt honoured to have been trusted with as much as he had been. He can be patient, or at least this is what he tells himself. He checks his phone again. Still nothing. Across the hotel room, Hayden snorts, quirking his eyebrows in the direction of the phone. “Shut up,” Shane says, knowing full well he’s encouraging him.

“Hey, man,” Hayden raises his hands in surrender, “I didn’t say anything.” Shane shakes his head and lets it go. He doesn’t check his phone for thirty whole minutes. Hayden gets up from the bed, “I’m just going to call Jackie for a bit, maybe go for a walk. Be back in an hour.” 

“Tell Jackie I say hi,” Shane calls as Hayden closes the door behind him. Why the man wants to go for a walk at 9pm is beyond him, but they all have their habits, and Hayden always goes for a walk when he calls Jackie. In the absence of his best friend’s judging eyes, it's harder to resist looking at his phone. When Shane finally cracks, he is rewarded with a response.

J: Hey - plans tonight?

J: If not, no big deal

J: Just let me know

J: Good goal in the second. You want to score again?  ;)

L: Busy night. Lots of celebrating even when we beat mediocre hockey teams

L: I can call now?

Shane is surprised by that. Ilya is busy partying to fuck, but not too busy to talk - the opposite of their usual arrangement. He decides that this might be a good thing, for them to have a conversation without the fog of horniness that comes when they are near each other, or the emotions that were so dense and unpackable when Ilya called from Russia.

J: ok

His phone rings immediately and he doesn’t hesitate before accepting the call.

“Hollander,” Ilya’s voice is low and a little bit dangerous. Oh, Shane thinks, so this is that kind of phone call. “Who taught you how to flirt?”

“What?” he asks, not expecting that.

“Your message. Very creative. I liked it.”

“Ok,” and that’s a stupid response, but it's too late now.

“You are at the hotel?”

“Yeah. Hayden uhh,” How is it that he can formulate hockey plays on the spot, but one middling compliment from Ilya shuts off the half of his brain that knows how to hold a conversation? “Hayden just stepped out to call his wife. Jackie. He should be back in like forty-five minutes.” 

“Oh, so we have lots of time then.”

“Yeah. Lots of time.”

March 15

L: What are you doing tonight

J: What? Why

L: It is easy question

L: Do you have plans?

J: No? No game tonight so I was going to turn in early

L: Wait up

J: What?

J: Ilya what does this mean

Shane doesn’t know what to make of the text conversation. The only thing he can possibly think of is that Ilya is trying to schedule another phone call, which Shane would be all for, but doesn’t really think it requires texting this early. It's only noon. A quick run through his mental calendar for the season tells Shane that Ilya is in Ottawa today, midway through a road trip that has not been particularly kind to the Bears. At least playing against Ottawa means they can go home tomorrow with one win under their belt. It's a 3pm game, and Shane has plans to put it on in the background. If he cheers out loud when Ilya scores, that's his own business.

Six hours later his phone rings, Lily calling. “Ilya?” he asks unnecessarily. He maybe should have expected this call, based on their earlier conversation, but he blames the lack of context on Ilya’s part. 

“What is your door code?” Ilya asks.

“What?” Unless there have been some huge developments in phone sex etiquette in the last four days, Shane is seriously missing something.   

“The code. For your door. To get into your apartment. I can also just stand outside all day, but I think maybe you do not want this.”

“You’re here?” 

“Yes, Hollander, I am here, so if you will please tell me the code then-”

“It's 1919.”

“Ok.” And then Ilya hangs up. Motherfucker.

Shane paces while he waits for Ilya to get to his unit, a million reasons for his being there and none of them making sense. Ilya wants to break up with him in person, even though they aren’t really together. Ilya wants to beat him up. Ilya is pranking him and is actually still in Ottawa. Ilya is about to suggest they get married for like. Citizenship reasons. Shane doesn’t like the way that last one doesn’t scare him. Logically, he knew that Ilya could get here from Ottawa in the two-ish hours since the game ended. The  surprise is more that he, supposedly, did get his hands on a car and make the drive, especially when he likely has to be back in Ottawa tonight. 

A knock on the door stops his train of thought and he answers like he always does when Ilya is on the other side. Ilya looks awkward, and it's not an expression Shane has ever seen him wear before so he takes a minute to savor it. “What are you doing here?” he asks, desperately hoping that his voice comes out the way he intends it: surprised and confused, but pleasantly so. Whatever vulnerability had been on Ilya’s face, it’s gone in a heartbeat, replaced with a half-truthful mask of swagger.

“You see, Hollander, I was in Ottawa. And we won, of course, and so to celebrate I wanted to get laid. But I looked all across the city and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find anyone with an ass as good as yours.” Shane doesn’t point out that Ilya had asked about this before even getting to the arena, never mind winning the game. 

“So you drive two hours to see me?”

“And your ass, yes.” 

“Fuck off,” he laughs despite himself. In his own mind, Shane thinks he can be a bit giddy that Ilya Rosanov drove two hours to see him. “When do you have to be back?”

“Flight leaves tomorrow at 10am,” Ilya replies, and Shane doesn’t miss the way that implies he wants to stay the night. He nods, and before he can get another word out, Ilya is grabbing at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him close, and planting a kiss that is impossibly fond. “Been wanting to do that for the whole drive,” he practically growls in Shane’s ear.

“Just that? So you’ll be heading out then?” Shane can’t help his teasing reply.

“No, Shane, not just that.” And then Ilya is picking him up by the legs and carrying him deeper into his own apartment.

April 02

The sex had been fantastic. This post-sex cuddling that they were doing was also fantastic. The fact that Ilya is speaking soft Russian to some woman on the phone, affection clear in his tone, is a lot less fantastic. The discord between Ilya’s calused hand on his back, and the fact that he was talking to someone else on the phone, is driving Shane a little bit crazy. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, Shane is still winning. He is the one who gets Ilya in person, while this Russian lady only gets his voice. Then again, Ilya had broken whatever silent peace they’d had to answer the phone - and who even calls someone this late? Unless the woman was in Russia, then things would make a little more sense. Maybe Shane is just a stand-in for the Russian woman Ilya can’t be with due to distance. 

Even as he thinks it, he knows it’s stupid. There were a thousand people out there who would happily be Ilya’s sex stand-in that wouldn’t cause a massive scandal, should the secret get out. This would suggest that Ilya does like him, at least a little bit. Shane decides not to get worked into a jealous fit over this - not that there’s anything to be jealous of, since they aren’t technically together. They aren’t together, and yet they were certainly something. They had been something since the All Star game, maybe longer if Shane’s being honest with himself. Even if Ilya is still acting weird, even if he makes horrible excuses every time Shane is in Boston for why they can’t see each other, they aren’t nothing. Shane hopes they aren’t nothing. After Ilya drove four hours round-trip for him, after a game no less, Shane is pretty sure they aren’t nothing.

Shane wonders idly if Ilya pulling away is his fault. He has apologised more than once for running away the day Ilya made him lunch and asked him to stay, but at the same time, Ilya has never been the easiest to read. Maybe he still holds a grudge against Shane, and this is why he won’t entertain the idea of going back to his Boston house. Maybe he is worried Shane will run again. What Ilya doesn’t know is that the idea of running from him makes Shane feel sick. When he imagines not having Ilya, even in these fleeting moments, he feels his lungs forget themselves and his skin prickle and it’s unfortunate, because if he could only stop loving Ilya Rosanov, his life would get so much easier. He can’t, though. Through whatever invisible hand of fate, his heart has decided that this arrogant, charismatic, asshole hockey player is the one for him. If only Ilya felt the same. Ilya does want him, Shane knows this, but the way the other man acts speaks for itself - there is no way that Ilya needs Shane quite the way Shane needs him and that means that eventually, this will come to an end. Hopefully he will be able to keep his lungs working when that terrible time comes.

Ilya hangs up the phone, looking saddened, but not in any particular way. He sighs as he puts his phone back down, looking like a man carrying the weight of the world. Shane wishes desperately he could take some of that off. He flicks his eyes to meet Ilya's, “Everything alright?” he asks. Ilya hums in response. He presses a kiss to Shane’s forehead, and Shane lets his eyes fall closed again, a small smile on his face. He wonders how much longer Ilya will let him have this before the warmth he feels now is gone forever. 

“Yes, Shane. Everything is alright.”

But despite his words, all Shane can think is that in this moment, Ilya is certainly lying.

Chapter 5: Good.

Chapter Notes

Can you tell that my hockey knowledge comes from briefly running socials for a hockey team and literally nothing else? no? anyways. behold the chapter

April 24

Ilya really fucking hates Dallas Kent. If any other team, led by any other captain, was about to knock Boston out of the second round of the playoffs, Ilya would be less upset than he is now. Toronto has been on a violent warpath since the start of the playoffs. They absolutely destroyed Montreal in only four games, not caring how many dirty plays it took. Shane’s ribs are busted, and that's only one of the reasons Ilya is so enraged. Now, it’s the start of the third period, game seven. Toronto is up by two. It’s not an impossible situation, and Ilya knows he has come back from tougher spots, but there’s something about the way Kent’s eyes meet his own in the face-off. It feels dangerous, like the calm before the storm. Kent seems to think the game is already won. “Do you know where you are?” Ilya asks him, half hoping to start the fourth fight of the game here and now.

“What?” mutters Kent.

“This is a hockey game, not boxing match. You do not need to punch the other team.”

“Shut your fucking mouth Rosanov.” Kent bites out, and Ilya only complies because he is too busy winning the face-off to come up with a retort. 

He fires the puck off to Marlow, shooting down the ice. Marlow fires it back, the puck sailing through a Toronto defender’s legs before the man can even notice it. Ilya’s stick is exactly where it needs to be to receive the pass, and then he’s skating towards the goal with a burst of speed that nobody can match. Ilya swings around the back of the net, just to throw the goalie off, before tipping the puck in the side. The goal horns blare and a resounding chorus of boos come from the stands. Ilya grins, raising his arms and waving back at the crowd. Then half his team is slamming into him in celebration and he is happy in a way that hurts a little. They can do this. 

Maybe they can’t do this. There's five minutes on the clock, and no change in the score since Ilya’s goal. Even if they manage to score again, it would just lead to overtime, and he is the strongest player on the team, but even Ilya is exhausted. He chases down Troy Barrett, Kent’s right-winger, slamming him into the boards. They fight for the puck, sticks clashing against skates, before Barrett wins and skates away. Cursing, Ilya follows. The last thing he needs is for Toronto to score yet again, adding insult to injury. Not that this game has been lacking on either front. Kent has the puck again and Ilya has all but decided to find a reason to drop his gloves before the end of the game - his chirp to Kent at the start of the period notwithstanding. He could be flying, the way he makes his way down the ice, singlemindedly focused on catching up to Kent. Too focused, though, because he doesn’t notice that a Toronto defender is charging him full speed until he is already slammed into the boards at an awkward angle. He tries and fails to keep himself upright, crashing onto the ice, and his helmet makes a horrible cracking sound against the ground. 

Distantly he is aware of whistles shrieking. “He didn’t even have the fucking puck you fucking asshole!” someone is yelling, and it sounds like Marlow but Ilya can’t be sure. He tries to open his eyes but they won’t cooperate, and then there are hands on him. He flinches, maybe, as they pull off his helmet and wrap something around his neck and he realizes suddenly that he can’t breathe. The hands are strangling him and killing him and that’s bad because it means Katya will be an orphan again. And his team will definitely not make the playoffs without him next season. And-

“Breathe, Rosanov,” says the person who seems to be controlling the hands and oh. This is a doctor. That makes more sense. He is being lifted onto a board of some kind and then he is moving and trying not to throw up. The thing around his neck is probably the ones they use on those trashy medical tv shows Sveta likes to watch and he pretends to hate. Why does he need one of those? He wonders if he is dying. The way the world spirals in his ears makes him think it is certainly a possibility. Shane will be so pissed if he dies. It occurs to Ilya that nobody will call him, if something happens. Sveta, at least, is his emergency contact. Not that he wants her here. It’s much better if she stays in Boston with Katya. What would happen to Katya, if he died? He still hasn’t worked out any sort of long term plan, had been planning to do it over the summer, but now he’s going to die. 

The people in the ambulance - and when did he get into an ambulance? -  are still talking to him. Hopefully it's not important because Ilya’s brain is not working well enough to translate whatever they are saying. Then there's a pinch in his elbow and a chemical taste in his mouth and he feels certain this warmth is what his mother felt before she died. And then, blissfully, he feels nothing.

April 25

Ilya is fucking exhausted, and all he’s done today is sit around. He was able to talk with Sveta first thing in the morning, and even though he is undeniably high on pain meds, he is able to reason with her that it’s not worth buying plane tickets and flying with Katya to Toronto. He says that he doesn’t want Katya to see him like this, but he doesn’t want Sveta to see him like this either. 

The actual injury isn’t that bad, by hockey standards. Grade two concussion, (“Mild concussion, Sveta! Mild!”) a few bruised ribs, and his shoulder is a bit fucked. With a little physical therapy, Ilya will be more than ready to be back on the ice for next season, and he won’t even miss anything because after his injury, Boston was unsurprisingly unable to eke out a win.

The doctors are prepared to discharge him tomorrow morning, and while they did advise against flying back to Boston, they didn’t explicitly tell him not to. Ilya has already called his coach and his agent and assured them both that he will be fine. He has made an appointment with the PT in Boston he usually goes to during the off season. He has talked to Katya, who thankfully had not witnessed the hit, having already gone to bed. Marlow had visited, getting worked up into a rage over the illegal hit, before apologetically leaving to make his flight back to Boston. The only other person in Ilya’s life who might care how he’s doing is Shane, but that seems like a hard thing to pitch to the nurse who has been looking at his phone so he doesn’t have to. He can recognise that he is still too out of it to even try and explain the situation, and would surely let something slip that he shouldn’t. Still, he wishes he could talk to Shane. Wishes he was here right now. 

For weeks now, Ilya has been toying with the idea of telling Shane about Katya. Even if it goes badly, which it probably will, it’ll be over with. The sooner Ilya can start mending his heart, the better. Maybe if he does it while he’s injured, Shane will be kinder in letting him down. Once he can look at his phone again, Ilya resolves, he will call Shane. They will meet somewhere, because this is an in-person conversation, and Ilya will tell him everything. Cards on the table. And then when it's too much for Shane, and he leaves forever, Ilya can finally move on with his life.

Leave it to Shane fucking Hollander to mess up his plan. Ilya has drifted into a pleasantly drugged half-sleep, phasing in and out of awareness when nurses and doctors come to check on him. The man at the door isn’t a doctor or a nurse. “Shaneee,” he calls out, almost musical. Shane’s face flipflops between anxiety and relief, quickly closing the door behind him. He is wearing a hoodie and a ballcap and sunglasses, and he looks like the most conspicuous person Ilya has ever seen in his life.

“Ilya. Hi. I uhhh-”

“Come hereee,” Ilya whines, and Shane sighs, but approaches the bed, taking the hand Ilya offers. Their hands fit together so well, like they were made for this. 

“Are you ok?” Shane asks, and his voice shakes a little, but Ilya doesn’t notice. 

“Yes. I am fine,” Ilya says, “they give me good drugs.” Shane laughs a bit at that, and Ilya smiles, pleased.

“I can tell.” Shane takes a seat next to him, but doesn’t stop holding his hand. It’s nice, and it’s warm, and then Ilya completely ruins it by having a coherent thought.

“Why are you here?” he asks, and Shane blanches like he was caught doing something wrong. How silly. Shane could never do anything wrong. 

“I was watching the game and I saw the hit. And I was worried. So this morning I drove out.”

“From Montreal?” Ilya asks. He’s not sure, but he is pretty sure that’s a really long drive. Shane shakes his head.

“From Ottawa. I’ve been staying with my parents for the week.” Ilya nods.

“I hope their bad hockey did not rub off on you. It would be no fun to beat you if you sucked.”

“Fuck you,” Shane replies, but he is still smiling. They are still holding hands. Ilya isn’t about to complain, and lets them sit in this beautiful peace. He thinks about his plan. Maybe this is a good time. Not to explain everything, he is not sober enough for that, but to invite Shane to his home. The thought has barely entered his head before he’s speaking.

“I’m not going back,” he says, like it is enough to explain everything. It isn’t.

“Back? To Boston?” Shane asks, bewildered. Ilya shakes his head.

“To Russia.” 

“Oh,” Shane swallows, “Like, ever?” he asks, and Ilya thinks he almost seems afraid of the answer.

“Like ever.” The words settle like stone in the pit of his stomach, because that's not what he was planning to say but now that it’s said, he knows that it’s true. Time passes in fragile silence. Why is this so hard? This is Shane. He has had a lot of emotions about Shane, but fear is always the hardest one to deal with. “Come to my house,” he says the words before his mind has a chance to convince his heart that it's a bad idea.

“What?” Shane looks at him like he just said something crazy. Maybe it was a bad idea. Might as well double down while his inhibitions are lowered.

“Come to Boston. My home. It's out of the way. No neighbours nearby. And,” and then before he can regret it, “stay with me this summer.” 

“Ilya I can't just go to Boston,” Shane whispers like he doesn’t mean it. 

“Why not? Playoffs are done. NHL awards aren’t for ages. We could have. So. Much. Time.” He punctuates the last three words with a kiss to each of Shane’s knuckles clutched in his hand. It’s frighteningly domestic. Ilya doesn’t mention the secret he’s keeping. That seems like too much, for right now. All he needs is to get Shane to say yes, and then everything will fall into place. He can tell he is close, now. Shane is almost convinced. Ilya looks up at him, holding his eyes as he whispers, “please,” and that does it, because Shane is nodding. 

“Yes, ok. I don’t know how long I can stay, I have other commitments, but yes, Ilya. I’ll come to Boston.” Shane offers him another smile, and Ilya returns with one of his own. 

“Good.”

Chapter 6: Deep Breaths

Chapter Notes

wow! 2 chapters! one day! crazy! Shall we make it 3? this remains to be seen

May 10

It’s seven pm and Shane is quietly shitting himself at a red light. This is stupid. It's not too late. He could turn around, drive back to the airport, return this car he just rented, and be back in his parent’s house by midnight, if the flights are convenient. The light turns green and Shane drives forward, passing another intersection where he could turn off from this route to a future he doesn’t know he’s ready for. Ilya has been so irritatingly enigmatic about this whole thing, and it has done absolutely nothing to calm Shane’s raging nerves.

Six days after visiting Ilya in the hospital, Shane had been debating sending a text to ask if he had really meant the offer he made while hopped up on painkillers. Hoping he didn’t come off as desperate, he sent it off, silenced his phone’s notifications, and went to bed. In the morning he had been greeted with a plane ticket in his email. One way. Business class. A cursory check told him that it was not cheap, but when he complained about it to Ilya, the other man had just sent him a winking emoji. 

In the days since, however, Ilya has become increasingly withdrawn. Shane doesn’t know what to make of it. His only theory is that Ilya is more affected by the deaths of his family than he let on. That was, after all, when the weirdness started, and it would make sense. Even if they sucked, it had to be hard to lose the only blood relatives you had. Maybe Ilya is just grieving, and Shane can’t really judge him for that. It would even, in a way, explain Ilya’s refusal to meet the past few times in Boston. Shane imagines that if he was going through it the way Ilya seems to be, he would want to take every opportunity to himself that he could. It would explain the Russian woman on the phone, too. Shane has noticed Ilya talking twice now, both times with affection plain in his tone. Maybe the Russian woman is an aunt, or an old family friend, or someone else similarly grieving back at home. Shane knows that maybe the theory is a little stretched, there, but it gets him to sleep at night and that’s what counts.

The only thing that doesn’t line up is this. Today. Inviting Shane to Boston, when for months Ilya has been dedicated to ignoring him here. If his theory holds, Shane hopes that this means that maybe Ilya is ready to let him in, more so than before. A tiny, irrational part of his brain is still stuck on the solid way that Ilya had said like ever, in response to going back to Russia. If Ilya isn’t going back, then that’s their biggest barrier to coming out, gone. If Ilya doesn’t want to go back to Russia, then the worst thing that could possibly happen from their coming out would be getting kicked out of the league and while this is far and away Shane’s worst nightmare, it is admittedly better than death. Or imprisonment. Or whatever Russia would do to Ilya that made him so afraid. 

All too quickly Shane is parking his car in front of Ilya’s house. He shuts off the car. He takes a deep  breath. Shane tells himself that whatever is about to happen, it will not be the end of the world. He has prepared himself emotionally as best he possibly can, and is ready to support Ilya if that’s what the other man needs. And if instead, this really is a semi-spontaneous marathon hookup? Shane is prepared for that too. He drums his hands on the steering wheel and drops his forehead onto the space between them. “Fuck,” he mutters. This is fine. This is totally, completely fine, and he isn’t scared at all. He gets his bag from the back seat and walks up to the front door and decides that if he just jumps Ilya straight out of the gate, they can at least put off whatever is coming for a little longer.

Before his fist even makes contact with the door, Ilya is opening it. “Hi,” Shane says, and then he grabs the back of Ilya’s head and kisses him. Ilya’s hair is soft under his fingertips and Shane’s other hand grips a sweater with Boston Bears sprawled along the sleeve. He can almost pretend he isn’t terrified, except that Ilya isn’t kissing him back. Ilya isn’t kissing him back. And that is the one situation Shane hadn’t even considered.

Ilya pushes him away gently with a hand on his chest, and Shane tries not to whine like a wounded animal. He furrows his brows, searching Ilya’s eyes for some sign of what the fuck is going on and is shocked to realize that Ilya might be freaking out more than he is. It is beyond unsettling, but Ilya Rosanov is nervous. Terrified, maybe. And that, out of everything Ilya has done in the past months, concerns Shane most of all. Until he sighs, places his hands on Shane’s shoulders, and whispers “sorry.” If there is one thing Shane has never expected Ilya to do, it’s apologise.

“No, it’s,” Shane clears his throat, “it’s fine I just…” he lets himself trail off because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“It’s not,” Ilya says softly, “it’s not that I don’t want that because fuck, Shane, I do. It's just-” Ilya leans his forehead against Shane’s shoulder, “shit,” he whispers. He pulls himself back up and meets Shane’s eyes, “No. I will just show you. Do not…” Ilya seems to struggle with what to say, “do not feel like you have to stay, after. I will understand.”

And what the fuck does that even mean? Show him? Shane’s initial thought when Ilya wouldn’t kiss him was that this was it - Ilya had flown him all the way to Boston just to end things. Clearly, though, this was not that. Ilya picks up his bag from where it lies abandoned on the stoop, and takes his hand, guiding him into the house.

From a room Shane has never been in before, some sort of music is playing. Ilya drops his bag by the kitchen, and pulls him towards the half open door. From what he can tell, it’s some sort of movie theater. Trust Ilya to be one of those rich people who builds a movie theatre in their house. Shane can’t see the screen, and he doesn’t recognize the dialogue, and he is still hopelessly confused. “I need you to promise me,” Ilya murmurs, “that you will keep your freak out in here,” he taps Shane’s head twice, “at least while she is near.” Ilya looks at him imploringly, and Shane realises that he needs to respond. He nods, not knowing what exactly he is agreeing to.

“Ok,” he says.

“Ok,” Ilya repeats, and then he pushes the door open fully.

Shane has completely stopped trying to guess what is happening, but that doesn’t stop his eyes from widening in surprise when he sees a young girl sitting in a pile of blankets, not even a foot from the absolutely massive screen. The movie is some animated thing Shane is sure Hayden’s kids have subjected him to at one point or another, and the girl is seemingly entranced. 

“Ilya,” he keeps his voice level, not wanting to interrupt the film or alert the other man to his true emotions, “who’s child is that?” Even as he asks the question, he knows the answer. This girl is Ilya’s spitting image, from her hair to her eyes. It doesn’t surprise him that Ilya has a kid, the man is something of a notorious playboy, but he is very surprised that nobody seems to know about her. This cannot possibly be common knowledge, Shane knows he is not so out of the loop that he would miss his greatest rival having a whole child. 

“Mine,” Ilya says thickly, “in all the ways that matter, at least.” He looks to Shane then, seeking some sort of judgement, but Shane makes sure he doesn’t find it. This is a lot, certainly, but it isn’t bad. The more Shane thinks on that, the more he realizes it’s true. If anything, he feels a wave of sympathy for Ilya. He had been so scared to share this part of his life with Shane, and he had done it anyway. Shane realizes that at some point Ilya had let go of his hand, and immediately rectifies this, taking Ilya’s in both of his. He has a thousand unanswered questions, but he knows which one he needs to ask first.

“Can I say hi?” he asks, and Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. A relieved smile graces his face.

“Really?”

“Yes, Ilya. Really.”

“Of course, but her, uhh, English, it is…” Ilya makes a so-so gesture with his hand, “we are working on it.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” 

Ilya pulls him down two shallow stairs, speaking up in Russian as he does. Shane doesn’t know what he says, but the young girl responds, and pauses the movie. From this angle, she looks a lot younger than before. Impossibly wide eyes blink up at him. “Hi,” he offers a wave and a smile, crouching down to her level.

“Hi,” she replies, voice barely more than a whisper, “my name is Katya,” she says. It is clear from the clunky way her tongue forms the words that her knowledge of the English language is extremely limited. 

“Nice to meet you, Katya,” Shane says, “my name is Shane.” Feeling maybe a bit stupid, he offers her his hand. Because of course, when meeting your situationship’s secret child, the best idea is to go for a business handshake. Katya seems unoffended by the gesture, though, and reaches towards his arm.

“Shane,” she says like she’s testing the sounds in her mouth, and he supposes that she probably is. Then her two small hands are holding his arm, and she looks up to Ilya to say something else. In his periphery, Shane can see Ilya staring at them, mouth half open. Whatever Katya says must surprise him, but he grins, nodding. Shane thinks he might be crying a little bit too. Katya releases his arm, and spreads both of hers out in front of him. Shane is pretty sure he knows what she’s asking for, but he can’t quite believe it, so he looks back at Ilya to confirm. He nods. Shane smiles, and takes Katya into his arms. 

She feels so fragile, he thinks. Hayden’s kids were around the same age, and he would never have thought of them as fragile, but Katya is just so small. He tries not to hold her too tightly, and he must do a good job because when she breaks away from him, she’s smiling. She says something else to Ilya, who says something else to her, and Shane stands back up and lets the conversation wash over him. He likes kids, and he’s always thought he would like his own, one day far in the future, but Katya, despite speaking barely a sentence to him, is making him seriously consider moving that timeline up. 

Eventually, Ilya seems to end whatever conversation they were having, and scoops Katya into his arms. “I am taking her to bed,” he tells Shane, “wait in the kitchen for me? Please?” Shane nods in ascent, and trails behind Ilya as he carries Katya away. She waves at him over Ilya’s shoulders, and he waves back.

Back in the kitchen, Shane leans against the marble countertop and takes a deep breath. What. The. Fuck.

Chapter 7: Ilya's entire life and future and past

Chapter Notes

this is the first third-ish arc finished! wow! productivity! I love having time off school + work when they line up like this.

May 10

Ilya tucks Katya into bed with promises of finishing her movie in the morning. Maybe it’s a little early for her, but he needs to know she is settled for the night before he talks to Shane. The one good thing that has come from his concussion and Boston’s subsequent playoff elimination is that he can devote much more of his time to her and, with the help of the child therapist she started seeing last month, Katya’s nightmares are all but nonexistent now. Ilya couldn’t be more proud of her for how much she has adapted since coming to Boston. With Sveta’s help, her English gets better every day, and she is slowly coming out of her shell. The way she had approached Shane had shocked him in the best imaginable way. All he had told her was that Shane was his friend who he loved, and that felt like not nearly enough and far too much at the same time. Katya had taken the words to heart though, and had asked him for a hug. It was a remarkable act of bravery on her part, and it made Ilya a little less nervous about sending her to kindergarten in the fall.

Once Katya is good and settled, Ilya has run out of reasons to stay. He gets up slowly and closes her door behind him with a gentle touch. As he returns to the kitchen, he prays to whatever god is out there that Shane stayed. After Katya’s quick acceptance, it will break his heart a thousand times worse if Shane has left. At least, Ilya thinks, Shane kept his promise - there was not a hint of panic on his face or in his voice where Katya could notice it. 

Shane is still in the kitchen, which is good, but he also does seem to be freaking out a bit. He leans against Ilya’s kitchen island, back to the wall of cabinets, head against the marble. Ilya takes a seat at one of the bar stools on the other side, and props his chin on his hands. Shane looks up at him, unreadable still. “She looks just like you,” he says, voice hoarse. Ilya bites the skin on the inside of his lip and shakes his head.

“No. She looks just like my mother.” Ilya matches Shane’s volume. He needs Shane to understand just how precious this secret he is sharing is. How closely it is tied to his heart and everything that makes him who he is. His words must work, because Shane’s eyes do something that might mean surprise. Ilya realizes that he hasn’t actually told Shane anything about his mother, other than that she died. It feels important that Shane knows more, now, but they have more important things to talk about. Ilya just wishes he knew where to start. “Thank you for staying,” he says, because that’s as good a place as any. Shane rakes a hand across his mouth,

“Of course, Ilya. This is… thank you for trusting me with this,” Shane replies, and Ilya can tell he has questions. 

“You can ask,” he says, “whatever you want to know, I will tell you.” Ilya pretends the promise doesn’t scare him. Shane looks at him properly, which is a relief, and walks around to take the stool next to Ilya. Not holding him is torture. 

“How long has-,” Shane cuts himself off, changes course,  “I mean, her mother, is she…” As Shane drifts off, Ilya wonders if he even knows what he’s asking.

“Dead, yes,” Ilya answers anyway, and Shane’s face morphs into something resembling pity. Before he can get a word out, Ilya continues “so is her father.” He needs Shane to understand.

“What?” Shane clearly does not.

“Katya was my brother’s child, before he died. Now she is mine.” Ilya says the words carefully, watching Shane’s face for any hint of what the man is feeling. Mercifully, he finds it. Relief, maybe. Hopefully. 

“Ok,” Shane says, nodding to himself, “Ok and this is a,” he pauses, “this is a long-term arrangement?”

“Yes.

“Ok.” 

Ilya can’t help himself any longer, and he reaches out to take Shane’s hand. “I know it’s a lot,” he says, “You can still leave. I know this isn’t what you signed up for, with me. With this trip. So if you want, we can pretend this never happened and go back to how things were. When I’m in Montreal.” Ilya knows his face betrays how much he does not want that, but he can’t help it. He grips Shane’s hand tighter, and Shane, the perfect, perfect man that he is, brings their hands to his lips.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ilya,” he whispers. And then, finally, Ilya allows himself what he’s been craving since Shane’s arrival, and he kisses the man he loves like his life depends on it. 

They wind up on the couch, and Shane flicks on some nature documentary that neither of them have any intention of really paying attention to. Ilya rests his head against the other man’s shoulder and he allows himself to feel the waves of relief that flow from the fact that Shane stayed. Shane stayed and Shane’s here and everything is perfect for the first time in a long time. Ilya imagines a million more evenings passing like this. What a beautiful future that would be.

Eventually he can’t help himself anymore, and slowly moves his hand to Shane’s inner thigh. He delights in the way Shane’s breath catches, “Ilya,” the word tumbles out of his mouth too breathy to really mean anything at all.

“Yes?” Ilya smirks at him like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and runs a finger up the seam of Shane’s joggers.

“Can we really - with her here…” Shane trails off and digs his hand into Ilya’s hair.

“What, Hollander,” Ilya replies, “you do not think people with children fuck? How do you think they make more children?”

“Shut up, I just. Fuck,” Shane squirms as Ilya abruptly shoves a hand down his pants, “I was just trying to be like. Considerate or whatever. I don’t want to wake her up.”

“Well then I guess you’ll have to be quiet,” Ilya grins, “can you be quiet, Shane?” Shane swallows and nods. “Come on then,” Ilya says, and then he grabs Shane’s hand and drags him to the bedroom.

May 15

Ilya feels a little bit bad for sending Katya to daycare when he has no places to be for the day. He wonders if it makes him a bad parent, for offloading his child to someone else when it isn’t strictly necessary. Katya’s therapist did tell him all about the importance of giving her a dependable routine, especially in preparation for kindergarten in the fall, and if a medical professional is telling him it’s okay, then it probably is. Plus, as Sveta is quick to remind  him, he does need to take time for himself now and then. Not that he’s been by himself, lately.

Having Shane in Boston feels like the best fever dream imaginable. They spend their days wrapped around each other while Katya is at daycare, and when she is home Shane listens intently while she lectures him in Russian with the occasional English word providing just enough context for him to keep up. They watch movies and play stupid board games and if this was the rest of his life, Ilya would die happy.

On the way home, he picks up the list of groceries Shane asked for. It's all hyper-healthy macrobiotic stuff, and nothing Ilya would ever choose for himself, but what Shane wants, Shane gets.

At around one in the afternoon, they lie beside each other in bed, breathing heavily. Ilya gets up to grab a cloth, and cleans Shane as best he can. Over the years, he has learned to do this while the man is still in that blissed-out state, before the sensations become uncomfortable and sticky. “Good?” he asks, and Shane hums in contentment. Ilya smiles, and collapses back onto the bed, his head on Shane’s chest. He presses kisses everywhere he can reach, but they have no heat in them. Shane’s hand scratches pleasantly at his scalp. 

“I want this, with you,” Shane says suddenly, voice soft.

 “What?”  

“This. All of this. Everything. To be together, for real.” Shane replies, and Ilya feels his heart stop.

“Shane-” 

“And I know. I know , ok?” The man continues, “but god, there has to be a way. It can just be us, for now. Maybe we tell my parents or our friends eventually, and then the world, when we are ready, and things are sorted with your citizenship and everything but,” 

“Shane-” 

“I really think it's not impossible. Or maybe it is now but it won’t always be and I just-” 

“I love you,” Ilya finally says, and he doesn’t mean to, really. He’s just trying to get Shane to take a breath. Once it’s out in the open he doesn’t regret it.

“Oh shit,” Shane breathes, eyes going wide, and now Ilya does regret it a little. He wracks his brain for ways to pivot, to make it mean less, to cover up how much he feels for this man. And then Shane fixes it.

“Oh my god, Ilya. I love you too. So fucking much,” Shane says, and in one sentence he changes Ilya’s entire life and future and past.

“Thank fuck,” Ilya exhales, and his voice is rough and filled with so much joy he doesn’t know where to put it all. He drags his body until he is completely on top of Shane, and places a kiss on the hollow of his throat. On his chin. On his nose. Then, at last, he kisses Shane where they both need it the most. It’s easier than breathing. Ilya relishes in the way they melt into each other, in the perfection that is Shane’s body under his own. If this is what it feels to be loved, Ilya knows he will never survive without it again. 

Things aren’t perfect. There is still far too much left unsaid, and they have a laundry list of conversations that still have to happen. But also, they have so much time.

“Does it feel like agony for you too?” Shane asks him some indeterminable amount of time later, and Ilya thinks on it for a minute. Does it? He answers in the only way he can think of.

“Not anymore.”

Chapter 8: Imagined futures

Chapter Notes

i need to drop out of school and write mediocre fanfiction for the rest of my life. this is surely more valuable than a degree.

July 12

After the NHL awards, Shane convinces Ilya to bring Katya to his cottage. The flight is rough, to say the least. The last time Katya was on an airplane wasn’t all that long ago, and while Ilya has tried to explain the concept of a vacation to her, she is still timid. Not that he blames her. Luckily, the flight is also short, and they arrive in Ottawa without fanfare. 

Ilya holds Katya’s hand as they navigate out of the airport. She stops, briefly enamoured with the waterfall by the baggage claim, and he can’t help but take a quick picture. It’s her first time in Canada, and far and away this is the most public thing he’s done with her, so he decides he can be a little nostalgic about this. 

Ilya remembers his own first time in Canada, and it wasn’t so different. Saskatoon had been frigid and linguistically overwhelming, but all Ilya can really remember is the wonder he felt the first time he noticed that Shane Hollander had freckles. He had already known other things about Shane - his speed, his accuracy, his intellect. These things were hammered into him by coaches and his father alike, things to watch for, things to track. Things that, if Ilya forgot, he would find himself paying for. Shane’s freckles were the first discovery about him that Ilya made on his own, and that had made the moment special. Katya might be too young to remember this trip when she is older, but Ilya wants to make sure that she gets some special moments too. Ideally though, he mentally adds, not the falling-in-love kind of moments. She is barely five years old, after all.

Shane picks them up in his black Range Rover and before Ilya can even worry about it, he notices the car seat set up in the back. “I babysit for Hayden sometimes. So I had it lying around,” Shane explains. It’s such a normal and rational explanation, and it makes Ilya’s heart soar regardless. Shane has been unbelievably excellent about everything. He has treated Katya with kindness and patience, language barrier notwithstanding, and made a point to learn her interests. One of his ideas for their time at the cottage is to start teaching her to swim. Ilya sometimes still has a hard time believing this is real. Shane loves him. Shane wants to get to know his daughter. Shane spent nearly three weeks with him in Boston, and now they have two more here, in Canada, at Shane’s private “fortress of solitude”. It feels like a life he doesn’t deserve, and a part of him keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. The other part of him, however, is happy to take each moment for what it is: a gift.

Ilya knows, conceptually, that Shane’s cottage is fucking massive. He has, after all, watched that one interview from a few years back. More than once. In person, the sheer size of the place still blows him away. This isn’t a cottage, as much as it is a complex. “Shit, Hollander,” he teases, “do you think it is big enough?” Shane shoves his shoulder, scoffing. From in front of them, Katya pipes up,

“Papa, this is bad word,” she says, stressing each word in the sentence. This gets Shane to laugh properly.

“Yeah, Ilya,” he grins, “it's a bad word. Listen to your daughter, she’s very smart.” Katya smiles at Shane’s words, though Ilya is sure she didn’t quite understand all of them. He is filled with a rush of pride for her though, because even a month ago she wouldn’t have been able to put that sentence together. At this rate, she’ll be reciting Shakespere by the time she starts school.  

“My bad, my bad,” he pretends to be ashamed, “I will do better next time.” Ilya repeats it again in Russian for good measure.

Shane gives them a brief tour of the building and property, pointing out things of interest. Ilya’s job here is mostly to supply vocabulary words and watch his two favourite people interact, and he is in his element. Hopefully, the layout of everything is intuitive, because he has not been paying attention to the content of the tour. It is much better to watch the way Shane’s eyebrows furrow together when one of his sliding doors sticks a little, or the way Katya grins when they spot a deer not twenty feet from the cottage deck. 

Ilya lets himself imagine this place in ten years, with a teenage Katya reading a book on the deck. He would be at the waterfront with a boy that bears Ilya’s eyes and Shane’s freckles, no matter how biologically impossible that might be. Shane would come outside with a young girl on his shoulders and a drink in his hand, and the only thing they would have to worry about was if they had bought enough pencil crayons for the upcoming school year.

He is jolted out of this fantasy when he realizes that he has not, in fact, purchased any pencil crayons. Is that important? Are they making five year olds sharpen pencil crayons now? That seems ridiculous - the leads are always falling out and there is no way a class of kindergarteners would be able to get anything done if they have to sharpen twenty pencil crayons before getting to work. Has Katya ever successfully sharpened a pencil or any kind? Ilya thinks back, and realizes that he usually does it for her. Is she going to fall behind in class because he has failed to help her achieve this crucial milestone? Fuck. 

“Everything all right?” Shane asks, ending his thoughts abruptly. Somehow, they’ve gone back inside, and Katya is now diligently unpacking her bag all over the coffee table. 

“Do you have any pencil sharpeners here?”

“What?” Shane laughs, startled.

“I need to make sure Katya can sharpen a pencil. I do not know if she has done this,” he says, and Shane grins at him, almost disbelieving. “This is important, Shane,” he continues, “I need to make sure she is ready for school.” Ilya could probably keep talking about the stupid pencil sharpeners, but even to his own ears he sounds a bit ridiculous. 

“She is, Ilya.” Shane says, and pulls him to sit down on the couch, carding a hand through his hair and pressing soft kisses where he can reach.

July 18

Shane wants to say something, but he hasn’t said it. Ilya can tell from the way he holds himself, jaw just a little bit clenched. 

It had been a good day. The weather had been nice, so Shane had taken Katya for a swim in the lake, finally giving her a chance to show off her pink lifejacket and arm floaties after a run of bad weather. Ilya had been content to sit on a rock nearby, revelling in the way that Katya trusted Shane. In a ridiculous way, it made him feel vindicated. The world might not think this relationship is a good idea, but she does. 

After lunch of barbecued hotdogs and a salad that Katya had - surprisingly - devoured, they had spent hours on the floor of the living room. Disney movies from the 80’s had played on the TV while Katya taught them cardgames that she was clearly inventing on the spot, and were all essentially go fish. He had been blatantly cheating, ensuring that Katya won each round. At first, when Shane caught on, it had looked like he was going to say something about it, but then he had only shaken his head and began losing too.

Dinner had been salmon and brown rice, a meal so healthy Ilya was sure Katya would complain, but instead she had gone back for seconds. Shane had cackled at Ilya’s shocked face, but he still felt it was warranted. After that, it was bedtime, with Ilya helping Katya with her bath and pajamas, before tucking her into bed. Like they had in Boston, Shane sat with her and read to her from a picture book. Ilya had sat on the ground, leading against the bed, letting Shane’s soft voice wash over him. 

Now, they are back in the living room, but on the couch. Shane is on his phone, typing something, face scrunched up adorably. Adorably but, again, like he was restraining himself. And they weren’t doing that anymore. So Ilya threw himself back, lying between Shane’s legs with his head on Shane’s chest. “Kiss?” he asked, and Shane complied, leaning down. The angle was all wrong but they made it work anyway. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” Shane replied.

“Hmmm, I do not think so,” Ilya said, reaching up to cup Shane’s jaw, “there is always something. Your brain is very busy like that, I think.” He hopes his words come out as admiringly as he says them. Shane sighs.

“I was just thinking about us.”

“Us?”

“I want…” Shane trails off, and that is never a good sign. Ilya hates nervous Shane. It doesn’t suit him.

“What do you want, my love?” He asks, and the petname must do it because Shane caves quickly.

“I want to tell Hayden. About us.” He looks to Ilya for direction.

“Hayden. Pike?” Ilya confirms who they are talking about even though he doesn’t need to. “You want the first person in the whole world who knows about us to be the fifteenth best player in Montreal?”

“He’s my best friend, Ilya. And he wouldn’t be the first person.” Shane defends, and Ilya quirks an eyebrow.

“Oh? And who else knows?”

“Katya,” Shane replies easily, and it shouldn’t surprise him nearly as much as it did. It was true though. Katya has seen them kiss and touch and hasn’t batten an eye. Five year olds are adaptable like that. Ilya groans theatrically. 

“And you think he will be ok with it?” he asks, because if Pike is anything less than the world’s greatest ally, Ilya will break his ribs the next chance he gets.

“I mean,” Shane says, “the gay part, yeah he’ll probably be fine. He’ll definitely freak out about you, though. For a bit at least.” 

“And you want to tell him anyway?”

“Well, yeah. I’ve been wanting to tell him for a while, but the timing hasn’t worked out. And…” Shane trails off.

“And?”

“He’s got four kids, Ilya, and the twins are around Katya’s age, and I was just thinking that it might be nice to be able to ask him for, like, advice.” And that was decidedly not what Ilya was expecting him to say.

“You want to ask Hayden Pike for parenting advice?”

“He’s a good dad. And I’m not trying to be- I know I’m not-” Shane groans from above Ilya, “I want to support you and Katya as much as I can, and I think Hayden would be able to help with that. But if you aren’t comfortable with him knowing, it's fine. I won’t say anything without your permission.” 

Ilya thinks on it for a moment. Shane has asked for so little, really. And it's not like they can keep all these secrets forever. Having someone else know, even if someone is a subpar hockey player, could be smart. Before he can help himself, he’s nodding.

“You can tell Pike. But for the record,” he kisses Shane’s chest, “you do not need advice. You are very good at this. It is very annoying.”

“You love that I’m annoying.

“This is true. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

July 26

Shane does not, to Ilya’s knowledge, tell Hayden anything right away. That is probably for the best, he figures. “Hey, by the way I’m in love with my arch rival who has a kid”, is not a phone call type conversation. The last days at the cottage slip through Ilya’s hands like water that he desperately tries to hold. They’ve had more time together in the past few months than all their hotel meetups combined, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. Ilya thinks, distantly, that they could spend the rest of forever tied at the hip and it wouldn’t be enough. 

The hardest part of the goodbye is the way Katya clings to Shane’s leg in the deserted seventh floor of the airport parkade. She has become attached in this time together, and one thing Ilya hasn’t prepared her for is the fact that now, and for the foreseeable future, her interactions with Shane will be limited to Shane’s games in Boston and little else. Ilya thinks of the child therapist’s lecture on consistency and routine and for the millionth time in six months he feels like he’s doing it all wrong. 

On the plus side, Shane has done wonders for Katya’s English. In only a few short weeks, he has gotten her comfortable answering all the typical small talk questions, and it is nothing short of a miracle. She will still get extra help from an ESL tutor at school, but Ilya can’t help but be relieved that she should at least, hopefully, be able to make a friend or two.

A car comes up the ramp of the parkade and tells them their private moment is over. Ilya risks a chaste kiss to Shane’s lips, resisting the urge to deepen it. He pries Katya off the other man’s leg, and gets her to hold her bag instead. “Call me when you’re home safe,” Shane asks quietly, “and as much as you can after that.” Ilya nods.

“Of course.” He doesn’t cry as they walk into the terminal. He doesn’t look back. But Ilya does feel that this might be one of the worst goodbyes of his life.

Chapter 9: Real life

Chapter Notes

heavy chapter heavy wordcount biggg vibeshift in the middle but what can you do but go where the wind takes you

September 02

Ilya sits in his car in the school parking lot. Katya is at daycare, and her absence gives him permission to groan out a few curses as he hypes himself up for this meeting. It’s standard procedure, especially for children with additional learning needs, to have a meeting with the teachers before school starts. It doesn’t mean he has to like it. Sending Katya to daycare has never been this scary, because he had intentionally chosen a daycare that was small, just run out of a home. Once Katya starts school for real, any privacy they’ve had for the past eight months will go out the window. He could have sent her to a private school, and he definitely has the money for it, but all the brochures he’s collected are just so intimidating. He thinks it’s a bit cruel to make five year olds wear ties and blazers, as cute as it is. 

His appointment with Katya’s teacher and ESL tutor starts in four minutes and so he forces him to get out of the car, lest they think he’s a terrible parent. The school is nothing like his experience of elementary school in Russia, and yet it is eerily similar. Whitewashed brick walls and shiny linoleum floors and panels upon panels of fluorescent lights. 

He finds his way to the office, and sees the exact moment that the woman who must be Katya’s teacher realizes who he is. The moment she connects Ilya Rosanov, parent, with Ilya Rosanov, star hockey player. He used to enjoy moments like this. “Hello,” he clears his throat, “my name is Ilya, we have an appointment?” Not a single part of his sentence was needed and he can’t bring himself to care. The woman smiles, a mask of professionalism overcoming whatever else she might be feeling.

“Ah, yes. It’s so nice to meet you,” she extends a hand and Ilya shakes it, “you are Katya’s…” she trails off. Ah. So the mask wasn’t perfect then. 

“I am her father, yes.” Ilya answers, sure this isn’t a clarification she would have made if he wasn’t himself. Famous. They both take seats across from each other around an oddly shaped table. 

“My name is Amy Marier,” she introduces herself, “I am the English as a second language tutor here at Perry Elementary, so I’ll be working with Katya over the next year or two to help her catch up to her peers.” She seems like a kind woman, Ilya thinks, and Katya will probably like her well enough.

“Do you speak Russian?” he asks, because he doesn’t think she does, but that feels like an important part of helping Katya learn English. Amy Marier furrows her brows.

“No, unfortunately Russian is a language I don’t have a lot of experience with, but we have lots of technology and other tools that will help us communicate. I saw that in paperwork you listed Katya’s English as beginner level - how long has she been exposed to it?”

“I have been teaching her what I can since February, and she has picked it up well. Can have easy conversations - her name, what she wants.” Ilya says. 

“That’s really good. Obviously I’ll know more when I meet Katya on Monday, but I want to take you through the basic plan for her learning.” Amy replies, and Ilya nods. 

After the meeting with Amy, Ilya meets Katya’s main teacher. The appointment goes similarly, with only a brief moment of awkwardness when, again, he was recognized. When he can tell the teacher, Ms. Vanders, is nearly done with her outline of the kindergarten program and the support available, he finally addresses the elephant in the room.

“I know,” he starts, “that you know who I am. What I do for my career.” Ms. Vanders nods, looking unsure of where this is going. “I have worked hard to keep Katya’s privacy. I do not want her to have to deal with all that,” he pauses, and allows his face to take on the intense look he usually reserves for hockey, “She has been through a lot, and she has lost a lot, and so I have protected her since the adoption, but this will not last forever. People will find out. So I need to know that when they do, if anyone asks you about her, you will say nothing.” A beat. “Please.”

Ms. Vanders smiles at him reassuringly, “Mr. Rosanov, I appreciate the trust you are putting in me, and you don’t need to worry. My students’ privacy and safety is always my number one priority.”

When Ilya gets back in his car he is ninety percent less stressed than before, and after a phone call with Shane, the stress is all but non-existent.

October 27

Ilya hasn’t had a roommate for an away game in years. Of course when it happens it’s in Dallas, too - truly one of the worst places on earth, in Ilya’s opinion. Despite being October, it is still hot and sticky in a way Ilya can’t stand, and the city just lacks a soul in a way Boston, or even Moscow never does. Everyone here seems to wish they were somewhere else, himself included. He is impossible far away from Katya, and he worries even though he knows she is doing just fine at home. 

They’ve called every night of this brutal twelve day roadtrip, and every time he watches her eyes light up on his tiny phone screen he misses her even more. She regales him with stories from school and daycare and he clings to each word she says like it means everything, because it does. She has been coming into her own lately, growing more independent and vocal with her needs. Ilya doesn’t think Katya will ever be a true extrovert, it is simply not her nature, but she no longer shies away from strangers, and has mostly stopped flinching at unexpected touches. What excites Ilya the most is that she’s made friends. He has yet to meet them, but there are plans for when he gets home. Katya and two other girls from her class want to go to a trampoline park and Ilya, somehow, has agreed. If she breaks an ankle he will sue the place so fast they won’t know what hit them.

Now, Ilya lies on his bed, arm up over his face, listening to Cliff Marlow type away on his phone. The little keyboard sounds had started out annoying, but they’ve been going on so long that they’ve faded into the background. Ilya hopes whatever novel Cliff is writing, it’s good. He wishes he could call Shane. Roommate issue aside, Shane is currently playing a game in Vancouver. The distance tugs at Ilya’s heart, and he hates it. 

There was a part of Ilya that thought once they had their feelings out in the open, everything would fall together. That somehow they would be able to see each other more, be together with more reliability. They have only played each other twice so far, and only once in Boston. Katya misses Shane too, and that destroys Ilya. He brought them together and she can’t understand why they have to be apart. Some days, Ilya himself can’t understand it. 

A few days ago, Shane had called him while grocery shopping. Ilya had heard the French advertisements playing in the background, and Shane had provided a play-by-play of each aisle and the things he needed. It was so terribly boring, and Ilya had said as much, but boring was good. Boring was the dream, maybe. Eventually. After he wins at least three more cups. He wants to be boring for Katya, and he wants Shane to do that for her as well. Maybe together they can scrap together something that resembles a normal life for her. Ilya’s own father had never, not for a moment, been boring. He had been angry and frightening and vindictive and he had never made Ilya feel safe. 

Far too many hours later, and Ilya can’t sleep. He glances at the clock, and red numbers 1:23 blink back at him. Marlow’s snores fill the room. He checks his phone, no texts. Checks the score from Shane’s game and feels a burst of pride when he sees that his partner scored the game winner. He misses Shane so much it hurts. Not just right now, either. All the time. Even when they are together. It’s exhausting, all the hiding and secret phone calls and whispered “I love you”’s because they can’t risk saying it any louder. If there’s one thing in life he knows, it’s that he loves Shane, but the weight of that love is so much and he can’t put it down for even a second or everyone will know and Ilya honestly doesn’t know why they’re still hiding. Well,he knows. He knows that the league would riot, maybe bench them, maybe worse. He knows that he would never be able to go back to Russia. He knows that the public outcry at two rivals, two men, two captains, being in love - it would be a lot. But Ilya is just so fucking tired of secrets. If Shane would agree, he would come out tomorrow, consequences be damned. Shane wouldn’t, though. He wouldn’t, because hockey matters too much to him to risk it, and Ilya understands because before Katya, hockey was the most important thing to him too. Sometimes, Ilya supposes, it takes having love thrust into your unsuspecting arms to realize that it is the only thing that really matters.

1:28. Ilya does the mental math. It is only 11:30 in Vancouver. Maybe that’s a little late, but Shane would probably be awake still. Even if they could only talk for a few minutes, that would be a few minutes that Ilya didn’t feel quite so crushed by the weight of everything in his head. He pads over to the bathroom, locking the door, phone in hand. Marlow slept like the dead, but the added privacy was good. Smart. He settles in the bathtub, knees pulled up to his chest, ignoring the way his muscles protest on the hard surface. He checks his appearance in the camera, and he looks like shit. Oh well. He feels like shit too. Ilya’s hand shakes as he goes to hit the call button. The line rings, and rings, and rings, and then: “Hello, you’ve reached Shane Hollander. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number I’ll be sure to get back to you as quickly as I can. For business inquiries-” Ilya hangs up abruptly. Calls again. “Hello, you’ve reached Shane Hollander. I can’t come to the phone right-” Again. ““Hello, you’ve reached Shane Holl-” 

Shane is probably just asleep. Yes. That's it. He finished his game, and did his press, and went straight to sleep with no problems, because unlike Ilya, this distance between them doesn’t tear him up inside. Shane probably doesn’t feel this horrible, he can’t, because if he did there’s no way he could possibly be sleeping right now. It suddenly occurs to Ilya that this is his foreseeable future. They have years until they retire, and who even knows what Shane will want to do after that, and maybe this will be their forever. A few blissful weeks each summer, and an endless winter of missed calls and emptiness. 

Ilya’s breathing speeds up and he can’t help it because if he has to do this for the rest of his life, he will not survive. There is no amount of love for Shane, or Katya, or anyone, that could make an eternity of crushing emptiness feel survivable. His phone gets blurry and that's probably the tears but maybe this is it, maybe his body is just giving out under the strain of everything, maybe his mind is giving up. Maybe Ilya is about to die shirtless in a bathtub in Dallas, Texas of all godforsaken places, and in his obituary it will say “Loved too much”.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but eventually his breathing is slightly more regular, and he is aware enough of his surroundings to realize a vibration in his palm. His phone. Ringing. Jane. He answers so fast he almost drops the phone all together, not even thinking what he must look like. Shane clearly does, though, because the easy smile drops from his face in a blink. He’s wearing his cute little glasses and is leaning up against a headboard, and he looks terrified. “Ilya,” he says, urgence clear in his voice, “what happened, fuck, are you hurt?” Shane’s voice cracks a little and that makes everything worse again because that is not what Ilya wanted. He didn’t want to make Shane upset. And really, what is wrong? Ilya’s life is pretty perfect. He is the captain of a playoff-bound NHL team, he has an amazing partner in Shane, Katya is thriving, Sveta is wonderful and supportive as always. Nothing is wrong, and everything is wrong, and he just needs to see Shane and sleep for fifty years. But none of that makes any sense, and the English language is failing him, and so he just shakes his head and cries.

Chapter 10: Safe

October 27

Shane feels more helpless than he has in his entire life. He hadn’t thought much of the first missed call from Ilya, but when he checked his phone again not a minute later to see three more accompanying it, he definitely knew it was time to finally extract himself from the half-hearted conversation he’d been having with some of the guys at the hotel bar. 

Still, nothing could have prepared him for this. For Ilya looking at him like this, both on his phone and three thousand kilometers away. His curls are askew, like he has been running his hands through them relentlessly. His eyes are sunken and bloodshot, and his face is red. Shane has never seen Ilya like this. He has seen him determined, and happy, and sad, and scared, but never broken. Because that’s what this looked like, and Shane feels his heart jump into his throat when Ilya can’t even answer his question. He can’t imagine what could have possibly happened to make Ilya like this at, he thinks about the time difference, almost two in the morning. Shane runs through their recent conversations and Ilya’s recent games and he can’t think of anything. 

A brief flash of guilt for not knowing what is going on, and then Shane takes a deep breath, and decides that as the one not currently sobbing, he would have to take control of the situation. “Ilya,” he keeps his voice low, calmer now than when he first saw Ilya’s state and panicked, “I need you to tell me if you’re hurt, okay? I need to make sure you’re safe.” Shane runs a hand down his face, half-baking a plan for every possible situation. Ilya still hasn’t said anything, and that, if anything, scares him the most. If Ilya isn’t talking, it’s bad. “Please say something,” he begs, more for his own sake than whatever triage he should be prioritizing. It works though, and Ilya’s breathing calms a little.

“I’m fine,” he finally chokes out, and Shane almost laughs because this is clearly the least fine Ilya has ever been. Ilya seems to think similarly, because he amends, “I am not hurt. In the hotel. Fuck. I don’t even know…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely at his head, “I am sorry. You must be tired after your game and I am bothering you with this.” 

Shane still has no idea what exactly is wrong, but Ilya does seem to be physically fine, at least from what he can see. “Ilya, no. You’re not bothering me. I always want to talk to you.”

Ilya scoffs at that. “I’m a fucking mess but you don’t need to lie, Shane.”

“I love you Ilya,” Shane says because he is suddenly very worried that Ilya may have forgotten, “that means I want to talk to you. Even when you’re a mess. Especially then.”

It is maybe the wrong thing to say, because Ilya puts his head back down on his knees, breaths hissing through his teeth. Shane gives him a minute, not sure what else to even do. When Ilya whips his head back up, there is a mix of sadness and anger in his eyes, and it’s unexpected.

“Don’t you get it, Shane?” he says, and his voice is a little louder now, and Shane can hear how wrecked his throat is from all the crying, “that’s the whole fucking problem.”

Which, what? In what world is that the problem? Sure, things with them are complicated, but they’ve been good recently. Really good. Hardly anything worth crying in a hotel room past midnight over. Shane keeps these thoughts to himself, and Ilya takes that as a reason to continue. Shane hates every word out of his mouth but at least he’s talking.

“I fucking love you,” Ilya says, “and it is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.” 

Shane is going to throw up. Not only are they not on the same page, they don’t even seem to be reading the same book. 

“When I am with you I feel so good, and then when you are gone it is like you rip my heart out of my chest and take it with you, Shane. And I need my heart to live, so it is very bad for me when you are holding it so far away. And everyone, they see me and they do not know that I am doing all this without a heart in my chest, they do not know about this, this gaping hole inside of me, and fuck. It’s just so hard. And I love you and I’m fucking exhausted and I can’t keep doing this because it’s actually killing me. I’d rather die than keep missing you like this.”

And Oh.

Shane takes a minute with that. He hopes desperately that Ilya will forgive him for it, but he needs the moment to fully wrap his mind around this. The first thing that becomes obvious to him is that they need a new plan. He’s been thinking about it too, recently, but clearly not in the way Ilya has. 

“I don’t want you to die,” Shane whispers, but once the words are in the air he wishes he said them louder, with more confidence. “Ilya,” he continues, “we are going to figure this out, okay?”

“How?”

“Look, I mean, our contracts are both up at the end of this season, so,” Shane pauses. Up until now, this idea has only lived in the depths of his mind - a pipe dream so wild not even his mother knows about it. She wouldn’t understand if she did. “So, maybe, we look into moving. As free agents, you know, anyone would be happy to take us, and we might have to take a pay cut for any team to afford us both but-”

“Both?” Ilya cuts him off, looking like the idea of them playing together has never crossed his mind.

“Well, yeah. Or we at least move to teams that are close together, so we can see each other more.”

“You would do this? Leave Montreal?” Ilya’s voice is shocked, and it shouldn’t be. Shane loves the Voyagers, yes, and he has always dreamed of retiring with Montreal, but Ilya has always been good at making him realize what he truly wants.

“For you? I would, yeah,” he says. Ilya blows out a gust of air, thunking his head against the tile behind him. 

A knock from Ilya’s side of the call disrupts their quiet breathing, and Shane can see his calm start to dissipate again.

“Hey, Rozy, everything alright?” calls a voice that Shane is pretty sure belongs to Cliff Marlow. Ilya pushes a hand into his hair.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, and Shane can tell just how much he doesn’t want to open the door.

“Roz?” Another knock. Ilya is crying, tears slowly making their way down his cheeks, and Shane’s heart breaks all over again because there is nothing he can do here. 

“Go back to bed Marly,” Ilya calls back, and Shane thinks it might have worked if it weren’t for how horribly distraught he sounded. 

“Look, man, I’ve been trying to mind my own business, but you’ve been having a fucking panic attack for the last hour, and I really have to piss.” 

Ilya sighs, and Shane can do nothing but look at him apologetically. 

“Do you want me to hang up?” he asks, because that would probably be smart. Because he hasn’t even told Hayden yet, and he doesn’t know how Marlow would react to Ilya having a breakdown with his career rival on facetime. But Ilya shakes his head.

“Please don’t,” he asks, and it’s not like Shane wanted to in the first place.

“We’ll have to tell him,” he says, just in case Ilya, in his state, hasn’t put those pieces together yet. Ilya swallows, stealing himself, and nods. He props his phone up somewhere and Shane can’t see him anymore, only listen.

“Christ, Rosanov,” Marlow says, “the fuck?”

It’s an hour later that Shane finally hangs up the phone, and as tired as he is, with the timechange it must be even worse for Ilya and Marlow. He collapses down onto his pillows like a puppet with its strings cut. What a night.

Marlow had taken it surprisingly well. Maybe he had just been  containing his reactions out of respect for Ilya’s tenuous mental state, but Shane got the feeling that he was one to roll with the punches. His only comment about their whole relationship had been “I mean, it kind of makes sense, Rozy. If anyone is gonna lock you down, of course it’s gonna be the one guy in the league who actually makes you work for it. Competitive motherfucker.”

Ilya hadn’t mentioned Katya, and that was fair. Maybe it was best to save that particular earth-shattering revelation for later. It is also, he figures, entirely possible Marlow already knows about her, being Ilya’s best friend on the team.

They had hung up reluctantly, too tired to say anything of any meaning, with promises to call again tomorrow night. Tonight, now, but that’s semantics. Shane still can’t quite get over how bad Ilya had been, especially at the start of the call. The things he had said-

Shane doesn’t even want to think about it. He makes a mental note to look into therapists in Boston, probably Russian speakers. It feels like a good thing to do. It feels important. 

December 22

Katya launches herself into Shane’s arms the second he steps into the house. He doesn’t know what possessed his parents to spend the holidays in Morocco this year, but he sends them a silent thanks, because it means that he can spend the entire Christmas break in Boston, and the only person he needed to explain himself to was Hayden. Who he still hasn’t come out to. But, in his defense, he’s been busy. Now, with Katya in his arms for only the second time since the summer, his white lie to his best friend is incredibly worth it.

Ilya walks up to him with a smile, and places his warm hands on Shane’s shoulders, a kiss behind his ear. “She missed you,” he says, “I missed you.”

 Shane smiles softly. “I missed you guys too.”

Since October, Ilya has been better. Shane had helped him find a therapist, and then a second one when the first one had reminded him too much of his father. When he skips an appointment, Marlow tattles on him to Shane, who appreciates it greatly. Even though Ilya hasn’t said much on the topic, Shane can tell it is helping him. What might be helping him even more is their plan for their upcoming free agency. It’s looking like a decent chunk of Ottawa’s offensive line is looking to move or retire, and while Ottawa is undeniably shit, they would be together. And it’s his hometown, which is something. 

A year ago, Shane would have been shocked that he was even considering leaving Montreal, the team that drafted him, for Ilya. After that terrifying night two months ago, there hasn’t been a hint of indecision in his mind. When Shane commits to something, he gives one hundred percent, and committing to Ilya has been the best choice of his life, no matter how complicated it might be.

December 25

Ilya’s looking at him in a way that suggests that maybe he got Katya too many presents. 

“It is not ever real Christmas, Shane, and you have gotten her half the toys in the world,” he is saying, and all Shane can do is laugh, “You have set the bar too high and now we are going to be stuck doing double Christmas for the rest of time, you realize this, yes?”

Shane wonders if Ilya realizes that he just implied they would be together for the rest of time. Not that he’s complaining, it sounds like a great plan. 

“I know, I mean how will we even afford that? We only make tens of millions of dollars a year,” he jokes. Ilya shoves his shoulder lightly, a huge smile on his face.

“We will have to start saving up.”

Shane smiles, and takes a moment to bask in everything. Katya’s excited unwrapping of the science kit he bought her, Ilya’s steady hand on his leg, the snow gently falling out the window. If all goes according to plan, in only seven months, this will be his. He still has to talk to his parents, and should at least tell them he’s gay before they move in together. They will have to sort out schooling for Katya, and figure out who will watch them for roadtrips, since Svetlana is very much not looking to relocate to Canada. And, Shane knows, he will have to keep an eye on Ilya, make sure he really is as okay as he claims to be. Now that they are in this together, Shane lets himself believe that they are unstoppable. 

That night, drunk off Ilya’s hands and mouth and dick, Shane collapses into bed and laughs. Ilya looks at him like he’s a little crazy. Maybe he is. But if you had told seventeen year old Shane Hollander that one day he would be madly in love, and planning a future, with Ilya Rosanov? He wouldn’t have believed it. Wouldn’t have believed he would ever luck into something as amazing and messy and beautiful and perfect as this. Shane reaches up to where Ilya stands by the side of the bed and pulls him down. He adjusts to straddle the other man, and then runs his fingers through Ilya’s hair, pulling it away from his eyes. 

“Has anyone told you that you’re kind of perfect?” he asks. Ilya grins, eyes alight. 

“You better tell me again,” he says, “just to be safe.”

Chapter 11: Out.

Chapter Notes

hmmmmmm at least this chapter is more thematically cohesive than the last two which were just half horrible angst and half random fluff

March 18, 2018

Shane has never had a problem with procrastination. If he says he is going to do something, he does it. As soon as possible. This mindset is the only thing that has kept him sane in his busy career. Doing things immediately, or at least making firm plans to do things, is an art he has perfected, and it happens now as muscle memory more than anything. So he doesn’t really know why he keeps putting off the conversation he needs, and wants to have, with Hayden.

In any scenario he can think of, telling his best friend that he’s gay, in love, and accidentally found himself co-parenting a five year old, is going to be a high emotion situation. Shane just doesn’t really want to deal with high emotion situations, not when they’re so close to the playoffs. Before this, he hadn’t wanted to tell Hayden because Jackie had just given birth, and before that, Shane had told himself that Ilya might change his mind about telling anyone at all. In the end, all procrastinating this conversation had done was win Cliff Marlow, of all people, the title of First Person to Know. Not that Marlow is a bad guy, and in the past few months Shane has gotten to know him a bit better, but still. He wouldn’t have been Shane’s first choice. 

Shane needs to tell Hayden before this gets out of hand, because if his best friend has to find this out from someone else, Shane knows he will have hell to pay. Hayden must sense something is off, because he invites him to dinner on a night the kids are with their grandparents. Shane knows now, what a sacrifice it is to give up a child-free evening with your partner, but Hayden insists Jackie would like to catch up with him too, and it’s not every day the perfect coming-out environment is dropped in Shane's lap, so. Here he is. 

They’re sitting at the table, talking about the latest WAG gossip and other things Shane can’t really bring himself to follow for the pounding of his heart in his chest. In a lull in the conversation, Hayden nudges his shoulder. 

“You alright Shane? Looking a little tense there,” he says.

Shane shakes his head non-committally. Fuck it. “I’m gay,” he blurts, and it’s not as elegant as he had been hoping, but it certainly got the job done. Hayden’s eyes go wide, and Jackie stares at him with her mouth half open, and Shane ignores the shoots of fear running up and down his spine because at least they don’t seem horrified, yet. 

“Wow, buddy,” Hayden says, “That’s uhhh… thats. Wow. Thank you for telling us, I mean.”

Hayden looks awkward, and Shane was expecting that, but he wants to fix it anyways.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, it’s just… a lot. But you’re my best friends, and so I wanted you to know.”

“No, man, of course, just, shit,” Hayden looks at him, “I just feel really bad for all those dates I tried to set you up on, and-” he abruptly cuts himself off, eyes squinting like he is thinking really hard about something, “what about Boston Lily?” he finally asks.

Shane huffs out a short laugh. What a good question. “Yeah,” he finally replies, “so Lily isn’t his real name.”

“His…” Hayden says faintly. Shane can almost see the gears turning as his best friend reconsiders every teasing comment he’s ever made. 

“Are you guys serious?” Jackie asks, “You and Boston… guy?”

Shane grins into clasped hands. “Yeah. Yeah. It was just, you know, casual. For a long time. But we’ve been serious for almost a year now.” This, at least, doesn’t seem to shock either of them. 

“I have some idea, obviously,” Hayden says, “but when you say a long time, how long are we talking here?”

“Since our rookie season,” Shane replies. He knows what he is confessing. That the entire time they’ve known each other, he’s held this secret. A part of him wants to just leave the topic here, deal with the rest of it another day. But he’s already come this far. “Actually, that’s sort of the other part of this. You, uhh, you know him.”

“I do?” Hayden asks, suddenly bewildered.

“Not well, but you’ve met.”

“Shit, Shane, is he another player?” Hayden puts those pieces together alarmingly fast. “That’s crazy, dude. Well, as long as it’s not, like, Rosanov, I think that’s pretty cool actually.”

Shane doesn’t react. Hayden had clearly meant it jokingly, but if that didn’t absolutely highlight the problem, he doesn’t know what does. When he doesn’t say anything, he watches the twin reactions on Hayden and Jackie’s faces as they realize what he’s saying.

“Shane,” Hayden says, voice measured, “it is Rosanov, isn’t it?”

Shane shrugs helplessly. “I love him,” he admits, and it feels good to tell someone else that, even if they happen to hate Ilya with a burning passion. 

“Ok,” Hayden seems to be mostly talking to himself at this point. Jackie places a hand on his shoulder. “Ok. And does he… I don’t know, Shane. Is he good for you? Does he love you back?”

Shane appreciates that despite the revelations he’s made tonight, Hayden will always look out for him. 

“Yeah, Hayd,” he smiles, “he does.” And that doesn’t feel like quite enough, so then he adds, “The whole persona he puts on, it’s mostly an act. He loves a lot, and he really cares. About me and…”  Shane’s going three for three on big secrets tonight, “and his daughter.”

Jackie is the one to look blown away this time. Hayden, Shane supposes, might still be stuck on the Ilya Rosanov, of it all.

“Rosanov has a kid?” she asks. Shane nods.

“Katya. She’s five.” He can hear the affection in his own voice. “I guess, biologically, she’s his niece. But he took her in, last year. He’s… he’s a really good dad.”

“Holy fuck…” Hayden mutters, “You are in a serious relationship with Ilya fucking Rosanov and also Ilya Rosanov has a kid.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“And you’re happy?” Jackie asks, and Shane grins widely, surprising even himself.

“Yeah, I really am.”

April 08

The playoffs haven’t even started before they have their deals unofficially lined up with the Ottawa Centaurs. Shane still hasn’t told his parents, and his mother is starting to freak out that he hasn’t resigned with Montreal yet. He does really need to tell them. Keeping this quiet is tearing him up, but if he has to explain why he’s voluntarily signing to the worst team in the Eastern Conference, he will inevitably have to explain that Ilya Rosanov is also signing to the worst team in the Eastern Conference, and then the whole thing will get blown up in his face in some poor Montreal restaurant. So he’ll wait until the move is finalized this June, and then right before it becomes public knowledge, he’ll tell them, and by then it will be too late. 

The Centaurs’ management had been shocked when the two best players in the league asked to unofficially start negotiating deals ahead of their free agency. They had been more shocked when both Shane and Ilya had offered to take a pay cut if it meant they could play together. They hadn’t even had that good a cover story, just talking about how they had, over the years, developed a mutual respect. How they enjoyed playing together, and were looking for a team to help them do that. 

Ottawa wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth though, and had happily agreed. For Shane, the hardest part is probably that when they entered into contract discussions, management had asked Ilya to take on the role of captain. They had known that it would likely be one of them, they both have the experience and Ottawa’s current captain is retiring, but Shane can’t pretend it isn’t a little blow to his ego to have it offered to Ilya right away. Even if Ilya deserves it, and probably needs it more than he does.The thing is, Shane also knows that if he brings this up to Ilya, they’ll talk about it like healthy adults in a committed relationship. Because that’s something they do now. He suspects part of it is just Ilya changing as a person with the added responsibility of role modeling for Katya, but the therapy has certainly been helping too. 

Shane knows now, and has for a while, about Ilya’s mother. He has heard the stories about winters spent in tiny community rinks and summers running through fields in the countryside. He has heard about how Irina would sing while she cooked, and hold Ilya when he got hurt, and teach him how to play card games after school. Shane has also heard about how she would take the brunt of Ilya’s father’s anger, shielding him from the raging man. How she couldn’t always skate with Ilya because her ribs hurt too much, how she took him to the countryside so that her black eye could heal in peace, and how her singing would abruptly stop when they heard a car pull up the drive. Shane knows enough about Irina to see parts of her in Ilya, and it is undoubtedly terrifying. Ilya knows it too, he thinks. He is always honored to receive a new story about Irina, because he and Ilya both know how much she means. 

Shane calls Ilya the day Ottawa agrees to sign them once their contracts are up. 

“I want to do this, but I still feel a little bad for leaving the Voyagers. I feel like I still have to be loyal to them, I mean, they made my career what it is,” he says.

“I think,” Ilya replies, “places can be good and bad at the same time. You leave because of the bad, but this does not mean you must forget the good ever happened.”

Shane wonders how many times Ilya has had to learn this lesson. 

July 12

Scott Hunter wins the fucking MVP award. And, Shane figures, good for him. The man had something of a legendary playoff run, finally getting New York the cup after a decade-long dry spell. It’s good. He still thinks Ilya deserves it more, but maybe he’s just biased. Shane spots his curly hair through the sea of well-dressed hockey players and their guests, and he doesn’t look too upset. 

“I am so grateful to stand here tonight, surrounded by all the best that hockey has to offer,” Hunter says, “Winning MVP means a lot to me, because as a kid, hockey was my community, my family, and my life. It still is, today. So before I continue, I want to thank my team for believing in me, and pushing me to be the man I am today.” 

A smattering of applause, but Hunter clearly isn’t done.

“I do also want to say something a bit more personal, so bear with me here. There is one person in particular whose support has meant the world to me. Who has truly stuck by my side through thick and thin, seen me at my best moments, and my worst. And tonight, when I was getting ready to come to this event, I left him in my apartment because I was scared. Well. The world is a scary place, but the future doesn’t have to be. So I dedicate this award to my coaches and my teammates and my fans, but more than any of that, I dedicate this award to you, Kip. I love you.”

Holy. Fucking. Shit. 

The hall is completely silent. Hunter walks off the stage, apparently having expected this response. Then Ilya, because of course it would be Ilya, stands up, and starts clapping, and gives the man a standing ovation.

Shane watches him look imploringly at the rest of his table of Boston players, and they stand up too. 

Across the room, slowly, as though coming out of a trance, players and their guests and Shane himself all rise to their feet and cheer. Hunter, half way back to his seat, looks absolutely baffled. 

Probably a third of the room is standing, in the end. A third stay in their seats, clapping respectfully. A third wear stony faces and glare at their expensive dinnerware. It’s a pretty effective polling system, Shane thinks. Helpful, certainly, to know where the hockey community generally falls on the line of ally to homophobic asshole. He notices that one of the Ottawa GMs and head coach are standing and thank god for that. 

Everything still feels a little impossible, but maybe it’s a little less impossible than it was yesterday. Maybe, tomorrow will be less impossible than today. Maybe, eventually, it won’t feel impossible at all.

Chapter 12: fresh air

Chapter Notes

niche ottawa knowledge coming in clutch for the rest of this fic..... anyways enjoy how nothing bad happens in this one

July 12

Ilya hasn’t smoked a cigarette in a year, but he finds himself here anyway. The last time he stood on this particular rooftop was almost a decade ago. That time, he had just lost an award too.  He had stood in this same spot, cigarette in hand, leaning against this same railing, and Shane - tipsy for what had probably been the first time in his life - had told him it wasn’t worth jumping over. He’d been right.

That’s not Ilya’s headspace tonight, though. Tonight Ilya just needed some fresh air to process the fact that of all the people in the league, dinosaur Scott Hunter decided to be the first out player in the NHL. Out as what, exactly, was unclear, but Ilya can’t imagine Hunter with a woman, so he can draw his own conclusions.

Ilya hates to even think about it, but this could change things. Being the first out player was scary, but the second? The third? Shane has sacrificed so much for him in the last few months, moving up their timeline and reorganizing his entire life so they can be together sooner, but they still haven’t really made a plan for the coming-out portion of it all. Baby steps. Maybe, now that they wouldn’t have to be the trailblazers of queer hockey, Shane will be less afraid. He hopes so. Shane has spent far too much of his life afraid, and in the past months, Ilya knows he has been the cause of a lot of it.

The door behind him clangs open, and Ilya turns with a start. He and Scott Hunter make surprised eye contact for about thirty seconds, before the man laughs lightly, shaking his head.

“Of course somebody is already up here,” he says.

“Yes,” Ilya replies, unsure if Hunter is trying to subtly ask him to leave, “the fresh air is nice.” He takes pity on the man, who looks oddly out of place, and jerks his head to beckon him forward. “All these rich men, Hunter, they would not stop talking to me. And I didn’t even win anything.”

“Sorry,” Hunter replies, as though Ilya’s comment were a complaint.

“Do not be. Anyone who can somehow get New York the cup deserves MVP,” he smirks, “especially if they do it at a hundred years old.”

“Fuck off, Rosanov.” Hunter says, no heat to his words. The two men stand in silence for a moment, looking at the vibrant Vegas skyline. “Thank you,” he finally adds, “for what you did. You didn’t have to.”

Ilya had started the standing ovation for Hunter because his personality is big and brash and European, and so he can get away with it. He had started it to show Shane that he wasn’t afraid. That neither of them have to be afraid. Ilya had done it so he could silently judge every single person who stayed in their seats. He had also, a little bit, done it so Scott Hunter wouldn’t feel quite so alone.

“I did a little bit,” Ilya says after a beat, “I do not think anyone else would have, and I did not want you to think-” he cuts himself off. This is what he gets, for going to therapy. Motherfucking emotional awareness. “If I had won tonight, I would not have been brave enough to say what you said. So maybe it is good that I didn’t.” 

Ilya knows there are a lot of ways Hunter could interpret that. He doesn’t know which one he’s hoping for.

“You? Really?” Hunter asks, having chosen the correct interpretation. Ilya nods. 

“Really.”

“Damn, okay,” Hunter sighs, leaning deeper against the railing, “this fucking night, I swear. Crazy.”

“So…” Ilya says eventually, grin slowly spreading across his face, “now that we have formed club of all gay hockey players you know, you must say. Who is hotter, Troy Barrett, or-”

“Nope. No, we are not doing this Rosanov. Definitely not.”

“Why? Are you scared that I would rather fuck Hollander than you?” And, okay, maybe that’s a little stupid. It’s been a wild night, though, and it’s not like Hunter is going to out them. 

“Goodnight Rosanov,” Hunter says, and Ilya doesn’t think the other man even considered that there could be truth to the joke. He shakes his head at Ilya’s antics and turns away. 

The door shuts behind him, and Ilya drops his chin onto the bar of the railing. What a fucking night.

July 29

Katya is wearing a cute red t-shirt with a white maple leaf on the center. Ilya ruffles her shoulder length curls, and she grins up at him. “We’re actually moving here?” she asks, looking around the house in wonder. They are. Ilya signed his contract last week, and Shane will sign his today. They’ve kept everything under wraps for now, planning a big announcement before training starts up again in a few weeks. The past nine days have been spent at Shane’s cottage, but since he had to come into the city anyway, Ilya had figured it was a good time to take Katya to the new house. Where they’ll be living together - all three of them. It still makes Ilya feel giddy. They’ve decided not to hide from the team, and Ilya doubts they could if they tried anyway. The rest of the world will find out soon enough, but ideally after they win the cup. 

The house itself is a bit smaller than his place in Boston, but it has charm. In Rockcliffe Park, it is a bit of a drive from the arena, but the schools are good, and the area is safe. Ilya had been charmed by the quiet streets and nearby trails. It felt, as he had said to Shane, like a good place for Katya to grow up. He feels a bit guilty for forcing her to move countries again, and so soon, but Katya is built for Canada. She already has a Cens jersey, Rosanov across the back, but she’s also been giggling with Shane a lot recently, so he wouldn’t be surprised if she has a Hollander one as well pretty soon. Katya runs through empty rooms filled with boxes they haven’t had time to unpack, selecting the room that she wants because of the view out the window. It is, granted, a good view. From the second floor, she can look out over the tastefully manicured shrubs and watch boats go past on the Ottawa River. 

“Papa,” Katya tugs on his sleeve, “Shane told me that he is going to live here with us too. Like all the time. Is that true?”

They’re sitting on the floor of the kitchen eating sandwiches because there aren’t any chairs and it’s too early to swing back to pick Shane up, and Ilya’s hand stills where it had been reaching to pick up his lunch. Somehow, in all this, he wonders if he forgot to ask Katya if she was okay with Shane moving in.

“Yes, malishka, that is the plan. Is that-” he swallows even though he hasn’t taken a bite, “is that alright with you?”

“Of course,” She says, looking at him like he is crazy for even asking, “he’s really nice. And you smile different at him.”

“I smile different?” Ilya asks, laughing incredulously. Katya is too perceptive sometimes. 

“Yeah,” his daughter says like it’s nothing, “it’s kinda obvious.”

Ilya can admit, he doesn’t think he could stop being obvious about Shane Hollander. In any world. Ever.

July 31

Ilya has finally, after more than a year of being exclusive with Shane, earned the privilege of manning his barbeque. It’s not an honour he intends to waste. There are two burgers on one side, and a hotdog for Katya on the other, and Ilya reflects, he feels like a Canadian. He’s holding the silly metal flipper things and wearing a plaid shirt and everything. 

The air smells a little like propane and a little like the lake, and a lot like their lunch, and that’s just the way Ilya likes it. When he looks up, he can see Shane and Katya in the yard, kicking around a soccer ball. She’s wearing her Hollander jersey and Ilya can’t pretend that doesn’t make some part of his heart feel impossibly warm. 

Shane is wearing shorts and a short sleeve shirt that he hasn’t bothered to button up since coming out of the lake an hour ago, and he is unbelievably attractive like this. When Katya scores, kicking the ball between a lawn chair and one of Ilya’s own shoes, sacrificed to the cause, she cries out in joy. Shane laughs, and scoops her up, spinning her in circles. “She shoots, she scores!” he whisper-yells, mimicking the cadence of a sports commentator, “Another magnificent goal for Katya Rosanov, soccer prodigy.”

It’s with no small amount of pride that Ilya realizes Katya probably understood every word Shane just said. She is, somehow, the smartest kid he has ever met. He doesn’t know where she got it, but when he sees Shane with her like this, he also does a little bit. There is no doubt in Ilya’s mind that Shane’s bedtime stories and calm presence have played a big part in helping Katya adjust. 

Ilya goes back to mindlessly poking at the meat on the grill, enjoying the sounds of his daughter’s delighted laughter echoed by Shane’s. In the trees, birds are singing. The sun is shining. His favourite people love each other. 

Next week, Ilya knows Shane has dinner plans with his parents. They really should have told the Hollanders about everything earlier, Shane’s parents even live in Ottawa. Shane worries, though, and Ilya can understand wanting to hold off on telling them until it is too late for them to try and change his mind. Not that Ilya thinks they would. From Shane’s description, they seem like nice, normal, if a bit overbearing people. After the dinner, assuming all goes well, Shane will bring his parents to the new house, where Ilya and Katya will be waiting. 

Shane will need him, in this next week, the same way he’s needed Shane this past year. Ilya is excited to be able to do it, to support the man he loves. 

The food is done, and he plates it with more care than it probably warrants, because this is for his family, and family is everything.

Chapter 13: signs

Chapter Notes

itty bitty baby chapter in David's POV because why not free will is real

July 31

Shane’s car is in the driveway and maybe that should have been David’s first sign, because he had been under the impression that Shane was in Montreal. He’s not thinking too hard about the car, though, still tired from the drive up from Ottawa. Not thirty seconds after walking in the door of his cottage, he had realized that he forgot his phone charger. Another four hours round trip to go back for it sounded like the worst idea ever, especially when Shane would have one, or two, or fifty at his own place just ten minutes away. So here he is.

Maybe, David thinks, the car was really the second sign, because secret cottage trips aside, Shane has been acting incredibly weird the last few months. He’s been dodging their calls and begging out of dinners and absolutely freaking Yuna out by, inexplicably, not resigning with Montreal. Finally, Shane had reached out to plan a supper with them next week in Ottawa, so at least then, hopefully, David and his wife would find out what on earth had gotten into their usually upfront child. 

David doesn’t even shut off the engine - this will take thirty seconds and he knows exactly what he needs. He half jogs up the steps, rapping on the door. No answer, but maybe Shane’s out for a jog. He whips out his key and enters the building. 

The third sign, undoubtedly, should have been the pink Moana backpack lying casually on the couch. David clocks it, and smiles to himself. It’s really nice of Shane to allow Hayden and his kids to visit this place. His son really is a good man. He goes to the drawer where he knows the cables are, and there are more than he remembers, but it only takes a moment to find the one he needs. He shuts the drawer and looks up. Shane’s cottage is really in such a good location. From here, David can see Shane’s massive deck, and he knows that right around the corner is his son’s impressive barbeque set up. Beyond the deck, there's a decent sized yard, and the lake. 

Usually, at this point in appreciating the scenery, David would think about the dock or the trees, but he can’t, because on the grass is Shane. With a child. And it is not one of Hayden’s. 

Shane is holding the girl and spinning her around and they both are grinning. Shane is smiling in a way that David has never seen him smile. Carefree. When his son stops spinning the girl, her back is to the cottage, and David realizes what she is wearing. 

It’s an Ottawa Centaurs jersey.

Hollander across the back.

Suddenly David is shaking. 

He has to go. Now. 

The drive back to his house and his wife and, hopefully, an end to the psychotic break he is clearly having, seems to take a million years. Shane, his son. His son who, he thought, didn’t have secrets from him. Well, obviously that wasn’t true, because that looked like-

Shane had looked at her like David himself looks at Shane.

He replays the memory. Shane, smiling, spinning the girl. Looking so happy. So, so happy, and yet he had never said anything about this to him, or Yuna. Why would Shane keep this a secret? David has to guess the girl is five or six years old. And that is… Shane would have been, what, twenty, when she was born? Maybe younger. David tries to remember if anything Shane had done back then would have betrayed this massive life development. He can’t imagine being that young and having to raise a child. 

The other shocking element is that it takes two people to have a kid. He can’t even begin to wrap his head around that. He pictures Shane five years ago, and he pictures Shane today, and he can’t see either of them with a girlfriend. David stops himself from this line of thought. Reminds himself that families can look a lot of different ways. Reminds himself that he will support Shane, no matter what.

Yuna can tell something is up the moment he gets in the house, because almost thirty years of marriage do that to you. He doesn’t know how to explain the absolute whirlwind he’s been on. What eventually comes out of his mouth is: “Shane’s retiring from hockey to be a father.”

Yuna has never looked as surprised as she does once that sentence leaves his mouth.

“What the fuck, David?” she asks, coming over to where he still stands, shellshocked, in the entryway. All he can do is nod.

“I saw him, Yuna,” he croaks, “at his place. I saw him.”

“Saw him doing what, exactly?”

“There was this kid, and he was holding her and they were laughing and he looked,” David isn’t an emotional man, but Shane kept this from them. Shane kept their granddaughter from them. “He looked so happy. Like I’ve never seen.”

Yuna looks at him, and she doesn’t look as distraught as he feels, but she also didn’t see it. “What did he say?” She asks him, “when he noticed you were there? Did he really say he’s retiring?”

“He didn’t,” David admits, “he doesn’t know I was there. He didn’t see me.”

“So then why…” Yuna trails off. David understands anyway.

“It makes sense. He didn’t resign with Montreal, and he never seemed worried about it. And,” he goes in for what, to him, had been the final blow, “the girl was wearing a jersey with his name, Yuna, but it was a Cens jersey.”

“A Cens jersey?” Yuna asks faintly, and David knows she has accepted it now. Because Shane is too loyal to let his kid wear the jersey of a team that isn’t his own, and he loves winning too much for the Cens to ever be his team. The only possible explanation is that Shane doesn’t have a team anymore. 

“We need to talk to him,” Yuna says, always pragmatic about life changing crises, “Lets call him right now.” She picks her phone up off the counter, and hits call. No answer. Again. Again. Again. Yuna probably calls their son thirty times in five minutes.

Finally, mercifully, instead of hearing Shane’s voicemail, they hear him.

“Mom? Is everything ok? I’m sorry I’ve missed all your calls. I was just- Are you alright? Is dad?”

Of course Shane’s first instinct is to make sure they’re alright. 

“Shane, honey,” Yuna says, “I think we need to talk. In person. Today.”

“What? I’m not…”

“Your father stopped by your cottage just now, Shane.”

The line goes silent. It’s the kind of silence that David knows means that Shane is panicking on the other end.

“Oh,” Shane finally says, and he sounds like he’s barely there.

“Do you want to come over?” Yuna asks, “You can bring her, or you know, anyone else. Who might be there.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, “yeah okay. That's- that works. We’ll be over. Soon. Um. Bye.”

The line goes dead. 

David takes a deep breath, and shares a look with Yuna. He covers her hand with his own, but they both know who the gesture is really meant to comfort.

“Soon,” he says.

Yuna affirms, “soon.”

Chapter 14: July 31st

Chapter Notes

LONGGG chapter!! this took like 50 million years to write (4 whole hours lol) and it's back to school for me tomorriw so. sadness. we shall persevere

July 31 

ILYA

They never eat the food Ilya’s spent the past hour cooking. They’ve all just sat down to dig in, when Shane gets up to grab his phone where it has been charging inside. Ilya watches from afar as Shane’s eyebrows furrow. He answers the phone, and his expression is  unreadable. Then, his eyes flick to Ilya’s, and it becomes clear. Shane is afraid. Shane is fucking terrified. “My love,” Ilya asks, “what is wrong?”

“My dad was here,” Shane says, voice pitched up half an octave the way it does when he is on the verge of unraveling, “he saw- I don’t know what. He saw something.”

Ilya gets up and leaves Katya at the table, walking to where Shane stands on the threshold. Slowly, because Shane reminds him of the skittish rabbits they sometimes see here, Ilya moves his arms up around Shane’s shoulders. Shane’s arms wrap tightly around his body, and if Ilya has some fresh bruises tomorrow he won’t complain. Shane clearly needs this. 

“Ok,” he says, “so that was your dad?”

“No,” Shane shakes his head in Ilya’s chest, “my mom. He told her. She wants us to come over, as soon as possible.”

Shane sounds like he hates how necessary it is they go. Ilya is filled with a wash of anxiety.

“Us?” he asks. Shane nods again. 

“Dad saw Katya, and mom said to bring her, and uhh, ‘anyone else’, so… us.” 

“Ok,” Ilya says again, fighting to be the calm presence Shane clearly needs, “so this is not so different from the plan for next week, yes?”

“I guess,” Shane groans, “but fu- but Ilya, we were so close. I was so close to doing this properly. And now they think- they’ll think that I- jesus christ, I don’t even know.”

Ilya feels Shane’s hands curl around his shirt. He drops his chin onto Shanes’s shoulder, pressing a kiss into his hair. Over Shane, he sees Katya, still at the table. She’s looking at them with concern. He sends her what must be a reassuring smile. 

For the past year and a half, all Ilya has done is protect the people he loves. He’s protected Katya from a world of paps and stress and random people on the internet commenting on every part of her life. He’s protected his relationship with Shane from this same fate. He’s built these walls of safety around them and sure, they had plans to take them down, but the reality was always going to feel different. Ilya knows that once today is over a weight will be lifted, no matter how it goes. 

He wishes it didn’t have to be like this. Wishes that Shane could have prepped his parents in the way they had planned. Wishes he didn’t have to bring his daughter into a situation that could be hostile, or unwelcoming. Because Shane, clearly, has to go to his parents’. And there is no world in which Ilya would let him go alone, not anymore. Not when their secrets are an overturned jar of marbles on the floor, all over the place and unable to keep track of. If Shane is going to his parents’, and Ilya is going with Shane, then Katya is coming with them. That’s how it goes, now. They’re a unit. 

“We should go, then,” Ilya says softly. Shane shifts to look up at him.

“I don’t want to force you to bring Katya into this,” he replies. 

“They are your parents,” Ilya reasons, “and you trust them. And I trust you.”

“I know she can get nervous in new situations, and she’ll probably sense that we’re freaking out, that I’m freaking out, and-”

“She is brave, Shane. She will be okay. And you are brave, also. So you will also be okay.”

“Okay,” Shane lets out a long breath, “okay. Let’s go.”

Ilya places a final kiss to Shane’s forehead, and then separates them. 

“Let’s go.”

Ilya explains it to Katya in a way he hopes she can understand. That they are going to meet Shane’s parents. That Shane’s parents might not understand, at first, what kind of family they are, because Ilya has never met them before. That if Katya wants to leave, or feels unsafe, Ilya will get her out of there in a heartbeat. He can’t let her think she is anything less than his top priority. 

Ilya throws a book, a stuffed bear, and Katya’s ipad in her backpack. Just in case. He doesn’t imagine she’ll care to pay attention to the conversations they’re about to have, and doubts the Hollanders have anything fit to entertain a six year old. He figures the book will entertain Katya for the first twenty minutes, and then he can resort to the ipad if needed. The bear is more of a backup plan in case Katya needs the comfort. Ilya would understand if she did. 

The drive is tense. Ilya takes Shane’s hand over the gear shift and the other man holds it like a lifeline. Katya is silent in the back. She’s already stressed, he can tell, but it’s not too bad yet. Something to keep an eye on. 

When Shane parks the car in front of the house he’s spent a childhood growing up in, Ilya can’t help but be distracted by how horribly Shane it is. More so than the cottage Shane actually owns, which is all modern and flashy. This place is all soft lines and old oak and a Go Voyagers! sign that sticks out of the ground between a gnome in a pink hat, and a little pinwheel on a plastic stick. The posts of the porch railing are dinged up, and Ilya imagines little Shane Hollander taking shots at that railing every summer, pretending it was a net. He imagines little Shane Hollander running up the steps to the front door with a little hockey bag in his hand, trailed by parents who care about him.

Ilya hopes Shane doesn’t lose his parents today. If Shane loses his parents over Ilya, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Because family is everything, and so, inevitably, choosing between families is impossible.

He doesn’t have to carry Katya, but he thinks maybe she needs it. Maybe he needs it too. So his daughter is on his right, clutched protectively, holding on to his side with her legs and arms wrapped around him. Shane is on his left, and Ilya wants to hold his hand again, but knows that at this moment, Shane needs to have a little space. Instead, he offers a look that hopefully tells Shane everything he isn’t saying. You can do this, and I love you, and you are brave, and, most importantly, I would burn the world to the ground if it would make you happy.

SHANE

Shane doesn’t knock. He never has, and he doesn’t want him to start now. It’s something, at least,  that is normal. His parents stand abruptly when he walks in, and he realizes that they probably didn’t notice the car pulling in. Might not have seen them walking up the drive. There’s a chance they don’t even know about Ilya, who stands hidden from him by the nature of the entryway. Shane lets himself feel the guilt that’s been brewing in his stomach for over a year now, the regret that he hasn’t had this conversation before. He feels it, and then he locks it up, because this is not the time or place to stew in his own failings. He shuffles further into the house, and Ilya follows.

Shane clocks the exact moment his parents realize that whatever they thought they knew, they don’t. So they didn’t know about Ilya, then. His father looks like he is going to explode, and his mother is a stoic mask of terrifying unknowns. Shane decides to focus on his father.

“Shane, I am so sorry,” his dad says in a rush, “you have to know I didn’t want to invade your space or violate your privacy but I didn’t even think you’d be there and I needed this one charger because I didn’t want to have to drive all the way back to the city, and I knew you’d have one because you’re always prepared and then I saw you and I just-” 

A pause. Something in his father’s eyes seems to catch up.

“What is Rosanov doing here?”

And, honestly, where does he even start? Does he start with that day in Saskatoon when Ilya Rosanov had said maybe ten words to him and won his whole entire heart without even trying? Does he start with the years of meetups that they could barely pretend meant nothing? Does he start with Ilya in Boston asking him to stay? Shane thinks he could talk about the All Stars game last year, and the way he had held Ilya while he cried, finally knowing that they both wanted the impossible more that they’d been dancing around for their entire careers. Thinks he could start with Katya, and bedtime stories, and the shocking ease with which he’s found himself beginning to think of her as his own. Shane considers talking about October, and the way Ilya had looked at him and confessed that this distance was sapping his will faster than their love could replenish it, changing the plan and the timelines so they could have this.

But all of that is too raw for this. And he doesn’t know if he even has the words to do it justice. Simpler is better, probably.

“I’m gay,” he says, because it matters that he says the words, “and this is Ilya. Rosanov. Which you know, obviously. And he’s- we’re-” Simple, apparently, gets Shane about a sentence before his brain stops cooperating with his mouth. 

“Together,” Ilya supplies, stepping in when he needs it, “partners.”

“Yeah,” he confirms for his parents' benefit, “partners.”

Shane risks a look at his mother again, and she’s looking at him like he’s grown a second head.

“But we hate Rosanov,” she says, “you hate Rosanov.”

To his side, Ilya flinches, but Shane can tell without looking that he’s only thinking about what Katya will think of this conversation. Her English still isn’t perfect, but she knows what hate means. 

“No,” Shane says, confident not only for himself, but for Katya. “I never have. I love him, actually.”

“Oh,” his mother says faintly, and Shane can tell that neither of his parents have any fucking idea what to do with that information. 

“Look,” Shane sighs, “can we come in? Sit?”

YUNA

Yuna nods. What else can you do when your son brings home his decade-long archrival and declares that they are in love? She still does not understand even half of what is happening, but still this is not even close to what she had been expecting. If someone had told her an hour ago that Ilya Rosanov, bad boy of hockey, would be standing in her foyer with a small child, looking at her son like he was the fucking sun, Yuna would have laughed. And then, maybe, asked them when the last time they spoke to a mental health professional had been. 

The worst part is that it makes a little bit of sense. She and David had privately, in the way parents do, wondered between themselves if Shane might be gay. Then, he had dated Rose Landry, and they had assumed they were wrong. Clearly, they weren’t. And Shane’s whole life is hockey. It follows that he would fall in love with the only man in the league that even comes close to being his equal. 

Shane easily toes off his shoes, and then he looks at Rosanov with a bemused expression on his face, eyes darting up and down. Yuna follows his gaze. Rosanov is still holding the child (which, for the record, what the fuck), and is wearing boots that clearly need two hands to take off.

“Give her to me,” he says quietly, and Rosanov hands Shane the girl like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe, Yuna thinks, it is. Shane whispers something in the girl’s ear, and while she has been fairly stoic up until now, she cracks a smile. It makes Shane grin and Yuna sees, now, what David meant. That’s not a smile she has ever seen on him before.

Rosanov straightens back up, placing his boots on the shoe rack. He looks unlike how he does in interviews. Not cocky at all. It’s an odd look for him. Maybe Yuna should let him get his bearings a little more, but she’s exercised a great deal of self-restraint already tonight, and frankly doesn’t care.

“So,” she says, “who is this?” Yuna locks eyes with her son, making it clear who she is talking about. Shane and Rosanov exchange a glance, and Rosanov nods. 

“This is Katya,” Shane says. And that explains exactly nothing. Her face probably betrays this sentiment, because Rosanov takes a half step forward, so close to Shane their shoulders brush and Yuna resists the urge to gawk because Shane doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans towards the touch.

“She is my niece,” Rosanov says eventually, “but not really. My daughter, now. I adopted her after my brother died.” He looks at her like he is daring her to say something negative. This is a look she does recognize on him. Determined, fierce. Challenging. 

Yuna searches her brain for something to say, but nothing comes up. She can understand, a little bit, how Ilya Rosanov could be dating her son. There is no part of her, however, that could ever have predicted that Rosanov would be a father. A good one, even, from the looks of it. And the girl, Katya, is just so shy. And calm. And quiet. And these are three adjectives that Yuna would never, in a million years, have ascribed to a hypothetical child of Ilya Rosanov. 

Rosanov is still standing in her foyer and Shane is still holding Katya and Rosanov is, Yuna notices, wearing a pink backpack with some disney character on it and that, if anything, makes her crack a smile. Whatever else is going on, she can see that Rosanov is a parent. As a parent herself, she understands the look he’s shooting her. He wants to make sure his daughter is safe in an unfamiliar space. And who, really, is Yuna to begrudge him that?

“Hi Katya,” she addresses the girl in Shane’s arms, “my name is Yuna.” 

Katya’s arms tighten around Shane, and her eyes dart across Yuna’s face. Then, they flick back to Shane, who nods encouragingly. To Rosanov, who smiles. 

“Hi,” the girl says so softly Yuna almost misses it.

In what is probably the most improbable thought she’s ever had in her life, Yuna reflects that it’s a good thing her son fell in love with Ilya Rosanov.

ILYA

“We started seeing each other years ago, but things are serious now. They have been, pretty much since I met Katya over a year ago,” Shane says. Ilya runs a soothing hand over Shane’s knee. Just enough touch to keep him grounded. 

They’re sitting at a worn kitchen table, him and Shane on one side, Yuna and David on the other. Katya is in the living room - within eyesight, out of earshot. She has her book, and should be okay for the duration of this conversation. Hopefully. She’s been coping with everything really well so far, and Ilya has made sure to tell her as much. 

Shane’s been taking most of the questions, and Ilya’s grateful for it. It’s only been ten minutes but he is exhausted in a way he can’t quite place. All in all, Shane’s parents have been good. If they have any problems, they are at least doing him the favour of keeping them internal for the time being, and that’s all Ilya can ask for. 

“And you’re really moving to the Centaurs for him?” Shane’s mother asks him, and Shane nods.

“Yes,”

“And you, Rosanov? You’re fine just abandoning Boston?

“Boston,” Ilya says, voice serious, “has not read my daughter a bedtime story every single night since he’s met her. Boston has not helped me through every stage of learning how to be a version of myself I am happy with.” He looks at Shane, voice softening. “Boston is not who I want to raise a child with.”

Shane’s eyes are wet. Ilya pretends his aren’t as well. 

Shane’s mother gets up abruptly, and Shane follows. Ilya looks at him questioningly, but he just smiles and shakes his head. On the way out the door, Shane runs a hand through Katya’s hair, and Ilya doesn’t resist the smile that finds its way onto his face. 

Ilya looks across the table at David Hollander. He runs through the list of things he knows about the man. He reads The New Yorker. He played hockey in university. He works some infinitely forgettable government job. Shane’s father looks just as out of his depth as Ilya feels, and that’s fair, he supposes. As awkward as this is for him, he can’t imagine the other man is having any easier of a day. 

Katya saves him, wandering over and leaning into his side.

“Papa,” she says in Russian, “I’m hungry. Do Shane’s parents have food?”

Ilya looks at David, “Do you have anything to eat?” he hesitates, not wanting to ask for too much, “I can cook, but we were about to have lunch when, well, you know. So my Katya needs food.

David Hollander looks like he has never been so grateful for a task in his life.

Somehow, twenty minutes later, Ilya has managed to cook a meal with Shane’s father. They had split up the work between them, making small talk that was not as awkward as it could have been. Ilya had bragged about Katya’s English, and her reading, and David had told stories from when Shane was her age. They discuss how stupid Ottawa’s school board system is. It’s surprisingly easy to talk to David - nothing even vaguely like Ilya’s conversations with his own father. It’s a good sign, practical proof that fathers can be good. Katya has taken Ilya’s seat at the table, half reading her book, sometimes coming over to him to watch him cook. She tells David his sauce smells good and David beams and it makes Ilya’s heart hurt a little because Katya is trying so hard and being so strong. She looks to him, after the ten second interaction with David, like she’s hoping Ilya will tell her she did a good job. He does, of course he does. Whispered words in Russian pressed into her forehead. The language gives them a layer of privacy even when all Ilya’s secrets are lying scattered. It’s a relief.

Shane comes back into the house with his mother at his side, and they’ve both been crying but the tension seems better, now. Less urgent. Shane raises an eyebrow at him, and Ilya smirks. Yes, Shane, he thinks, I have, in fact, charmed your father with my pasta-making abilities.

They sit back at the table, and this time Ilya sits at the head so that Katya can keep his place. Yuna asks more questions and Ilya feels more prepared to answer them now. They talk about Ottawa and coming out, at least to the team. They talk about how they are going to protect Katya from the media storm that will rain down on them when they eventually tell the world. 

As the conversation wears on, Ilya can only think of how well everything is going. Yuna and David have accepted this new reality with only minor issues, all things considered. They have been kind to Katya, and Ilya is sure that, given time, they will adjust to the idea of Ilya, Shane’s partner, and not Rosanov, hockey asshole. 

Shane reaches his limit when the talk turns to sponsors. He leans forward and puts his head on the table and Ilya knows this isn’t something he lets himself do regularly. As scary as it is to see him break down like this, Ilya is a little relieved, too. He worries that Shane bottles up his feelings too quickly, not really feeling them for what they are. 

Katya looks at Ilya with wide, searching eyes. “Is Shane okay?” she asks him, the Russian shaking as it leaves her mouth.

“He will be,” Ilya assures her. He gets out of his chair and walks around Katya’s seat to crouch in front of Shane, running a hand down his back. “Hey,” he says softly, and Shane lets out a nearly imperceptible sigh.

“I’m fine,” Shane mumbles, “I’m freaking out a bit, but it’s fine.”

“Shane,” Ilya keeps voice as soothing as he can, letting his accent round out the vowels in a way he’s been resisting today, trying to make a good impression on Shane’s parents. “You are okay, yes?” he pauses for a second, glancing up to where Shane’s parents watch their interaction, “Your family is here, you have me, you have Katya, and we are okay.”

Ilya places two fingers on Shane’s chin, tilting his head and meeting his lips in a quick kiss. It’s soft in the way he knows Shane needs, and he doesn’t miss how some of the tension melts out of him at the contact. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya sees Yuna and David exchange a glance. 

This, he thinks, is what it feels like when your parents approve of what you’ve done with your life. It’s not a familiar sensation. It’s not an unwelcome one, either.

Katya is finally settled in bed by around nine thirty, and it’s a bit later than Ilya would have liked, but it’s been a day. Shane had read her a chapter of Rhold Dhal before heading to take a shower. Ilya sits in the room a little longer. He listens as Katya’s breathing slowly evens out, watching as sleep pulls her deeper. She looks so peaceful like this. So young, and calm, and perfect. What today has reminded Ilya, though, is just how strong she is. 

Katya can handle a lot, and maybe he needs to take a step back from the overprotective mindset he’s had for the past eighteen months. Maybe he needs to give her space to grow, and change, and struggle a little so that she can come out the other side. He decides in that moment: she’s coming to their home games this season. 

Maybe the next step to being brave with Shane is finally giving Katya the space she needs to figure out what bravery means to her.

Ilya collapses into bed twenty minutes later. Shane is already lying down, and his hair is still wet from the shower. Ilya places a kiss on his bare stomach. 

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, “you were amazing today.”

Shane cards a hand through his hair and Ilya leans into the touch.

“I’m glad they know,” Shane confesses.

“So am I.”

Chapter 15: Teammates

Chapter Notes

hmmmmmm my hands are pretty full think I might drop the other shoe

August 09

Ilya doesn’t fully understand why the Centaurs management decided to give him the C before even preseason training. They don’t know, yet, how he will mesh with the team. It’s an incredible show of trust that Ilya is going to work to feel like he’s earned. Today, he’s had meetings with the GMs as well as Brandon Wiebe, the head coach. Everyone has been very incredibly nice, and happy to have him. They’re the worst team in the league, but at least they’re kind. 

Shane has had similar, albeit shorter meetings, getting to know the staff as well. Their signings will become public tomorrow, the day training officially starts, and Ilya is surprised by how apprehensive he is about it. He and Wiebe had discussed the publicity angle a bit, and he had been briefly introduced to the team’s social media guy. They’d made plans to film some introductory bits for the team’s socials. He’d seemed nice, but Ilya can’t remember the man’s name for the life of him. 

After meeting the communications team, the trainers, the equipment managers, and everyone else Ilya hadn’t seen when he signed his contract, he’d sat with Wiebe in the coach’s office, pouring through last year’s game tape and noting any initial observations on how the team worked. He’d been a hands-on captain like this in Boston, and nobody in Ottawa seems to have a complaint, so Ilya figures he can keep it up. They end the day with a handshake, a clap on the back, and some solid ideas for their line configurations to try tomorrow.

Ilya didn’t tell Wiebe about him and Shane. They’d decided this was a conversation best held once all of them could be there in person. Today Shane is with Katya and his parents. It’s the first time Katya has been around the Hollanders without Ilya, and only the third time she’s been around them at all, but from Shane’s periodic updates it seems to be going really well. 

Hopefully, by the time the pre-season starts and they have to go back to travelling for games, Katya will feel comfortable enough to stay with them. The alternative is to hire a nanny, but since Katya will be spending most days in school, that feels unnecessary. David and Yuna had offered to watch her during roadtrips the day after they met her, and Ilya hadn’t committed either way. If things keep going as well as they have been, he thinks it will work out. Ilya really wants it to work out. 

He misses Sveta like a limb, but her life was always going to stay in Boston and, as she had frequently reminded him, she couldn’t watch Katya forever. Ilya owes her several lifetimes of favors at this point. When he’d told her he was leaving Boston, she’d smiled softly at him.

“I’m glad Jane makes you happy,” she’d whispered, “I hope, some day, I’ll get to meet him, and say thank you.”

Ilya had nodded and when, a few days later, the game schedule had been released, he’d sent Sveta plane tickets to visit for the home opener. 

The house is quiet when Ilya finally pulls up. Yuna and David must have left once Katya went to bed. Missing bedtime used to crush him, but Shane knows their daughter, and Ilya trusts him, and so it doesn’t crush him anymore. 

The dying summer sun is the only light when Ilya enters, and he can hear in the kitchen the sound of running water, the clack of dishes against each other. He walks up behind Shane and snakes his hands around the other man’s waist, pulling him close.

“Hey,” Shane greets. Ilya smiles into the back of his neck.

“Hi,” he says, “everything went well with your parents?”

“Yeah,” Shane nods, “Katya gave them a tour.”

“By herself?” 

“Yeah.”

Ilya nudges Shane’s him with his own, shifting him over so Ilya can stand next to him at the sink. He grabs a cloth and starts drying the dishes, putting them away as he goes. 

“Your meetings went well too?” Shane asks.

“Yes,” Ilya replies, “it is a good team, I think.” He puts some plates in a cupboard. “Not at hockey, not yet, but good people.”

“I think so too. Good people.”

“You still want to tell them?” Ilya asks, and Shane nods.

“I don’t want to make a big deal about it unless we have to,” Shane says, shutting off the water and draining the sink, “I think we can just be ourselves, and not hide, and everyone can fill in the blanks.”

Ilya hums. It’s a good plan. 

“Ok.”

Silverware goes in the drawer, knives and forks and spoons separated in a way he never did before Shane. 

“How are you feeling about tomorrow?” he asks, “I know it is a big change, leaving Montreal. Today is maybe the first day it feels real.”

Shane looks at him and it makes Ilya feel loved.

“Come with me,” Shane says, and he holds out a hand. Ilya takes it. 

They walk through the house and out the back door. The back yard is decently sized, with a grill and some chairs and a maze of string lights that Ilya nearly died trying to put up. Tall trees provide privacy from the rest of the world. Ilya looks up and he can see the stars. 

Shane pulls him until they’re standing in the middle of the grass, impossibly close. They listen to the silence of the night, a soft breeze ruffling leaves that will soon turn yellow and fall. They didn’t bother to put on shoes, and Ilya loves the feeling of the grass on his bare feet. 

“I love you,” Shane says, looking right into Ilya’s eyes, “I love you in ways I never thought I’d get to. In ways I never thought I could let myself. When I think about tomorrow, I think about the start of a new chapter of our lives, and I’m so fucking excited, Ilya. Because we’re finally going to be on the same team. In public. And even if they don’t know everything, they will know that. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rosanov, teammates.” Shane swallows.

“I want us to be teammates for the rest of our lives. Even when it’s hard. Even when we’re both fucking terrified. Even if we have to lose every game we play, which for the record we won’t, because we’re the best players in the whole damn league.” Shane releases him now, and Ilya barely notices. Shane is beautiful like this, with wide wet eyes and a small smile. He reaches his hand into his back pocket. Ilya smiles back at him, a little confused.

And then Shane motherfucking Hollander gets on one knee.

He looks up at Ilya, smile growing. 

“Marry me,” he says like Ilya would ever, in a million years, turn him down.

Ilya drops to his knees so they can be on the same level again. He’s crying now, too. 

“Yes,” he whispers, grin slowly splitting his face, “of course.”

Shane slides a simple gold band onto his hand, and Ilya brings him in for a kiss, pouring out all the feelings that no words in any language could ever express. They hold each other, and they kiss, and Ilya looks up at the stars.

Look, mama, he thinks, I made it.

August 10

In the early morning sunlight, Ilya slowly blinks himself awake. He’s warm, his body wrapped in Shane’s underneath their cool duvet. They’re both naked, but he’s still wearing the ring. Maybe he’ll never take it off. 

On the bedside table, his phone is going nuts. Belatedly, Ilya realizes that the news of their signings would have been released by now. He reaches out to grab the phone before curling back around Shane. He scrolls through notifications with his partner, his fiance, in his arms. Some texts from friends in Boston asking him why, questioning the decision. Cliff sends him official congratulations. So does Sveta. Other acquaintances ask him if he knew Shane Hollander was also going to be signing with Ottawa, or if the Centaurs had blindsided him with his rival. 

Ilya responds to Cliff and Sveta and ignores everyone else. He checks the news next. Already, people are speculating. They think the league orchestrated this to create drama. They think Ilya or Shane got tricked into signing. Nobody thinks that they are secretly in love. 

As a final step, Ilya checks twitter. 

HOLLANDER AND ROSANOV ON THE SAME TEAM??? MY TEAM??? When I said the Cens needed depth at center this is NOT what I meant but holy shit I will not be complaining

It’s the first tweet he sees and it makes him smile. At least the fans are happy. The fans are happy, the analysts are losing their shit, and Ilya can’t help but feel a little smug. He’s always liked being a little bit of a menace, and it’s been too long. He goes to his own page and updates his bio, and then, because he can’t resist, he types out a post of his own.

Secret of the summer is out: I will be captaining the @OttawaCentaurs this season. 

Heard some guy called Hollander signed also, can anyone tell me about him? Is he a goalie or…

Ilya presses a kiss to the bridge of Shane’s nose. On the other side of the bed, Shane’s phone is going off even more than Ilya’s and as much as Ilya would like to bask in this, he knows Shane will want to deal with his messages as soon as possible.

Ilya is making breakfast for Katya when Shane comes downstairs, freshly showered and ready to head to practice a whole hour early. David and Yuna are going to be there any minute to watch Katya for the day. 

“Ready?” he asks unnecessarily. 

“Ready,” Shane confirms. Ilya presses a hand to his necklace which now holds his mother’s cross and his ring. As much as he’d like to wear it, they’ll be dealing with enough of a circus these next few days. One day soon, though. 

Ilya’s phone pings with another twitter notification. Shane’s posted. He looks at the man to find him grinning. He clicks.

Very excited to start training with the @OttawaCentaurs today! As an athlete, I am always searching for the next challenge, and I am looking forward to finding that challenge in Ottawa. 

The captain is new too - some guy called Rosanov. I think he’ll be my left wing this season.

The replies are hilarious, as people obviously put together that Shane’s seen his earlier post. Ilya smiles. 

“I am not going to be your left wing, Hollander,” he says. He might, though. It’s one of the options he’d discussed with Wiebe. It’d be fun to play on the same line. 

“You say that now, Rosanov,” Shane replies, “but just you wait.”

When they step into the locker room, they are met with whoops and cheers.

“Holy shit man, I mean, I knew you guys were gonna be here, but you’re, like. Actually here,” says a man who Ilya is pretty sure is Evan Dykstra. He grins.

“Yes, yes, Hollander and I have come to save you all. By end of season we will have the Stanley cup in this locker room, just you fucking wait.”

The room laughs, clearly not believing him. That’s fine. They will. 

“Glad to have you both here,” says Zane Boodram, the man who probably should have been made captain this year. He doesn’t look like he harbours any ill will over it though, and Ilya immediately likes him. 

“I’m just glad that this means my job got a whole lot easier this season,” jokes Wyatt Hayes, a goalie Ilya knows used to play in Toronto before a mid-season trade last year.

To Ilya’s side, Shane is smiling, but not making any jokes of his own. He seems okay, though. Just adjusting. It’s to be expected. Ilya slings an arm around his shoulder and they walk over to their lockers. Shane has a corner spot, and Ilya’s right next to him, and that is just perfect.

August 19

Ilya kind of hates that he has to do press before even the preseason, but that’s what you get for holding open practices. Most of the questions have been about hockey, thankfully. How is the team adjusting with himself and Hollander on the first line? How does he feel about the upcoming season? How confident is he in qualifying for the playoffs? (The team is adjusting just fine, the season is looking really good, he fully intends to lead this team all the way to a cup and he’s unafraid to say it.)

There have been a few questions about the move. Why he sacrificed a real chance at winning it all. They don’t understand: Ilya already has it all. The cup will just be the cherry on top. He brushes off their queries with chirps about how winning in Boston was just too easy. Then, some reporter with a bad haircut ruins what had otherwise been a tolerable interview.

“Scott Hunter came out as gay at the end of the last season, and it sent shockwaves through the hockey community. What do you think about it? What do you think the league should do to make sure players feel comfortable if someone else comes out?”

Ilya stares at him like he’s an idiot, because he’s an idiot.

“I think that the league should not do anything because it is nobody’s business who anyone fucks. I also think you should keep the questions about hockey, please, and not romantic lives of people I do not know. Hunter knows I support him and that is all that matters.”

From across the room, Harris the social media guy is looking at him weirdly. Knowingly. Oh well.

“Ilya, just a year ago you called the Centaurs, quote, ‘the worst team in the NHL’, and I’d love to hear about how your mindset has shifted since then, leading to you signing with them.”

This question, at least, is a little less stupid. He’s already answered it five times.

“New starts are good. Good for players and teams, yes, but good for people too. I am thankful that Ottawa has given this to me.”

“And, to build off my original question, how has this change affected your rivalry with Shane Hollander? It must be interesting to go from rivals to linemates.”

“Yes. Hollander is a very skilled player, and our competition has only ever made us better.”

It’s more true than the reporter can ever know. Shane Hollander, maybe more than anyone else in the world, has made him a better person.

Chapter 16: don't worry (be happy)

Chapter Notes

almost done? mayhaps??? (not the way I'm already planning another fic even though I DO NOT have the time)

September 02

Bood’s throwing a barbeque, and Ilya has never been so excited for a social event in his life. The timing is perfect. Summer training has wound down, the preseason doesn’t start until next week, and Katya still has a few days before she starts first grade. Tonight is the night he kisses Shane in front of their team and, excitingly, Shane had been the one to suggest it.

They haven’t been hiding, either. Ilya can hook his hand around Shane’s waist, or hug him, or flirt with him, and Shane just smiles back. The team had given them some odd looks that first practice or two, but they got used to the antics quickly. It helps that when they play on the same line, they are unstoppable. Bood is usually on the line as well, but jokes that they wouldn’t even notice if it was just the two of them on offence. 

The Centaurs are, in a word, nice. It’s irritatingly Canadian, but Ilya is engaged to quite possibly the most Canadian man in the whole country, so he can’t complain. Tonight, Ilya isn’t worried about their reactions - for the first time, he’s looking forward to them. 

David is coming over to watch Katya, because this is not, Ilya feels, the most child-friendly get together. He’d been advised by Dykstra to bring nothing but money for an uber home, and that is a sign that this is about to be a night to remember. Even Shane has agreed to have a drink, and Ilya doesn’t think it’s because of nerves. 

Shane, maybe even more than Ilya, is thriving with the Cens. He smiles more than he ever did in Montreal, and laughs more freely. At first, Ilya thinks it’s just how Shane is on the ice with his team, a side of him he hadn’t yet really experienced. Then, he’d overheard a conversation with Shane and Hayden over the phone. “You seem happier,” Hayden had said, and Shane had nodded.

“I feel a lot lighter. They don’t even know yet, but just not having to hide, it’s amazing.”

It cannot be said that Ilya is an impatient man. He does not kiss Shane on the doorstep of Bood’s very nice Barrhaven home. He does not kiss Shane when their teammates chirp them for arriving together. He does not kiss Shane as they go around to meet the WAGS. They make it all the way to a couch in the cozy living room before Ilya gives in to instinct. All in all, he lasts about fifty minutes.

Ilya immediately claims the corner of the sizable sectional, greeting the guys in the room as he does so. Shane sits next to him, and Ilya extends an arm over the back of the couch in the cheesy way guys do in movies, fake yawn and all. Shane shoves him lightly, but Ilya only adjusts his hand where it now lies on Shane’s shoulder.

They watch as Hayes, Dykstra, and Chouinard engage in a game of monopoly so rife with cheating Ilya does not think it could even be considered the same game. The five of them chat lightly, sipping at their beers and placing bets on anything even vaguely related to the activity at hand. Despite not even playing, Ilya bets that Hayes will roll a four, and finds himself five hundred monopoly dollars richer. Shane doubles the money on Dykstra having a Get out of jail free card. It is unimaginably stupid, but he and Shane are looking like they might somehow win the whole game through their betting empire.

Bood enters the room and doesn’t even seem to try and figure out what is going on.

“Food is ready,” he announces, “get it before it’s gone.” 

Ilya realizes that if he and Shane both leave, their winnings will surely be redistributed to the legitimate players, and this cannot happen.

“I will get you a plate,” he tells Shane, "guard our riches.” As he gets up, he places a kiss to Shane’s head. Chouinard does a double-take, but says nothing.

The food is fucking phenominal. Easily some of the best barbeque Ilya has ever had in his life. He grabs a bit of everything for himself, and makes sure that Shane’s plate is at least mostly in line with his diet. It takes a few minutes to wind back through the hoard of hockey players, and when Ilya finally gets back to the game, Shane has acquired two railroads and Park Place. 

Ilya places the food down on a side table and reclaims his spot. Shane has half taken it over in his absence, but he easily moves his fiance out of the way. Hayes still isn’t back from getting his food, but a rookie, Luca Haas, has found his way into the goalie’s seat.

“How did you get three properties in five minutes?” he asks, and Shane just grins.

“I’m a good business man, I guess.”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya smiles, “Mr. Real Estate, how could I forget?” He looks at Shane, silently telegraphing his next move. Asking for a final time if Shane is ready for this. Shane nods. Ilya pulls him closer, so he’s resting more on his chest than the couch itself. Then he leans over and kisses his fiance properly. 

Hayes chokes on his beer. “Okay,” the goalie says, “okay so what the fuck?”

“What do you mean?” Ilya asks, grinning like a shark.

“I- this- you-” Haas gestures at them wildly like their position should speak for itself. Chouinard and Dykstra wear matching looks of surprise and confusion.

“You are going to have to use words, Haas.” Ilya says sarcastically. Shane snorts out a laugh from next to him.

“We thought it was- that you were-” Haas takes a deep breath. 

“We thought,” Dykstra takes over, “that your whole thing,” and he’s gesturing at them too, now, “was like. For us. Because of the rivalry. Like the touching and joking and shit.”

“So that we wouldn’t worry about how your rivalry would affect the team,” Haas adds, finally coherent. 

“Yeah, man,” Chouinard adds, “we thought you guys were, like, playing it up.”

“But I don’t think you’d be kissing each other if it was just that.” Haas concludes.

“We were not,” Ilya replies, “playing it up. We were playing it down. Very down. Was very difficult. You do not know what it does to me to see Shane Hollander-”

“Ilya,” Shane cuts him off, scolding. 

“What?” he asks, “I was just going to say that you look hot. This is not news to you I hope, I say it all the time.” 

Haas, Chouinard, and Dykstra are looking at them, shellshocked.

“Are you guys like,” Dykstra clears his throat, “together?” He says the word like it’s the most improbable thing there is. 

Shane nods from his place on Ilya’s chest. “We’re engaged,” he says, and Ilya looks down at him in pleasant surprise. He hadn’t expected Shane to share that today. 

“Holy shit,” Haas mutters, almost to himself, “Rosanov and Hollander are gay. For each other.”

“Technically,” Ilya says, “I am bisexual. Shane is very gay though.” 

Shane looks up at him with a cute little pout on his face. “Very gay? What’s the criteria for that exactly?”

“Well I am thinking about that one time when I kissed you and you-” Shane slaps his palm over his mouth before he can say more.

“Nope, never mind. I do not want to know.” 

Bood and Hayes pick that exact moment to wander back into the room, and Hayes frowns when he sees the state of the people inside it - Chouinard, Dykstra, and Haas still half in shock, Ilya gleeful, Shane smiling softly.

“What’s going on?” Bood asks suspiciously. 

Without any fanfare, Haas replies, “Hollzy and Roz are fucking.”

“Oh,” Hayes replies casually, “so we don’t have to pretend to be blind idiots anymore? They’ve been kind of obvious about it for years.”

This time, it’s Ilya’s turn to be shocked. Years?

September 09

Sveta lands in Ottawa the morning of the home opener, and Ilya takes Katya with him to pick her up. Katya had started school this past week, and already she’s loving it. She likes her teacher, and her classmates seem nice, and apparently there’s a boy from Russia who she’s been translating for. Ilya feels like every time he stops to take a breath, he can’t help but marvel at how far she’s come. 

Katya runs up the escalator as soon as Sveta comes into view, not even caring that the task is impossible for someone so small. Sveta laughs, sweeping her into a hug as soon as the two reunite. 

In the car, Sveta tells stories from her summer in Boston, but then she turns slightly more serious. Genuine. “I am excited,” she says gently, “to finally stop pretending like I don’t know you’re in love with Shane Hollander.”

Ilya chokes on air for half a second. “How did you know?”

“Well you moved to the same shit team as him for a reason and,” Sveta grins, lowering her voice like she’s about to gossip, “Katya will not shut up about how great he is.”

All Ilya can do is grin. “Yes,” he says, “Shane is… everything.”

Sveta and Katya are decked out in Centaurs gear as they sit in the box with the WAGs. The team hasn’t met Katya yet, but they will tonight. When Ilya had, at the end of a good training session, given a brief summary of Katya’s role in his and Shane’s life, the team had been nothing but supportive. In days since, she has received invites for playdates with other similarly aged children of Cens players. It’s a community she never had in Boston, and for the hundredth time, Ilya is grateful for how welcoming Ottawa has been.

The camera finds Katya in the box, Rosanov across her jersey and an 81 on her hat, and they project her over the jumbotron. Ilya blows her a kiss and waves at where he knows she’s sitting. She waves back. 

The televised version of the game is almost certainly highlighting this moment to every hockey fan in the National Capital Region, but Ilya can’t bring himself to care.

They win the game. A first of many, if Ilya has anything to say about it. Afterwards, he stands in front of the press docket, ready for the inevitable branch away from hockey and into his personal life. 

“Ilya,” calls a young reporter, “you were seen throughout the game tonight waving at a young girl in the box: who is she? And who was the woman with her?”

“She is my daughter,” Ilya replies easily, ignoring the pounding in his chest, “In all the ways that matter. And my childhood friend Svetlana was able to fly in from Boston to watch the game as well. I am happy to have had my family here to watch us take the win. No more questions tonight, thank you.”

Ilya turns his back on the room packed with reporters, each one shouting over the other as the clamor for more of what is clearly going to be the hockey gossip of the month. Ilya lets them. He’s said his piece, he’s stopped hiding, he’s happy. 

In a day or two, when the media gets relentless, Ilya already has a Yuna-approved statement in his drafts waiting to post. For now, though, he doesn’t worry about that.

For the first time in a really long while, Ilya Rosanov doesn’t worry about anything.

Chapter 17: Everything, maybe

Chapter Notes

BABY chapter!!! tiny lil guy I wrote on my phone on public transit (Do we think I can find a way to hate on OC transpo in this fic???)

September 12

In the past three days Ilya has made two things very clear. The first thing is that he loves Katya with his whole body and soul, has from the moment he decided to take her in. The second thing is that anything beyond that is nobody else’s business. He won’t hide her, he’ll post about her when she does something amazing, like any parent would, but he will not take questions from the press, or tell the world her life’s story. He trusts the other adults in Katya’s life to do the same.

Perhaps foolishly, Ilya thought this plan was infallible. Today they’re in New York for a quick one day roadtrip, and he’d woken up to emails from both his agent, and Roger Crowell. The commissioner of the NHL wants to meet with him, apparently. He’s not intimidated by the man, but it does feel a little like being called to the principal’s office. If the principal was eighty years old with evil eyes and no heart. He’s never personally dealt with the man before, but Shane has, and Shane hates him. It takes a lot for Shane to truly hate a person. Ilya also wouldn’t be surprised if Crowell is behind the league’s staunch non-acknowledgement of Scott Hunter coming out in his MVP speech, and then again, more explicitly, in an interview a few days ago. So Ilya’s not looking forward to whatever the mad has to say.

The office building is all straight lines and windows and usually, Ilya can appreciate that style but today it feels oppressive. Crowell’s secretary sends him into the office, and Ilya wonders if maybe he should have had his agent here for this. 

“Rosanov,” Crowell greets him like they’re friends, immediately sending him off balance, “thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” 

Ilya didn’t think he’d had much of a choice.

“Of course,” he says anyway. Crowell gestures at the leather seat in front of the desk, and Ilya takes it. It’s cold and uncomfortable and forces him to sit ramrod straight. It feels like a metaphor for something. 

“I wanted to thank you,” Crowell says, and Ilya is well and truly lost now.

“Oh,” he supplies.

“I respect that you’ve kept your niece-”

“Daughter,” Ilya interrupts, politeness be damned, because it's a detail that matters.

“Yes, daughter, sorry.” Crowell does not look sorry. “You’ve kept her private, kept your business your own, for years. And I understand why you would do that, as a high profile athlete. But, I wanted to call you in to thank you for choosing to share her now, when the league needs it more than ever.”

“What?” Ilya asks, baffled.

“After the Scott Hunter debacle, you know, we’d been looking for a way to show that we’re still a family friendly organization.” Ilya might throw up all over Crowell's annoyingly expensive looking desk. “And you are just perfect, for that.  The way you’ve stepped into parenthood is so admirable. Of course, it’d be better if you had a wife, there was a very nice woman at your home opener, maybe…” Crowell trails off as if to portray how nice and convenient it would be if Ilya were to suddenly have a little nuclear family. “You’re a very influential figure in the hockey world, Rosanov. Kids look up to you. If you were open to it, I would love to do an official league photoshoot, maybe a video interview, just something to show how you are a good family man, and an amazing player.” No. No, no, no, no no. “It would, obviously, have been better if you hadn’t moved to Ottawa, but I think we can still spin it. ‘Ilya Rosanov’s Canadian Fatherhood Era’ maybe. What do you think?”

Crowell looks at him like he’s expecting Ilya to support this horrible, disgusting plan. Ilya wants to yell. He wants to get on his feet and scream and smash his fist onto the desk and curse the man out in every language he knows. 

He’s given the NHL the best years of his life. He’s given hockey his whole life. He’s sacrificed his body and his mind and now, when he dares to have something for himself, here Roger Crowell is to take it from him and make it about hockey, too. Wrap it up in NHL branding and charge everyone $5.99 to read about it. 

“My daughter,” Ilya finally says, and it’s calm. Dangerously calm. “Is not your prop.”

And maybe the conversation isn’t over, but Ilya truly does not give a shit. He walks out of the office and doesn’t even care to shut the door on his way out. Crowell and his secretary both call out to him but he ignores them. 

Ilya feels free, when he walks out into the New York air. He checks his phone while he waits for his uber. A message awaits from Shane. Not, as of recently, Jane, because they realized that as teammates, it would almost be weirder if they didn’t have each other’s numbers.

S: How did it go? 

I: He thanked me for helping league be more “family friendly”

I: Apparently this is a problem for them

I: After Hunter

S: What the fuck

S: What did you say?

I: I didn’t

I: Walked out

S: Good. Fuck Crowell.

March 15

Ilya is happy. 

The season has been amazing. Nothing can compare to the feeling of getting to play at Shane’s side, every single day. Together, they’ve truly turned the Cens around, and it’s looking like they’ll even snag a wildcard spot in the playoffs, which nobody can quite believe. Podcasters are calling it a miracle. Ilya knows it isn’t. The team has worked hard, each and every one of them. 

They have a few days off after a game in Montreal, and Katya has the week off school for March Break, and so, somehow, Ilya finds himself in Hayden Pike’s backyard. The weather is not particularly nice, but Katya has made fast friends with the insanely energetic Pike children, and they’ve decided to run around outside. Ilya is honestly grateful for an excuse to stand in the cool air, because Pike might be Shane’s best friend, but Ilya still kind of can’t stand him, as much as he tries.

“Girls,” Jackie Pike, who Ilya does quite like actually, calls out, “Lunch is ready, get in here!”

Ilya follows in the house behind them, closing the door. He walks up behind where Shane is sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, resting his chin on top of his finance’s head. He spots Pike, scowling a little, and like the mature person he is, Ilya doesn’t even say anything. He instead releases Shane, walking around to help Jackie plate for the kids. Ilya’s back is to the rest of the house, but he knows when Katya approaches from the sound of her footsteps. 

“Dad, can you fix my hair? One of the braids is coming out,” Katya says, voice soft as always, and the four adults in the kitchen freeze. Because Katya is clearly talking to Shane.

“Uhh, me?” Shane asks, voice an octave too high, pointing to his chest as though to illustrate. Their eyes meet, and Ilya grins widely.

“Obviously, you know papa is bad at it,” Katya replies, and Ilya is too in love with the scene unfolding in front of him to be offended. Plus, she isn’t wrong. Ilya has spent entire six hour flights watching braiding tutorials and he still can’t seem to get it down.

“Okay,” Shane replies, voice still endearingly strained, “Okay, yeah, for sure, Just umm- give me a second here? I’ll meet you on the couch, okay?”

“Okay!” Katya says brightly, going back to where Ruby and Jade had been holding court on something or other.

Shane has a dazed little smile on his face. It’s adorable. Ilya meets his eyes, checking in. You are ok with this? He asks without speaking, and Shane gives him a subtle nod. Jackie breaks the silence.

“Has she ever…”

“No,” Shane runs a hand across his mouth, but Ilya can tell his smile is only growing, “no that was the first time.”

“Wow, man,” Pike says, “congrats.”

Shane seems to think for a moment, and then his eyes flick to Ilya’s again. “I asked her first,” he says, and Ilya frowns in confusion.

“Asked what?”

“Before I proposed,” Shane says, and wow. He really does find new ways to be perfect every day. Ilya mindlessly runs his thumb over the band that he’d let himself wear properly today. “I asked her if she’d be okay with it, so I kind of thought  she might see me, you know, like that. But I mean, we’ve talked about it, you know, I didn’t want to rush her.”

It’s like Jackie and her husband aren’t even there. Ilya has known he wanted Shane to be a second father to Katya for years now, and he’s known that Katya likes him, but the confirmation is everything.

“Well,” he says, and Ilya can feel the fondness dripping off his tongue, “you have hair to go fix. Do not leave her waiting.”

“Oh don’t worry, I won’t.” Shane says, and Ilya knows the promise is about far more than hair. It’s about everything.

Chapter 18: Winning

Chapter Notes

chapter 20 is going to be an epilogue I think! so get excited for that I guess.

March 22

Ilya can’t sleep. He’s exhausted past the point of recognition, the game tonight had gone to double overtime. It had been long and slow in that way where he almost stopped caring who even won, so desperate for it to be over. It wasn’t a great mentality to have, as captain, because this was the game that officially secured their spot in the playoffs. 

That said, they won. Haas scored the game winner in four-on-four, and Ilya had never been so happy for any rookie he’s ever known. At the beginning of the season, he’d declared that they were playoff bound, choosing to trust that his team would follow his lead, and the had. They had worked hard, and they had won. And then they just kept winning. It’s hardly been a record season for Ilya or Shane, but it’s been enough to get them here. 

So Ilya’s lying in bed with his amazing fiance, in the home they share, about to lead the Cens to their first playoff game in over a decade, and he can’t sleep. Instead, he spends a long time watching Shane. His fiance is ethereal, like this. Features smooth and free from stress. 200 pounds of shear muscle and soft, almost. Ilya traces the lines of Shane’s body, not quite touching for fear of waking him up. It doesn’t work.

“Hey, you,” Shane blinks his eyes at Ilya, voice muddled with sleep. Ilya smiles softly, pressing a kiss to Shane’s collarbone.

“I’m sorry, love, go back to sleep,” he whispers. Shane frowns a little, ignoring him.

“It’s like three in the morning, Ilya, why are you awake?”

It’s a good question, really. One Ilya doesn’t completely have an answer to. He does have an inkling, though. Something that’s been on his mind lately, more so even than usual.

“I love you so much,” he says, running a hand across Shane’s chest. He feels the other man take a deep breath, and Shane’s hand rests on top of his own. 

“I love you too,” a pause that says too much and nothing at all, “are you…” Shane looks at him, searching for something. Ilya doesn’t know if he finds it. “Are you okay?”

The true sentiment runs like rapids under the question.

“I just- I remember the last time you had trouble sleeping. I want you to feel like you can talk to me.”

Ilya lays his head next to their layered hands. “I know,” Ilya says, “and I am. Okay. I think maybe…” Shane looks at him, open and unjudging. The moonlight highlights his face in all the right places. “I think maybe I am done hiding,” Ilya confesses.

The truth hangs between them like some perilous, tortured thing. Shane’s face does something complicated, but it settles on an expression Ilya knows well. Love. 

“You aren’t scared?” Shane asks, and it feels like a confession in its own right.

“Always,” Ilya replies, “and I think I always will be but… less with you. Everything is better with you.”

Shane moves his other hand to card between Ilya’s curls. It’s nothing they haven’t done a million times before, but it never fails to make Ilya feel a special sort of safety that only exists in Shane’s arms.

Shane, who hasn’t said anything.

“If you are not wanting this-” Ilya starts, but Shane interrupts before he can finish the thought.

“Of course I want this, Ilya, of course.”

“I was just making sure.”

“When were you thinking?” Shane asks, never not pragmatic.

“Not now,” Ilya reasons, “would be too much. Maybe after the playoffs.”

“Once we win the cup?”

“Yes. We will continue Hunter’s tradition of winning cup and then announcing that we are extremely gay.”

Shane laughs softly at that, and Ilya smiles against him. 

“Okay then. We win the Stanley Cup, and then we come out.”

And just like that, they have a plan.

May 21

At this point, even Ilya is surprised the Centaurs are still playing hockey. They’d destroyed New Jersey in the first round, taking the series 4-0. Hockey podcasters had commented on their good luck in the seed, getting pitted against the only team they could reliably beat. They had laughed when they saw who the Cens would play in the second round. Boston.

Ilya had been only slightly phased. They had won at home twice in a row, before taking their first playoff loss in Boston. Shane had scored the game winner in game four. Game five had been a disappointment at home. Game six had been one of the best nights of Ilya’s life. Marlow, now captain, had engulfed Ilya in a massive hug. “Holy shit, man,” he’d said, “no idea how you fucking did it, but good fucking job Roz.”

In the semis, things had only gotten more heated. Tampa had played a brutal game, both physically and technically. The Cens lost the first game a crushing 5-0. Ilya had taken a bad check late in the third, and his shoulder is still feeling it. In the second game, it had been looking like it was going to go to overtime. Then, some rookie had dropped gloves with Dykstra, and in his absence, Tampa had managed to squeeze in a second regulation win. In Ottawa, game three had ended in yet another disheartening loss. The podcasters had started speculating that this was the end of what had been, still, an unforgettably excellent season for the previously dismal Ottawa Centaurs. Ilya wasn’t about to accept that. In game four he scored a hattrick, waving to Katya in the stands with David and Yuna. Game five saw Ilya, Shane, and Haas scoring two goals a piece, absolutely demolishing Tampa 6-1. In game six Hayes got a shutout, and combined with a technically masterful backhand shot from Bood, it had earned them the win. 

Game seven started with a Tampa player slamming Ilya into the boards so hard he felt something crack, and just like that he was escorted off the ice by medics, unsuccessfully arguing that he could still play. His two broken ribs said otherwise. 

Bood had taken up the C, and the Cens had been out for blood. Not Shane, though. Shane never got aggressive, when he was angry. He got, impossibly, more focussed. Ilya had watched from the bench as his fiance fell into some godlike hockey trance, skating like Tampa’s defense wasn’t even real. He had passed to Haas and Dykstra, placing the puck so perfectly it didn’t even matter that he was moving at twice the speed of sound. It had been extremely attractive. And Shane had scored. Again and again and again. When the game finally ended, the score was 7-4 Ottawa, and five of those goals had been Shane’s. It broke his current record of most goals in a single game. It was amazing.

So now, improbably, the Ottawa Centaurs are going to the Stanley Cup finals. Ilya is sure the hockey podcasters are losing their shit, but he’s stopped caring.The team has a few days until they fly to Vegas for the first game of the finals, but Ilya hasn’t decided if he’s coming with them. His ribs are well and truly broken, so he won’t be playing, and it stings. Bood is undoubtedly a good fit to take over captaincy, and Shane will wear the A for the finals as well. Maybe indefinitely. Hopefully. As much as Ilya would like to support the team, going with them to games, a part of him would also love to watch them from the comfort of his home, Katya in his arms. Maybe David and Yuna would come over. Of course, Ilya will be there for any game that could be a cup winner. He’s not about to miss out on Stanley Cup sex.

Ilya’s been medically banned from hockey and so he’s taking a quick trip to New York. Because after this is over, he and Shane are coming out, announcing their engagement. Shane had brought up the idea of talking to Scott Hunter and Ilya, unfortunately, doesn’t have much else going on. Anything for Shane Hollander. He pulls up the number that Hayes insists does belong to Hunter. Calls.

“Hello?” a confused voice answers, and yep, that’s Scott Hunter all right.

“Hunter,” he says, “we must meet.”

“Rosanov?” Hunter is kind of hilarious when he doesn’t understand something.

“Yes. I am in New York. When are you free?”

“What the fuck?”

“Is not hard question, Hunter,” Ilya sighs dramatically, just because he can.

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“You expect me to believe that Ilya Rosanov came all the way to New York to talk.”

“Yes. Also for famous pizza. But mostly to talk.”

“Oh,” Hunter seems almost surprised at Ilya’s honest tone, “okay, how is eight pm? We can meet at my boyfriend’s bar. Unless you’d rather go somewhere else?”

“No, that is fine. Text me the address. See you at eight.”

Ilya hangs up. Time to tell Scott Hunter the biggest secret in the NHL.

The Kingfisher is a gay bar, and Ilya smirks to himself. Of course it is. The inside is quiet and homey, and a football game is on seven different tvs across the space. Ilya doesn’t have to look hard to spot Hunter in a booth in the back. On his way there, he swings by the bar and grabs a beer. The bartender is not Hunter’s boyfriend, but he definitely recognizes Ilya.

“Hunter,” he greets, swinging into the seat across from the older man. Hunter’s eyebrows shoot up, like he wasn’t expecting Ilya to actually show up.

“Rosanov,” he replies, “care to tell me what this is about?”

“Me and Shane Hollander are getting married,” he says, more for the shock factor than anything. Hunter laughs like it’s a joke, but when Ilya doesn’t laugh back, he freezes. 

“What did you just say?” Hunter’s voice is shaking. Ilya grins.

“Shane Hollander is in love with me. And I am in love with him. And so we are going to get married.” Ilya reaches to pull his necklace from underneath his shirt, showing off his ring.

Hunter’s eyes bulge out of his skull.

“Is this a joke?” he asks, hoarse. Ilya shakes his head.

“No.” 

“Wait here,” Hunter stands abruptly, “I’’m getting shots.”

And, okay, maybe Hunter can be fun. Sometimes. Despite his old age.

“Rosanov, listen up,” Hunter says several shots later, and Ilya wonders when the last time the man got wasted was, because his tolerance is not high, “don’t fuck it up.” He points aggressively at nothing in particular. Ilya raises an eyebrow. Before this, they had been discussing how much Tampa fucking sucks, but this doesn’t feel at all related to that. “When you tell the world you’re in love with Shane Hollander, go fucking big, man.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, fuck… You don’t even know how much I regret it. I fucking love my boyfriend! And then I barely acknowledge him in a stupid award speech and everyone acts like I’m some sort of hero,” Hunter lowers his voice to a whisper, “I’m not a hero, Ros. I’m a goddamn coward.” He takes a breath. “I thought I was protecting him from like. League bullshit. Whatever. Nahhh. I was just trying to protect myself. Make it more plalatable,” Hunter fumbles the word, “for fucking Crowell. Hah. Didn’t even work. Was never gonna work.” Hunter looks at Ilya, “So when you tell the world, do it in a way that the fucking league goons can’t just shove under the rug, because they will if you let them.” Hunter takes a sip of his scotch. “You can’t let them do that to love.”

Ilya nods seriously. It’s decent advice. He thinks of how Crowell reacted to Katya, thinks about the family friendly packaging the league is still trying to wrap him in. He thinks about how he protected her for so long, and how she has blossomed now that he’s stopped. Maybe, once he and Shane stop protecting their relationship, it will blossom too. The team is behind them, their friends are behind them, and maybe that will be enough. 

Even if it isn’t, Ilya realizes that he doesn’t care. When Ilya tells the world what Shane Hollander is to him, there isn’t going to be a single fucking doubt in their minds about what it means.

Chapter 19: Hollander

Chapter Notes

Ok!!!! so crazy!!! only the epilogue left??? genuinely so many thanks to everyone who had ideas for this chapter I hope it's everything you hoped for

June 07

“Everyone, listen up,” Ilya commands the locker room the moment he walks in. He’s wearing a Cens jacket and jeans and it’s incredibly normal, and incredibly attractive. Even more attractive is the way every single guy stops what they’re doing to listen to their captain. Even when he’s out of commission, Ilya is a generational leader. Shane really fucking loves him. Shane really, really loves that even though Ilya couldn’t justify shuttling Katya across the continent every two days, he’s come with the team, not even complaining about how much all the time on airplanes must hurt his ribs. Not that Shane would expect anything less from this man.

“You fucking earned this,” Ilya says, “no matter what happens tonight, every single person here has earned that fucking cup. You have fought and trained and played and I don’t give a shit what some second rate analyst has to fucking say about how we got here, because everyone here knows the truth. We got here through fucking skill. No luck needed.” Ilya takes a breath, shoots the tiniest smile at Shane. His eyes are burning with a passion Shane has never quite known how to externalize. “Tonight, when we send Vegas crying back to their homes, they will take back every doubt they ever had about us and we will be champions. Fucking champions. Most of you have never won a cup before and when you do… there will be no feeling like it. And when you feel that, you need to know that you’ve fucking earned it.” A pause, a breath. Everyone is hanging on to Ilya’s every word. “It has been an honour to play with you all this season. All we have to do is win one more fucking game. The people in this crowd, most of them do not want this. They want Vegas to take home another shiny little trophy. They will boo. They will yell. And then, when we crush them, we will be the ones yelling.” 

It’s not like any pre-game speech Shane has heard Ilya give before. It isn’t meant to build rage, or hype. It feels like a reassurance. It feels almost comforting. Designed not only to build their confidence in themselves, but congratulate everyone for getting here at all. Fuck. Shane is going to marry this man.

Ilya taps gloves with every player on their way out the door, and when Shane finally gets to him, he presses a kiss on Shane’s helmet. “Do me a favor?” he asks. 

“Sure,” Shane says, because he will.

“Win.”

Shane has never played a Stanley Cup series that went to game seven before. With both of his cups, he led the Voyagers to 4:2 and 4:1 wins, respectively. The energy is nothing like he would have expected. It isn’t aggressive, or not as much as he’d have thought. Mostly, everyone is exhausted and sore and looking forward to the summer. 

Shane takes the first faceoff. He makes eye contact with the Vegas centre and Ilya’s voice is in his ear. Will you disappoint them, Hollander?

He doesn’t. 

Shane shoots the puck to Bood, who fires it to Haas, who came up from the second line to replace Ilya. The kid is fast, and Shane grins. Their bodies might be falling apart but they’re playing some good fucking hockey. He and Haas shoot the puck back and forth as they make their way up the ice, practically dancing around the Vegas defencemen. Haas makes like he’s going to send the puck into the left corner of the net, and Vegas’s goalie reacts, but then instead he sends the puck straight into the curve of Shane’s stick, and it's a move he’s done a thousand times. Twist of the wrist, not even looking, because he doesn’t need to. Shane sinks the puck in on the right. The goal horn blares. The crowd boos. Shane searches for Ilya’s face in the box with the rest of the Cen’s staff. “Wow”, Ilya seems to say, but he’s so far away that Shane couldn’t hear him even if the building were silent. It doesn’t matter. 

Shane grabs Haas into a tight hug, and Bood piles on as well. “Thirty fucking seconds in!” Chouinard says, "That's how we do it baby!”

“Yeah,” Shane says, “now let's do it again.”

Vegas scores four minutes later, while Shane’s on the bench. It’s definitely impossible, but he could swear he hears Ilya this time, yelling something in Russian that is almost certainly both extraordinarily rude and astonishingly creative. Shane chews on his mouthguard while Vegas celebrates, and he sees his own face up on the jumbotron. Bood knocks into his shoulder. “We got this Hollander,” he says. Shane nods. 

The first period ends without any more goals, but at least Vegas hasn’t scored again. Hayes has actually been incredible, blocking shot after shot. Shane hopes he wins the Vezina this year, the man deserves it.

Ilya’s fielding the press for them so they can keep their heads in the game, which Shane appreciates more than words. He also kind of hates it because it means they won’t see each other. He tells himself it’s fine - he won his first two cups without making out with Ilya Rosanov during intermission, he can win a third like this. He checks his phone, just in case Ilya sent him a text, and he isn’t disappointed.

I: I fell a little more in love with you for that goal

I: And Haas too

I: But don’t tell him that

Shane lets out a little laugh, shuts his phone back off. It is going to be ok. They are going to win. And once they win-

Nope. Shane is not going to think about that. Is not going to think about the conversation he’d had with Ilya last week. Is not going to think about the way Ilya had kissed him softly, whispering “Scott Hunter told me to kiss you on center ice, when we win.”

“What?” Shane had asked.

“Yes. Said he regrets not doing it. I want to make him jealous of how much better we are at coming out than him.”

“Oh, really?” 

“Yes. But…” Ilya had hesitated, “I know this idea scares you. So if you would still prefer Variety interview this summer…”

“We can do it,” Shane had decided in a moment of bravery, “but only if we win.”

Then Ilya had laughed like they already had, and fucked Shane into the mattress. They hadn’t talked about it since, but Shane knows Ilya hasn’t forgotten. 

But he is not thinking about it. 

Vegas scores midway through the second, and then again thirty seconds later, and Shane wonders which reporter from Variety they’ll go with. Hopefully not the same woman he talked to a few years back, because all she had wanted to talk to him about had been his ab routine. 

The second period ends and they’re down by two and Bood’s troop-rallying speech isn’t really doing it. And Shane does have more Cups than anyone else on the team.

“Guys,” he starts, and when they turn to look at him, he knows it’s not because of the A on his chest. “I’m going to suggest something, and you’re going to think it’s insane. Especially coming from me. But when we get back out on that ice, I don’t want you to be thinking of this as game seven. Don’t even think of this as the playoffs. I want you to think about the most fun game of hockey you’ve ever played, when you were twelve years old and you played because you were good, and it was fun. When we get back on that ice I don’t want you to play to win the Cup, because we’ve been doing that and it hasn’t been working. I want you,” he makes eye contact with the guys, sweeping his gaze across the room, “to play for fun. Because if it isn’t fun, what is even the point?”

And then the team is cheering and Harris is telling him that this speech is going to “do numbers on the socials” and Shane doesn’t care if he ever becomes captain again, because Ilya is phenomenal and Bood is great, but it still feels fucking incredible.

It doesn’t hurt that it actually works.

When Haas scores he does a little spin, impossibly young for the raw talent he demonstrates. Shane claps him on the back, and from there the energy changes palpably. He skates behind the net to retrieve the puck, and Hayes is singing some pop song. He plays rock paper scissors with three different players while on the bench. During a stoppage in play, he skates up to a Vegas player. “Any plans for the summer?” he asks the man who he has never spoken to in his life, and the defenseman looks at him in pure confusion.

“What? The fuck do you care, Hollander?”

“Oh no reason,” Shane says conversationally, “just wanted to chat.” And then, because Ilya is rubbing off on him, “I’m getting married in August.”

Play resumes and Shane is gone in a second. The defenseman misses the rest of the passes he’s sent in the shift, and Shane likes to think it’s because of him. 

Dykstra, of all people, scores the next goal, and it’s his first career playoff goal. The team leaves the bench to celebrate. 

Bood scores four minutes later, and Shane collides with him in a crushing hug because, suddenly, they’re tied. His eyes find Ilya’s again, and his fiance raises an eyebrow, smile on his face in that soft way he gets when he’s properly happy and not just pretending.

Two minutes left on the clock, and Wiebe tries to take him off the ice. Shane shakes his head. He needs to be here for this, even if it’s stupid. Even if, in all likelihood, they’re going to overtime. Even if it would be smarter to save his energy for that. 

Bood and Haas go back to the bench though, and Shane barely notices. He has the puck, and nothing else matters.

Shane thinks of the most fun he’s ever had playing hockey. Ten years old, and dreaming of the NHL the way every ten year old did. In the way where you don’t think it’ll ever actually happen. He thinks of outdoor rinks and his mother taping his stick for him so the tape would lie smooth. His coaches telling him he had “real promise”. He thinks of the moment, age fourteen, when he realized they were right.

One minute left on the clock, and Shane has a shot.

It’s not perfect, and Vegas might be able to intercept, and their goalie might see it coming, but he’s done it before. 

At the last second, Shane catches a glance over his shoulder, and Young has a better one. Young, who is wholly unremarkable, and barely gets minutes, and has a better shot than Shane Hollander. 

If Young fumbles this, the podcasters are going to have a field day. 

Thirty seconds.

Shane passes. 

Twenty seconds.

Young shoots.

Ten seconds.

Young fucking scores. 

Every player in the arena is still looking at Shane, and even the guys on the cameras must have missed the pass because it takes a second for anyone to realize he doesn’t have the puck anymore, and another second for the goal horn to sound, and then all Shane knows is a wall of noise and bodies pressed against his own. Somewhere, he loses his helmet and his gloves and his stick, and it doesn’t matter.

It must be a crazy moment for Young, who just scored the Stanley Cup deciding goal at only twenty years old, and Shane will make sure to check in on him later. For now, he just cheers.

For the third time tonight, Shane searches for Ilya in the crowd. This time, he doesn’t see him. He must already be making his way down to the ice.

They roll out a fancy carpet so Roger Crowell doesn’t make a fool of himself on the ice, and Bood shakes his hand. Ilya probably will too, eventually, but they like to be efficient about this part. Get a nice photo for twitter before families swarm. Bood skates his lap and Shane is so incredibly happy for the man, because he’s spent his career on this team and it’s finally rewarded him for it. 

He passes Shane the cup, and for the third time in Shane’s life, he holds it above his head, yelling nothing in particular. He comes to a stop and Ilya is there, shrugging off his jacket to reveal his jersey below, and he’s got skates on. That’s probably what took so long.

Ilya comes right up to him, and Shane passes the love of his life their Stanley Cup, and Ilya takes it from him. This matters to me, Ilya’s eyes say. He looks at it. Looks up at Shane. 

Ilya Rosanov puts the Cup down and grabs the fabric of Shane’s jersey instead, pulling him closer. You matter more. 

And Shane doesn’t hesitate. He places a hand in Ilya’s hair and slams their mouths together in what is decidedly not a very “family friendly” manner. It is not sweet or gentle or soft and it’s exactly what Shane needs. It’s exactly Ilya.

The arena is going absolutely feral, and Shane thinks distantly that Crowell is probably throwing up somewhere nearby. The thought makes him smile into the kiss, pulling Ilya impossibly deeper. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see they’re on the jumbotron. Good. He wants the whole world to know. He wants the whole world to see. He’s Shane fucking Hollander and his tounge is down another man’s throat and he’s the happiest he’s ever been in his entire fucking life.

When Ilya finally pulls away from him, they’re both breathing heavily. They lean their foreheads together, clutching at each other's shoulders. Ilya’s laughing. 

“Good game, Hollander.” He says, and kisses Shane again, more chastely this time. It's brief, and Shane wants him back immediately, but Ilya picks up the Cup, and grins, holding it aloft despite his ribs. 

As Ilya goes to skate his lap, Shane’s eyes zero in on his back. On his jersey.

81, it says, as it always has. But something is different, and it makes Shane a bit dizzy, because above the number that has defined so much of his life is a name he never expected to see there, of all places. And maybe he should have.

Hollander.

Chapter 20: Home: Epilogue

Chapter Notes

Okokok its done!!! More notes at the end if you're the type who reads those, but if not - thanks for coming on the journey with me!

August 24, 2028

Sometimes, the impossible dream you barely let yourself acknowledge, even in the deepest parts of you, comes true. 

Sometimes it takes a while. Sometimes it takes lying and hiding and shaking with how badly you want it.

Sometimes, all it takes is two people who love each other enough to ignore every bullshit comment and backwards policy. Two people who would burn it all down for each other, but desperately hope they don’t have to. Two people brave enough to risk it all to have it all. 

In the thirty seconds Ilya spends zoning out, his five year old son scores on him.

“Davey!” he exclaimed, “that wasn’t fair, I didn’t even see you coming!”

“Good thing you weren’t a goalie,” says Saava, who’s only seven but somehow better at chirping than half the guys in the NHL. Davey is just laughing and laughing at Ilya’s exaggerated outrage. 

The boys go back to taking shots at the goal, and Ilya goes back to letting in just enough of them to make it believable that he’s trying. They’re using balls instead of pucks because it’s better on the grass, and also because Ilya has fun arguing with Shane about whether or not it’s technically golf.

They’re at the cottage, soaking up the last days of proper summer before the kids are back in school. Ilya has a good feeling about this year. He is going to help Davey through kindergarten, coach Saava’s soccer games like he understands the sport at all, and desperately try and keep up when Katya tries to teach him chemistry. He is also going to finally kick Amanda Lettner out of the PTA presidency, because she’s had it coming for years and he is just sick of the way she runs with her power.

Ilya remembers when, eight years ago, he had blown out his knee so spectacularly that there was no real possibility of returning to professional hockey. He had been disappointed for all of two weeks, and then they had gotten the news that Stacie, their surrogate, was pregnant, and hockey stopped mattering. Hockey was fun, but parenting is, undeniably, better. It doesn’t even compare, really. 

Shane is different, and Ilya knows this. He knows that when Shane retired, planned or not, it had been hard. Because hockey had just been hockey, for Ilya. For Shane, it had been more. And Shane had tried so hard to fall into retirement as easily as Ilya had. It had been heartbreaking to watch. 

Finally, last year, Ilya had sat him down and handed him a job offer from Wiebe to be an assistant coach. He had told his husband, in no uncertain terms, that it was perfectly okay that Shane wasn’t ready to let it go completely. 

They’ve finally settled into a good rhythm. They have three perfect children, they are professionally satisfied, and they are more in love than ever.

On the deck, Ilya watches Shane and Katya debate something he can’t quite make out. Probably hockey. The sport itself has never been her thing, but she knows the stats like the back of her hand. The theory. Ilya sometimes jokes that the Cens should start paying her for all the advice she gives. 

Shane is sitting in a lawn chair, shirt unbuttoned and a beer in his hand, but when Katya turns in for the evening, he makes his way over to Ilya and the boys. 

“Dad,” Davey says, “can one of the actual good goalies come visit? Papa is really bad at this.” 

Ilya gapes at him. “Bad?” he asks loudly, picking Davey up, “Me? Bad? Davey, my son, how could you say such a thing?” As he talks he turns his son upside down. Saava snickers. “Do not think you are getting away, Saavka, I know you planted these ideas in his head.”

Saava giggles and runs up the yard and up the deck. Ilya grins as he watches the boy go. Shane takes Davey from his arms, turning him right side up. 

“Maybe tomorrow,” he answers Davey’s question, “but it’s bedtime now, okay? Go get your pjs on, and I’ll meet you in your room.” 

Alone in the yard now, Ilya smiles at his husband. He leans his head on Shane’s shoulder.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks. Shane’s laugh rumbles in his chest.

“Always,” he replies. Ilya lowers his voice to a whisper and presses close, his lips an inch from Shane’s ear.

“I am really in love with you, Shane Hollander.”

“I don’t think that’s a secret anymore, Ilya,” Shane grins at him with a pretty little smile, “the hashtag RozIsDownBad goes viral anytime we do anything together in public.”

“Hmm, yes,” Ilya says like he’s thinking about it, “but no. This is a secret. There are layers that I love you that nobody else is allowed to see. They are just for us.”

“Oh really?” Shane says teasingly, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Not like that,” Ilya says, still soft. “Well, a little like that. But also just. I look at you, and I look at our life, and it’s everything I ever wanted.”

“Really?” Shane asks, and his husband is a very smart man, but Ilya knows that is a stupid question.

“Shane,” Ilya realizes that his eyes are wet, “the summer that we moved to Ottawa, I stood almost exactly in this spot. And I dreamed of almost exactly this. And then I pushed that dream aside because I did not think it was something I could ever have. Or deserve. And then,” Ilya takes Shane’s face in his hands, “because you are perfect, you went and proved me wrong a hundred times over.”

Shane kisses him softly and sweetly and gently and it's exactly what Ilya needs. It’s exactly Shane.

“And I’ll do it a hundred times more, if you need me to,” Shane promises. Ilya swallows thickly.

“We have bedtime to run. Don’t want to be late.”

“No,” Shane murmurs, “no we don’t.” 

Ilya lets his hands fall from Shane’s face, taking his hand instead. Ilya’s wedding band on his right hand clinks against  where Shane wears his on his left. 

Ilya breathes and there is no crushing weight on his shoulders. There is no cavernous hole in his chest. He is free.

The house where Ilya learned that love can last is bathed in gentle sunlight.

This is home.

Chapter End Notes

I've always been the "mind fanfiction" type, but something about this story just needed to be written out in full. It's helped me remember how much fun it is to write. I already have half a dozen ideas for what to do next - in this universe, and others. If you want to yell at me you can find me at totallynormalnotreally on tumblr! Please do!
I might eventually go through and fix all the typos in this, but that remains to be seen.
Anyways. Thanks!