Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Original Male Character(s), Ilya Rozanov/Original Female Character(s)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, original child character

Additional Tags:

Kid Fic, Getting Together, Family Dynamics, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Ilya wants to adopt Shane's daughter which is news to all of them, Girl Dad Shane Hollander, Girl Dad Ilya Rozanov, how are those not tags yet!!

Language:

English

Series:

Part 7 of Heated Rivalry AUs

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-29 Updated: 2026-04-15 Words: 9,868 Chapters: 3/5

All along the waterfall

Summary

After a year with the Bears, Ilya felt like he had a solid rotation in place. Svetlana, when she was in town, a med-student named Kelly who had a sex swing installed in her apartment, Heather, who liked to play hard to get but also had a robust collection of toys.

And then there was Shane.

Notes

I know, I know, another story? But this one is mostly complete so its just editing and posting in the next few weeks! I just need to give Ilya a daughter, it's a compulsion or a sickness I think, but it will get fluffier in the next chapters, so don't panic!

Title is from "Brown Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison.

Chapter 1

Ilya didn’t have a whole lot of hard and fast rules when it came to the type of people he fucked, but one of the few which he tried to always stick to was not to fuck someone with kids. It wasn’t that he didn’t like kids, he loved them, but he found that in a Venn diagram of people who wanted casual sex in dark clubs and the people who had kids did not seem to overlap.

At nineteen after his signing and a pregnancy scare which had actually been an attempt at extortion, Ilya had made himself slow down on the sleeping around and had refused to bring people back to his apartment after another fan he’d slept with had tried to make a copy of his key after they’d fucked. All to say, Ilya prided himself on learning a rough life story over a couple of drinks or through half yelled conversations on dancefloors. He was a good judge of character and after a year with the Bears, he felt like he had a solid rotation in place.

It was better than the random hookups. Ilya got to know their bodies, the things they liked, and that got Ilya off more than any quickie in a club bathroom could. Svetlana, when she was in town, a med-student named Kelly who had a sex swing installed in her apartment, Heather, who liked to play hard to get but also had a robust collection of toys. And then there was Shane.

“You’re late.” Shane hissed the moment the door opened but Ilya was already inside and had pressed the man back against the wall. He lifted Shane up onto the cheap side table and it groaned in warning at holding a two hundred pound man. “Bed.”

Ilya lifted him off but couldn’t hold him forever. Shane was built, thick thighs he had used more than once to ride Ilya for hours, and a mouth that knew exactly where Ilya’s most sensitive places were.

Shane fucked like a fucking champion, Ilya had made sure of it.

Ilya had seen Shane first on the ice in a black compression shirt and skates on, moving faster than some of the players. He held a camera in his hands, large and bulky, but not shaking even after following the team’s suicides. He was, Ilya could admit, one of the hottest people he’d ever met.

“Don’t think about pissing him off, not if you want to look good on all the socials.” Nelson had explained, leaning on his stick.

It had been a new position, some manager of the burgeoning internet footprint that Ilya couldn’t really care much about until he saw one of the videos. It was one of the other rookies Ilya knew wouldn’t last the year, a grocery stick if he’d ever seen one, but the video on their new Facebook didn’t show that. It was sharp, following the kid as he handled the puck, dodging behind him like the camera was an opposing defenseman, looking for an opening. The kid left many, but the camera didn't have a stick and Ilya watched it enough times to imagine.

“I want one.”

Shane had looked up from his lunch, a salmon and rice bowl, and then seemed to realize who was standing in front of him in his shoe box of an office. “One what?”

“The videos. I am much better than Myers.” Ilya was ready to argue more, but Shane had just nodded, cleaned his hand with a disposable wipe, which Ilya shouldn’t have found charming, and then offered his hand.

He’d gotten his video.

“How do you want me?” Ilya had asked and the look Shane had shot him, the blush of his cheeks which looked deeper than just from the cold, gave Ilya the faintest idea that Shane might not have been as sexless as Ilya had first assumed.

They tore through a few standard moves, Shane not only keeping up with him, but moving around him like he knew exactly where Ilya was going to break, where to be to get the best catch of the puck.

Twenty thousand views, more than triple Myers, and Ilya got to suck Hollander off in his small side office. Win-Win.

“This can’t happen again.” Shane had hissed but it had been against Ilya’s lips and his breath still smelled like Ilya’s cum so he'd been reasonably sure Shane was wrong.

Kelly and Heather and Svetlana were nice occasionally, but Shane was always there. He was at practices and at some away games and when he wasn’t, he was tucked away in a little side office with a door and a lock and after three months of fucking on his desk, Shane caved and bought a nice leather couch he swore was not for them but Ilya just nodded and pushed Hollander to his knees.

After six months, Svetlana noticed.

“Who’s caught your attention?” She demanded one night when she was in town for some boring car conferences. They’d had a quick round on the table and then on the balcony off his bedroom and had ended up sprawled on the expensive wicker day bed, passing a cigarette between them. “It’s not like you not to be begging me to come down.”

“I don’t beg.” Ilya muttered.

“No, you just need to beat off all those poor girls with a stick and that stick is usually me.” Svetlana pushed and Ilya knew she wasn’t wrong. Occasionally a hookup would try and push for more, leaving clothes at his house to get invited back, stealing his phone in clubs to get his number, waiting around outside his building looking lost. So every few months he’d hire some photographers to snap some photos of him and Svetlana and post a few vague pictures on his socials and that usually put off most of them.

“You know me, I’m lazy.” Ilya murmured, letting the cigarette burn a bit, the bright cherry itching towards his fingers. “There is someone at the rink.”

“You’re not lazy, and good.” She said. “I’d like to meet her.”

“It’s not like that and you’ll scare her off.”

Ilya knew that even as he also knew that Shane was just as worried about this getting out as Ilya was. It was what allowed Ilya to keep coming back, the knowledge that Shane wouldn’t post a picture for money and he always required a condom, even though Ilya didn’t think he was a carrier, and he was strict with where and when they could hook up.

It was a bit like fucking his manager, which he had done once when he was twenty and which had ended horribly with him being signed to another agency, but Shane organized their fucking schedule like the Navy. They had quickies in his office, those he could be persuaded into during most parts of the day, but anything else required a shower and twenty minutes for prep. At the start this meant swapping phone numbers and coordinating a few stolen hours around practices.

At the year mark of their arrangement, Ilya brought Shane to his apartment and during a rather frantic and also really fucking funny set of prep, managed to rail him over his sectional and have him showered and back in time for a meeting at two.

Outside of work days, Shane was mostly unavailable after work hours and any weekends without a game. Which Ilya was fine with.

“Where does Hollander go after work?” Ilya asked Marley.

“Got a hidden wife?” One of the guys, Travers, joked.

“No ring and I’ve never heard him talk about a wife?” Marley answered. “Why?”

“Wanted to know is all.” Ilya brushed it off but it lingered a bit.

Sure, it was hypocritical, but when he’d come back from Russia and a summer of debauched parties and watching people snort cocaine off stripper’s tits, it was strangely wonderful to Ilya knowing he’d have Steady, Sturdy Shane waiting.

“You’re dating?” Ilya demanded, eyes locked on Shane’s glowing screen where a notification from Taylor, 32 was still visible. Shane pulled himself off Ilya’s cock and grabbed at his phone, clicking off the screen and glaring at him. Ilya was annoyed at the digital woman for interrupting their first fuck in months. “She is too old for you. You are only…”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Twenty-three. Same age as you.”

“Yes, young and sexy!” Ilya’s hands fell down to rest on Shane’s spread thighs which bracketed his hips. “Too good for Taylor.”

“My parents have been on me to settle down for–” Shane’s eyes shot up to him and then he shook his head. “Nevermind. You want to or not?”

The idea that Shane had options was not unexpected, he was hot, nice, and with a good job, the sorts of things girls looked for in men they wanted to marry and not just fuck.

It was that text which was floating around in his head when Shane came up to him in passing on his way out of the rink’s gym the next day, uncharacteristically fidgety.

“So with the long weekend coming up, I was thinking you could come over.” He said quietly, flashing a look to double check everyone else was distracted.

“Yes.” Ilya said instantly.

The rarest of their hookups, mythical in that the two years he’d been fucking Shane, he’d seen the inside of his house a total of six times. Three of those had been for a few sporadic fucks, always planned on days with long lunch breaks, and the others had been to grab a toy or a change of clothes. They had become nonexistent after Vegas six months ago when a picture of Ilya’s face between a woman’s tits made front page news and prompted the conversation that followed.

“What is that?” Shane had demanded when he’d opened the door. “Did you bring your gear?”

“No, this is wine, to go with dinner, and this is my overnight bag.” Ilya held up the bottle and dropped his bag down into the entryway tile.

“Oh, okay.” Shane said uncertainly so Ilya kissed him to get his thoughts off how much of a change this was. They did not really sleep over. Ilya had always roused Shane from whatever dose he’d fallen into and got him a taxi home, and the few times at Shane’s had been with a deadline to get back to work.

Ilya tried not to be too self-conscious. He didn’t know exactly how this worked but it had felt right when Shane had invited him to come prepared and Ilya didn’t want to waste any time driving home only to drive back the next night.

They ended up on the floor, which was somehow really hot, and he could smell the cleaning product Shane had used when the man’s sweaty back must have rubbed the scent up off the wood. There was a round on the couch where Ilya had searched up compilations of his best shots and Shane had kicked up a big fuss and then rode him, reverse cowgirl so he could watch, and came so hard it caught on his chin.

They managed a final round after dinner, a protein pasta that Ilya actually liked with the wine he brought, and it was slower than they usually went. Shane was so sensitive that it made him loud, moans and whimpers and these little gasps that somehow made Ilya’s dick harder.

“I grab more towels for morning?” Ilya asked after the ones they’d laid down were a sodden pile in the laundry basket and Ilya wanted to be prepared for sleepy morning sex. Shane, even having just cleaned cum off his stomach, somehow blushed at the idea of morning sex.

“Third door on the right.” Shane directed, and Ilya took a moment to watch him from the doorway. Shane was sprawled out on his mattress, flawless skin almost glowing against the navy sheets. “Go, Rozanov.”

Ilya went, counting loudly and yanking on door handles to be a bit obnoxious and make Shane laugh, but when he finally turned after having grabbed two fluffy towels which smelled like Shane’s fancy fabric softener, Shane was down the hall, panting, like he’d leapt from bed and had run down the hall. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Shane said, defensive. “I just thought you were snooping.”

“No, no. Should I be?” Ilya asked, pointing to a door at random. “Sex dungeon?”

“Come to bed.” Shane said, which wasn’t an answer but was too lovely an idea to ignore.

Shane crawled up the bed, and even through the underwear he’d pulled on, Ilya could almost trace the lines of his ass. It really was incredible how built he was for someone whose job to Ilya was mostly computer. Even then, he was soft and warm when Ilya pulled him into his arms.

They didn’t do this much, cuddle. Aftercare, of course, but just enough. Shane had always been a bit clingy after sex, even when he liked to pretend he wasn’t, and the longer this had gone on, the more Ilya had been forced to reconcile that he was too. So it was nice to press his body along the curve of Shane’s back, feel his hair against his lips, smell his fancy seaweed shampoo.

When Ilya woke up, Shane was asleep next to him and Ilya looked over at the clock. It was early, too early to get up, but Ilya had the idea to make breakfast in Shane’s homey little kitchen, repayment for last night's dinner.

He pulled on his underwear and padded out onto the gray rug near the sink to warm up his toes. Snooping through his pantry and fridge was just sad, lots of healthy snacks and granola and protein powder, but there were also a lot of surprises, like a clear sealed container of a surgery breakfast cereal and frosted gram crackers. He pulled the eggs from the fridge and an opened package of turkey bacon from the freezer. There were English Muffins too, and some fancy cheese slices in the fridge door so he figured a breakfast sandwich would work. If Shane complained, Ilya would just buy him a new car or something.

He had just taken the bacon off the stove and was rooting around for another spatula when a key turned the lock and Ilya stood there like an idiot at the sound of boots stomping snow off at the entrance could be heard over the rattling of the radiator.

“–know it’s early, but your dad’s car is here.”

Ilya’s head jumped immediately to an affair, which he’d never considered before because Shane had the lying ability of a rock, and also he’d never been the other woman before.

“But dad said until Sunday.”

“Yeah, well, I need to go to work and Gina can’t watch you, so I need you to be my brave girl, alright?” The man asked, stepping into the room and tossing a pink backpack onto the couch shoving the pink rolling suitcase against the dining room table. “I’ll see you in June sometime, baby. Be good.”

The man, handsome in the bland way like bankers or swindlers were, patted the kid’s head and then slipped out the door. For a moment, Ilya thought he might be having a stroke because there was no way the man had tossed his kid into the apartment and just left, but as he stood there and watched the small body of what he realized was a young girl, he knew that was exactly what had happened.

He hadn’t even said he loved her, this girl who must have been his daughter. A familiar feeling rose up in his chest, tight and painful and twisting, but he pushed it down. His bare feet moved without thinking and he hadn’t taken more than a handful of steps before the girl burst into quiet sobs, just standing at the door, looking where her father had left her. In her hand he could see a pair of keys with a familiar logo.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

The girl startled, but didn’t scream. She looked at him like he was a ghost, face lit by the hazy grey coming up off the snow. Ilya glanced at the only light he’d turned on, the one under the hood of the stove where his breakfast had been abandoned.

“I was making for your…” Ilya breathed through his teeth. “Dad. I can make one for you too.”

“You’re…you're Il–ya Roza–nov.” She said and it was so soft and tender that Ilya could only nod. He was terrible at guessing kids’ ages, but she looked young, maybe five at most. “Daddy's friend?”

“Da. Yes.” Ilya nodded and watched as she took one look at the door and then wandered over to him. She had a little stuffed animal in her hands and when she got closer, Ilya realized with pride that it was a bear wearing a familiar miniature jersey. “I like your bear.”

“Thanks. I like yours too.” She pointed up at his chest and Ilya realized that he hadn't put a shirt on. He didn't want to risk freaking her out or waking Shane up, so he just sort of stood there in a weird limbo. “Whatcha makin?”

“Sandwiches.” He explained and froze when he felt a hand grab his sweatpants. They didn't tug, just held on while she pushed up on her tippy toes to try and see over the pan. Moving carefully, he stepped back. “Do you want…?”

Ilya didn't know exactly what he was going to say, but she must have because she shoved her one free hand out in a universal gesture and Ilya was helpless but to lean down and pick her up.

She was warm, heavy in a way his baby niece wasn't yet, and she leaned over the stove with the confidence of a child knowing someone would catch her.

Distracted by the bubbling of the eggs, Ilya thought that a lot of things made a painful amount of sense.

There was a room in the apartment Ilya had never been in despite the fact that they had fucked on nearly every horizontal surface and a good number of the vertical ones too during their lunch fucks. It would be hers, Shane’s–daughter. And there were the marks, the silvery lines along Shane's ass and peaking out of the V of his thighs. Ilya hadn't thought much of them, even when he'd traced them with his eyes with Shane's cock in his mouth. They were stretch marks, from skin pulled too far too fast. He’d thought they might be from Shane’s shitty eating habits.

“Eat?” She asked and Ilya nodded. He had to do most of the prep one-handed, the little girl unwilling to be put down and watching him work with the laser focus of a hockey coach pushing out a new play. When he finally plated it, she looked up at him with her dark little eyes, Shane's eyes, and Ilya realized devastatingly, that she also had his freckles along the little bridge of her nose. “Couch?”

“Your father does not seem like the type of man to let you eat on the couch.” Ilya muttered and she looked at him with the guileless expression he was sure got her out of a lot of problems at whatever fancy daycare he knew Shane would send her to. “Alright, couch.”

She let herself be carried and then sat down in the middle of the large sectional. It was by far the most expensive piece of furniture in the whole apartment and Ilya could see why when she pulled the grey throw off the back and curled up into a small ball with a special flap for reaching a hand out. Not that she used it, instead she stuck her little neck out with her mouth open like a particularly large baby bird and Ilya was helpless but to lift the sandwich into it for a bite.

“It's good!” She said, though it came out more like “ts ood!” with her mouth full.

Ilya turned the TV on and was unsurprised to see it was already on the hockey channel. He went to try and flip it but the girl was focused on whatever game rerun was on and so he left it. He took a bite of his own sandwich, a little bland with the turkey bacon, and watched her.

She looked–healthy. Happy, barring her apparent shit-stain distant father. He realized abruptly that Shane hadn't just not told him, he'd actively hidden her from him and it curdled something in his gut that had nothing to do with his cooking skills.

They hadn't been exactly open with their personal lives, but he trusted the people he slept with. This felt uncomfortably like a betrayal even when they hadn't even been in a relationship. Ilya had made sure of that after Vegas. Still, Ilya wanted to go shake Shane awake, demand to know how they could have been fucking for almost two years and not know he had a child.

“What’s your name?” He said finally.

“Emmy.” She said, eyes not leaving the screen.

“You like hockey?” He settled on. It seemed a safe enough topic.

“I love hockey.” She said, mouth open for another bite but not once tearing her eyes from the game. “I play too.”

“No, you are too little!” Ilya said, mostly because he wanted to know just how like her father she was. It turned out incredibly like because her little cheeks puffed up and she turned towards him with her face red with outrage.

“I'm not little!” She huffed. “I checked Donny Doyal last week!”

“Well if you checked Donny…” Ilya muttered and that calmed her enough that she glared at him until he gave her another bite.

“Your father who dropped you off was…” Ilya flipped through his limited English vocabulary when it came to nice words for asshole. He settled on, “Mean.”

“Daddy says he's difficult.”

That was kind. Ilya would have had a few meaner words for the type of father who dropped their kid off at an apartment at five in the morning without even a kiss goodbye.

“He's bad.” Emmy said and Ilya realized she wasn’t talking about her father anymore, but the game. They both watched as the Admirals’ captain tried to slip a puck through the five hole of the Driller's goalie.

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Even for really old Scott Hunter.”

“He is old.” Emmy muttered and Ilya laughed.

“Are you often alone?” Ilya asked. Shane hadn't struck him as an absent parent but then again, he hadn't struck him as a parent-parent until about half an hour ago.

“No, Nana comes by. And I go to the rink on the big days.” She explained.

“Big days?”

“Like Mondays and Tuesdays and the other ones, like Thursdays.” She looked at him like he was stupid and that was also unfortunately copied and pasted over from her dad too.

“Weekdays?” He tried and when she nodded he moved on. “The daycare at the rink?”

Ilya knew they had it, but he hadn't much thought about what exactly that meant. He didn't have kids, he didn't really hang out with the people who had kids and when he did, it was at places where people were highly encouraged to not bring said kids, like clubs and strip joints.

“I get to skate.” She said.

“And check Donny Doyal.”

“Yeah.” She said and then looked over at him. He'd expected something about maybe dating his dad, or why he didn't have a shirt on. It was why he was blind sided when she asked, “Why'd you miss the goal on Toronto?”

Ilya froze. He looked over at her, watching him with dark, knowing eyes.

“Ah, the goalie was too quick?” He said but it came out much closer to a question.

“But you're faster. Daddy said so.”

Ilya was absurdly proud for a second until he realized he was being berated by a toddler.

“You try, is very hard.” Ilya tried not to sound defensive. “Who is better, hm? You have favorite player better than me?”

“No, you're my favorite.” She said without an ounce of care about how he felt a toothache start from how sweet the sentiment was.

“Oh.” He muttered. “That's good.”

They watched the game and Ilya tried to think about what came next.

He'd need to take Shane out of the rotation. He had a rule, and kids always complicated things. There had been–something. Possibility. But not with a kid in the mix. But he liked Shane, like that he had an office where Ilya would occasionally eat his lunch in when their practice ran late, liked that Shane was always hungry for him, liked that he folded his stupid fucking polos and slacks, liked how fast he was on the ice, liked–

Something brushed his arm and Ilya jumped slightly, stilling as he watched Emmy crawl over the cushion between them and worm her way up under his arm. He was painfully aware of the weight and pressure of her head, her knobby knees which she'd folded up against his thigh. He was so aware, that he felt the exact moment that her head gave a little jerk and he instinctively caught it, moving it slowly so that it rested against his ribs. He could feel her warm little breaths over his chest as she slept. When he shifted, her little head jerked up and she glared at him, a familiar expression made miniature.

“I don’t want to sleep.” She said stubbornly.

“You’re tired.”

“No!” She huffed, but her little eyelids drooped tellingly.

It had been a long day for her and the sun hadn't even risen yet. He felt strangely protective of her, this little girl who took one look at his blackening eye and brushed ribs and thought that he was safe even when he was nearly ten times bigger than her.

He must have drifted off at some point because he felt Emmy move and his hand jerked out before he could stop it, coiling around her little blanket burrito. In the low light of the tv, he realized Shane was crouched over him, eyebrows up into his hair as he tried to lift his daughter up into his arms.

There was a long moment where Ilya could read every expression that crossed Shane's face. First was worry and then shame and then something which settled into disappointment around the curves of his mouth.

“Emmy, baby, what happened?” Shane asked, lifting his daughter and slowly moving down the hall to the middle door to the room Ilya had joked was a sex dungeon. It felt like decades ago.

He shouldn't, that wasn't what he came over for, but now he wanted to see. He wanted to know how Shane Hollander was as a dad. Was her room as boring as her father's?

The answer was no. While the whole rest of the apartment was neat and clean, neutral and beige, her room was bright with jewel tones and had a floor just visible under a dusting of toys. Nothing rainbow, but lots of deep, rich greens and dark purples. She had a little canopy over her bed and a whole wall of books. Through the sheer curtain, he could hear Shane talking to her, soft and tender.

“Father had to go to work.” She said. “Gina was there.”

“What?” He hissed and then ran a hand through her hair seemingly to show her he wasn't mad at her. His mother had done the same thing and he felt the ghost of her fingers through his curls. “She wasn't…oh, baby, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked him to take you.”

It suddenly made a whole lot of sense why their hookups had almost entirely happened at the rink; you don't need childcare to get fucked in your office or over lunch break. Going home instead of an after party made sense when you had a toddler waiting for you to come tuck them in.

Ilya moved back out to the living room, cleaning up their plates and soaking the pans. He was drying the dishes when Shane picked his way down the hallway and leaned through the doorway at where Ilya was resting near the sink.

“I was going to tell you.”

“Really?” Ilya asked but he knew his voice was cold. “Soon or whenever you got caught?”

“Don’t do this.” Shane huffed and Ilya could feel himself get honestly angry at the righteous indignation that it seemed Shane was putting on.

“I don’t do this?” Ilya asked and then laughed quietly, not wanting to wake Emmy. “You send your daughter off to shit stain father to get your dick sucked.”

That hit Shane, Ilya could see from the way Shane’s mouth dropped open slightly and his breath caught, just a little, like he’d been checked. His eyes were a little misty even in the faint light coming in from the windows. “Fuck, you’re such an asshole.”

The words were almost soft and Ilya almost, almost regretted saying them. Still, he was more than angry, Ilya felt betrayed and mourning in a way, the loss of something. Of their romps and the laughter he could get from Shane’s lips outside of sex and with a dick in his ass. “At least I am honest.”

“Honest?” Shane demanded, laughing without humor. “I was going to introduce you back in May after the awards. But you made it clear what this was and I didn’t want to push. How's that for honest?”

Ilya hadn’t wanted to think about that night, and with the added context, Ilya felt like he’d been checked against the boards.

The awards had gone great for him. He nabbed an award, ended the season with the second highest point average, but it hadn’t really mattered. Not to his father or his brother, not to his GM who patted him on the back, said “Give me a Cup and then we’ll talk” before ordering him a shot he hadn’t been legal at the time to drink.

“I should go.” Ilya muttered and for a minute it looked like Shane would keep his feet planted and not move out of the way, but then he sighed. His folded arms fell limply to his sides and he stepped aside.

Ilya resolutely ignored the little flash of Emmy’s nightlight on the hallway wall, grabbed his bag and avoided looking at the unmoving shadow Shane made in his dark kitchen before walking towards the door.

Ilya didn’t look back.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

“Where is the daycare?” Ilya tried to slide in casually during practice a week after he’d walked out of Shane’s apartment. His team looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “What?”

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much for the kind words and being forgiving when I forgot to add that this story has chapters! Expect another update soon, I finally have a break and am looking forward to editing what I've written!

Thanks for reading!

“Where is the daycare?” Ilya tried to slide in casually during practice a week after he’d walked out of Shane’s apartment. His team looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “What?”

“One of those puck bunnies finally baby-trap you?” One guy called out and like the flood gates had been opened, Ilya had to laugh off the increasingly nasty comments. Another guy sneered, “More like looking for paternity. Any of you guys’ kids come out with blonde curls?”

Ilya smiled without humor and before he could tell him where to shove it, Marley saddled up next to him. “What’s this about?”

“Met kid one night tossing pucks, said she went here.” Ilya tried brushing it off. He did hang around after on-ice interviews to toss out pucks to the kids who pressed their little faces to the plexiglass. It was a common enough occurrence.

“On one of the upper floors I think, but it’s only for employees.” Simon explained and Ilya could have kissed him for the first helpful answer. “Brandy sends Kaitlyn there.”

Brandy was Simon’s very skinny, very blonde wife who was nice enough to Ilya but also tracked her husband’s phone and liked to show up unannounced during their bar crawls to drag him away from whatever group of girls he inevitably buried himself in. Not exactly a ringing endorsement.

Ilya hadn’t even really thought about what he was doing after practice let out and he puttered around the locker room until it cleared out. Marley hesitated at the door before eventually leaving. For his part, Ilya eventually decided to go on a very normal walk.

It was nearing noon when players and staff took their lunch and migrated from the ice to the gym or whatever cooldown or physical therapy they needed. Ilya felt his body being pulled back into the old configuration, his feet wanting to take the stairwell down in the bowels of the arena, around the corner and past the vending machines back to where Shane’s office was tucked away from everything except a truly ridiculous number of pipes and the laundry rooms. It had meant they never had to worry about the noise they made over the industrial machines but now it meant there was no reason for him to happen to pass by.

Instead he went up to the recessed floors over the ice. On the other side were VIP rooms, but up the stairs and behind the thick, brightly painted doors, he found a long hallway drenched in rainbow colors. From a room there was yelling and then the cutest little procession of padded children marched out in a neat line, their faces covered in black cages that they had to tilt their whole heads back to see out of.

Ilya had known he’d wanted children eventually, but something in his chest went tight watching them follow a woman who marched backwards, chanting “keep those knees up! Don’t wanna trip!”

The kids echoed her, most looking down at their little skates. Ilya pushed back against the door and the woman turned and jumped. Ilya gave his most winning smile. “Sorry, thought you might need someone to hold the door.”

“Oh! Mr. Rozanov!” She smiled back and her cheeks were pink. She abruptly pushed a few flyaway hairs out of her face and then seemed to remember she was holding up the line because she looked down at the kids like she’d never seen them before. “Down to the ice! I’m right behind!”

The kids followed her directions, but without their leader, the line became a little free-for-all as the kids stumbled down the steps, their little blades clacking as they went. She turned to look at him, panting slightly, and Ilya looked down at her name tag. “Hello, Delilah.”

“Hi!” She crossed her arm behind her back which shoved her chest forward. “What can I do for you?”

“Ah, well–” Ilya hadn’t thought this far and he had the suspicion that his face was not pretty enough to convince a child care worker to let him chat with her charges. So he lied. “I heard your marching and wanted to see the newest draft prospects.”

Delilah laughed and Ilya waited for what he knew would happen. The kids started getting bored, shooting looks back at him and he could pinpoint the moment Emmy saw him because she let a gasp and then shot out of her seat and hobbled over to him, throwing her arms around his leg. The teacher seemed like she was going to pull her off, so Ilya just placed his hand over Emmy’s shoulder blades and smiled down at her. “Hello, Emmy. How are you?”

“Ilya!” She looked up at him and he realized he hadn't seen her full smile. She was missing a tooth. “You’re here!”

“Is my arena. Of course I’m here.” He said, then knelt to whisper, “So who is Donny Doyal?”

“The big mean kid.” Emmy pointed clearly at a large boy who was watching them with wide eyes.

“Emmy!” Dalilah chided and seemed unsure about what exactly she should do. Ilya gave her a look, as if they were sharing a joke.

“Why don’t I lace up your skates?” Ilya offered. “Then I have to go.”

Because otherwise Shane would kill him. Already this felt like he’d seen a line he shouldn't cross and then he practiced his long jump over it. Still, Dalilah gave a tight smile and let him meet the kids, giving fist bumps and signing their little skates. Emmy though, stayed glued to his side, hand tucked into his and glaring at all the other kids who came to talk to him.

“He’s lacing up my skates!” She told the only other girl, Kaitlyn, he thought.

Dalilah watched him carefully as they spoke and Ilya liked her a bit more because of it. She wasn’t blinded by his handsomeness enough to take him at his word.

“I'm really, really fast!” Emmy said every time another kid tried to talk to him. “And I actually hit the net.”

“That is very impressive.” Ilya said and then directed her onto the ice. Delilah stayed behind, watching them and listening as if he was some predator. He respected it. “I watch you do one lap and then I go so you can practice.”

His promise seemed to work and she let go of his hand to skate over and grab an adorable little stick and a soft rubber puck. Delilah gave him a tight smile and then followed the kids out, dividing them up into groups and having the six kids practice little drills. Emmy was not included in this because, Ilya realized as she made a quick lap around the rink, she was in a league of her own.

She was fast, more sure on her skates than some of the men Ilya played with, and while her shot was wonky and weak, her aim was perfect on the untended goal. He clapped, honestly more impressed than he'd expected, and he could hear her giggle even over the loud chaos of the other screaming kids.

He gave her a thumbs up and waited until she rejoined the teacher and the other kids who all waved at him as he left the building.

On his drive home, he thought long and hard about his roster. It had grown a bit sparse in the last year. Kelly had gotten a boyfriend, Heather had gotten too clingy, and Sveta had been busy with her new job selling rich assholes expensive cars. That hadn't been a problem when he'd had Shane to pick up the slack, but a week without getting his dick wet was almost unheard of.

So when the group chat said they were meeting up at The Palace and to leave their girls at home, Ilya went. It was still early, but the place was packed for a Friday night. Boston wasn't as bad as some places in Canada, but people still knew when they walked in that they were moneyed and a handful recognized their faces when not under a helmet.

By ten he was on his way to a buzz with two brunettes and a blonde warming the booth beside him. Most of it was fawning and talking about whatever facts they knew about hockey. Ilya put up with it for a while but getting his metaphorical dick jerked didn't really do it for him. Instead he pulled the blonde up and into the throngs of dancers, letting her grind back against him and ignoring the angry huffing of the brunettes leaving.

Ilya felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket and had no urge to get yelled at by his papa or his brother or his coach, or whoever wanted to call him and berate him for all of his failings.

Then the phone rang again and Ilya had the instinctive flash of fear for his father. He had been forgetting things more often, calling at strange times and wandering the grounds until one of the staff found him.

Ilya had been preparing for that when he pushed himself away from the blonde, Amy he thought her name was, and squinted at the caller ID.

Jane-Rotation flashed with the call. He'd thought it was funny when he'd first added it and it had gotten a laugh out of the guys when they'd seen how he tagged his hook-ups, but it felt cruel now.

The phone went black and Ilya shoved his way out of the crowd, pushing towards where someone had shoved a loose brick in the back door to crack it open. Most of the people in the back alley were smoking or fucking or both. Ilya clicked on Shane's contact button and he picked up after only a single ring.

“Did you talk to Emmy today?” Shane started with.

Ilya looked around. He felt like he was about to be ambushed by a camera crew. “Yes?”

“You stalked my daughter?” He said sharply and Ilya sputtered.

“I walked past the door and she saw me!” Ilya defended himself. “I laced up her skates because she asked and then left!”

“And you were just happening to walk past the daycare you've never been to?”

“Yes!”

Shane huffed. “You don't get to do this Ilya.”

“I did nothing!”

“You are giving her ideas! She thinks you're best friends now and I have to be the one to tell her you're not!” Shane explained and he sounded tired all the sudden. “I don't want to be the bad guy here, don't make me.”

“Maybe we are best friends.” Ilya muttered just to be contrary but the sound Shane made was weak and Ilya had a brief worry that the crackling sound he could hear was crying.

“She's just a kid, Ilya.” Shane said softly. “If you're mad at me, please don't take it out on her.”

Ilya gaped. That Shane could think so lowly of him was painful. Then again, he'd built that reputation brick by brick and then launched that brick at Shane during that phone call last June.

“Was not trying to be mean.” Ilya explained and walked closer to the street where the herd of people thinned out. He felt it was important that this wasn't overheard. “She talked about it. I just didn't want her to think I…left her that night.”

That was the soft, fragile heart of it. He'd been worried Emmy had woken the next morning and been sad she hadn't gotten to say goodbye. Ilya had felt that way. So he'd wanted this parting to be clean but not painful.

It felt pretty fucking painful now.

“She's five. She barely remembers to blow her own nose.” Shane huffed, but the bite to his words had faded and instead it had a different, softer edge.

Ilya opened his mouth to say something, maybe the stilted and long overdue apology for what he'd said when Shane had called almost six months ago, drunk and wondering if he'd done something wrong, if that was why Ilya had been splashed across every hockey website with his face in some girl's neck at the Awards afterparty.

The words had claws crawling up his throat, but they stuck behind his teeth, trapped there. Just as he was worried Shane would just hang up on him, the line was filled with a deep, heavy sigh that rattled the speakers.

“What are we doing, Ilya?”

Shane was always the brave one. The one who first dropped to his knees, to buy the couch, to invite him to lunch, who invited Ilya to stay the night. Ilya was a fucking coward.

They were the same words as that night. The reply Ilya had given seemed to rattle around his skull.

You're not my wife, Ilya had hissed, his plane ticket to Russia burning a hole in his pocket and adding a heaviness to his chest. We are just convenient, yes?

Then the line had gone quiet and Ilya had hung up and went to vomit in the potted plant outside some swanky nightclub he couldn't remember the name of.

“I don't know.” Ilya forced out. It was as honest as he could get.

“Ilya…” Shane whispered and it made his eyes prick with tears. He felt childish and small, leaning against a grimy alley wall. “I don't think I can be in your rotation anymore. I think we both know that.”

What if there was no rotation? Ilya thought wildly. He felt like a kicked dog begging at the foot of the master who kicked them and it made bile burn at the base of his throat. He was pathetic and needy and wanted to be tucked into Shane's little office where the whirl of computer fans and industrial dryers was loud enough to drown out his thoughts.

“That is what you want?” Ilya said instead.

“It's what Emmy needs.” Shane said it like it was hard to get out. “She needs stability. I haven't been giving her that.”

Taylor, 32 wouldn't give that to him, Ilya thought a bit spitefully. Not the shitheel of an ex or any of the women he'd seen sniffing around him at their team parties. But it was a cold comfort.

“I will miss us.” Ilya regretted every drink leading up to those words. They tasted like shitty flavored vodka from those plastic tubes.

“Yeah, me too.” Shane echoed. “Bye, Ilya.”

“Have a good night, Shane.” Ilya said softly and then leaned against the wall for more minutes than he cared to count listening to the dial tone.

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Ilya figured if he had survived losing his mother, he could survive his first real break-up.

What he hadn't accounted for was that he was not constantly faced with his mother every time he went to work.

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the late post! I have the next chapter written, it just needs a bit of polish so expect that soon!

Thank you for all the lovely comments and while we're still in the feels, we're also on the up-and-up soon!

Ilya figured if he had survived losing his mother, he could survive his first real break-up.

What he hadn't accounted for was that he was not constantly faced with his mother every time he went to work.

It seemed like every team meeting featured Shane explaining some new initiative or photos they needed, or plans for community engagement. On the ice, Ilya would be practicing and get a flash of Shane's thick thighs in compression leggings and nearly skate into the boards. Every time he tossed something in the laundry, his only thought was how the fucking hamper would get to be closer to Shane's office than he would.

It was verging into ridiculous and even the other guys had noticed. The ribbing had been an annoyance at first and had grown into an actual problem when they wouldn't fucking drop it.

“Mighty Roz can't lock his girl down!” They laughed and he brushed it off. “Maybe he can't satisfy her, hey Roz, can I get her number?”

Maybe it was just that Ilya was well aware of how jealous some of the other players were even being a decade older. They'd make little jabs and brush it off when someone complained.

“We're just joking, fuck! Can't anyone take a fucking joke anymore?” Roberts, a balding defender, barked from his stall. Ilya wanted to knock his few remaining teeth in.

“Let us enjoy this, Cap, not every day someone of your caliber gets dumped.” A rookie, Tompkins, shouted out. Ilya wished he'd keep his metaphorical and literal dick swinging to a minimum but the boy was more brawn than brain and already had three concussions under his belt so Ilya lowered his expectations.

“I don't get dumped, just needed to start fresh.” Ilya said instead, but maybe they picked up on how close to snapping he was because it mostly died out on the ice after he took out Roberts at the knees during practice.

Ilya had learned young that some people were too cruel to learn any other way than being shoved down.

“Damn, Roz, you didn't need to go so hard.” Marley hissed under his breath as Roberts and his equally old pose all glared daggers at him. Ilya ignored him and instinctively checked his phone before smacking himself for being disappointed that there were no messages waiting for him.

“Maybe the girlfriend found out about the other girlfriend.” Roberts said snidely when he knew Ilya was close enough to hear.

It was, objectively, a weak chirp, but it seemed to set off something in him, the thing which had been growing more and more twisted in the last month since Shane had broken it off.

“Hey, Rob, the broken nose is an improvement! Maybe more women will want to fuck you now.” Ilya yelled and the whole locker room broke out into a shuffle, half pulling Roberts back and the other half hauling Ilya away from where he was trying to swing on him.

The reprimand was almost worth it. Almost.

“I expected better, Rozanov.” Coach LeClaire murmured. “You're primed for the Captaincy once Creek retires, but not if the whole locker room hates you.”

Every excuse he wanted to throw out sounded more and more childish on his tongue so he just huffed out, “Understood, coach.”

The berating meant that he was the last one in the locker room and after allowing himself ten minutes of wallowing under the showerhead, he was leaving the building later than he normally did.

It was a punishment, walking past the rink and peeking around to watch the little collection of children make chaos on the ice. One child was propped up on a bucket, another was laying flat on their back wiggling like a worm to get their miniature skates back under them. Most obvious was Emmy, holding tightly to her stick and making big looping circles to build up speed for her little attack on the net guarded by the smallest kid he'd ever seen made up mostly of pads and a massive helmet.

It took a few rounds for him to realize what she was doing, of watching her jerk her stick out and then in, not fluid enough with her little arms. She never seemed satisfied, even when the puck went sailing over the goalie's body.

Again and again, she grabbed the puck and tried again, even when the teacher, busy pulling up the kid who'd flopped down onto the ice, turned and told her to knock it off. Then he saw it, the switch from backhand to forehand, not smooth but there, and watched her give a little cheer even when the goalie stopped it (the kid hadn't moved, just threw himself down on top of it like a seal beaching itself).

But Emmy cheered because what her busy teacher hadn't noticed was a toddler actually pulling off The Rozanov, a move he'd created solely because he was one of the few players who could accomplish it.

He'd gotten closer to the ice than he'd planned and he almost wanted to step out of the shadows of the stands. He wanted to ask Emmy how many times she'd had to watch his videos to practice that move, ask Shane if he'd watched too.

Ilya's fingers twitched with the urge to correct her, show her how to plant her feet and the way she should not let herself get comfortable until she was grown and could actually move her stick with a range of motion more than a foot.

“Plant your feet, baby!”

Ilya's head jerked around and he spotted Shane in the stands. He was with a few other people, parents he'd guess from the way they all had their phones out and were recording the stumbling kids with the enthusiasm of fans at a real game.

Emmy waved over and shouted out, “Did you see?! I did it!”

“You sure did!” Shane called back. “Better than Rozanov himself.”

“No! Ilya is better!” Emmy defended him, puffing up her little chest and it made something in him melt. “Can you record me doing it again and send it to him?”

Shane hesitated and Ilya watched him take a breath before smiling flatly, “Sure.”

His daughter was too young to know how bad a liar her father was.

Before anyone could spot him and start asking for a signature, Ilya slipped back into the hallway and out to his car, his phone heavy in his palm.

A few texts from old hook-ups, Sveta checking if she could crash at his place next week, a missed call from his father, but no text from Jane.

Still, Ilya waited another week for a text, waited to hear the chime and see the video of Emmy's second Rozanov. It never came and Ilya hated himself for hoping.

“Well this is sad,” Sveta hummed the night she arrived in town for some car convention and he'd spent the evening scrolling through the Bears’ social media and the few photos on Shane's private Instagram. Shane didn't need to know that he'd made up a fake account using an old name from one of Shane's high school yearbooks because Ilya was rapidly descending into stalker territory. It was worth it to see what he'd been missing out on.

Emmy was in a few, mostly alongside an older couple Ilya guessed were Shane's parents.

“So are we killing this man or wanting to get him into bed?” Sveta asked when after dinner, Ilya had dropped onto the couch while Sveta dolled herself up. He hadn't heard her come back into the room.

“He wouldn't have you.” Ilya said rudely.

“From the way you're moping, he won't have you either.” She huffed back, grabbing his phone and tossing her heels at him as a distraction while she snooped. “Who the fuck is Gustav Hennderson? Did you make a fake account to spy on this man?”

“Leave it, Sveta.” He said and then yanked the phone out of her hands. She let him, flopping down next to him and reading over his shoulder.

“Is this about Jane?”

Ilya shot her a warning look. “Drop it.”

“I'm not a dog.” Sveta said sharply. “And I'm not stupid. Are you in love with him, or something?”

Ilya hadn't been able to keep anything from Sveta for longer than ten minutes. He looked down at the photo on his screen, of Emmy posing in front of an aquarium with a little fish hat and a balloon.

“He has a kid.”

“You love kids.” Sveta questioned.

“You know Alexei–”

“Fuck your brother.” Sveta cut in. “He can eat my massive dick. You give him too much money and if he's so worried about you having kids, maybe he could bother to take care of his own.”

It was cutting and it was true. Ilya flinched anyways. Sveta looked at him, yanking his head around so that he couldn't avoid her eyes.

“Ilya, you're not your father.”

He jerked his head out of her hold and stood. “It's not that. Are we going out or what?”

Sveta dropped it and Ilya had never been more thankful because she cut to the heart of the matter with the precision of a surgeon.

He danced that night with more people than he could count, took every drink offered to him, and played up his accent into any girl who leaned her way into his personal space.

By the time he got Sveta back to the apartment, they were both too sloshed to do anything more than pour themselves down onto his mattress. It was nearly three in the morning and he had no desire to move but he managed to kick his shoes off and shimmy down his pants.

Sveta's heels made heavy clunking sounds when they hit his hardwood floors and then he felt her turn towards him, smelt her sweet perfume and the fruity alcohol on her breath. “You wanna?”

“Not tonight.”

She didn't say anything, but he could feel her eyes even in the pitch darkness made by his blackout curtains. There were some universal constants, Ilya Rozanov wanting sex used to be one of them.

But it would be a bandaid on a bullet hole and Ilya would feel bad for using Sveta for it until he'd sorted himself out. Maybe she understood that because she planted a loud, messy, wet kiss on his cheek and then tucked her head up under his chin.

Maybe it was a cosmic reward or there really was something to the power of celibacy because when Ilya woke the next morning with the taste of something dead in his mouth and a headache pounding between his eyes, he also had one text from Jane.

Jane: You have a fan.

Ilya dragged himself up, untangling his arms from Sveta who had migrated to the other side of the bed some time during the night. When he clicked on it, the buffering nearly sent him into hysterics before it cut into the exact scene he'd hoped for.

It must have taken her many more tries to get it again because the other kids were off the ice now, but Emmy wore the same little sweatpants with a small cartoon bear on them that she'd had that day.

“One more time!” She demanded through her helmet and Shane sighed to the camera.

“Alright, one more time then we have to go so Mr. O'Reilly can clear the ice.”

Emmy gave a little roll of her shoulders, adorably hunched in her pads, and then nearly lost her edges around the boards before finding them again and speeding up.

It wasn't as clean as the first, she must have been too tired for that, but there was the same movement, familiar and made in miniature. The puck sailed into the goal and Emmy let out a holler like she'd just made the game winning goal.

The camera dipped and Ilya could hear Shane clapping before the video cut out. Ilya watched it three more times, the wobble, the fix, the shot, the celebration.

Without thinking about it, he clicked on his publicist's number and typed out a quick request before he had to click off his phone for fear the light would somehow kill him via pounding headache.

Ilya spent most of the day in the gym, then in the sauna, and then to shower in an attempt to feel more human. Sveta left somewhere in the mix of that with a sharp glare at him to get his shit together.

“Whatever you decide, I'm behind you.” She murmured and kissed his cheek.

By then his headache had calmed enough that he allowed himself to turn on the television and flick through his feed while he cooked breakfast for dinner. Truly one of the best inventions the West ever created.

In the middle of frying his bacon, he got a response that his package was sent and it made him smile. It must have been delivered some time that next morning because the picture was waiting for him after they'd finished at the rink and were breaking off for more free weights or watching tape together in the viewing room.

Ilya opted out of both. No one had said anything about his shitty mood lifting, but had heard that the consensus was Svetlana had been the cause and the solution. Ilya didn't correct them.

The photo was taken in Shane's living room, Emmy standing on the couch and pulling at the sleeves as if making sure the whole shirt was in frame. The little Bears jersey was adorable on her, big enough that she could wear it over pads but also helped to make the name printed on the back clear. In sharp gold, Shane Hollander's daughter proudly wore Ilya's name and number.