Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Coach LeClaire (Game Changers), Cliff Marlow, Victor St. Simon, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike

Additional Tags:

Idiots in Love, Coming Out, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-16 Completed: 2026-03-11 Words: 19,431 Chapters: 27/27

Adopt A Stray

Summary

"I'm calling it 'Adopt a Stray,'" Cliff announced, pacing the rug. "Tomorrow night. Boston vs. Montreal. We announce a new 'tradition.' We say that Boston has noticed that not every team is as close as ours. We say we’re looking for 'strays'—players who aren’t really accepted by their team, always seem an outcast, that need a little extra team bonding or whatever. And the first 'stray' we’re adopting? Is Shane Hollander."

Chapter 1: Chapter One: The Uninvited Guests

Chapter One: The Uninvited Guests

The silence in Ilya’s house was a rare, heavy thing. The lingering smell of tuna melts wafted from the kitchen, where two dirty plates and two mobile phones sat on the bench.

Shane had chosen to stay. He was currently sprawled across Ilya’s chest, his breathing deep and rhythmic, his hair a mess against Ilya's collarbone. Ilya had one arm draped over Shane’s back, his fingers curled into the hem of Shane's shirt, holding him while they slept.

Back in the kitchen, Ilya’s phone quietly buzzed against the marble countertop. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

[New Message: Cliff Marlow] Yo, Cap. Team movie night. We’re coming over. Don’t be a dick, open the door.

Ten minutes later: [New Message: Cliff Marlow] Roz? Hello? Fine, I’m using the spare key. See you in five.

The heavy thud of the front door echoing through the hallway didn’t wake them. The sound of shoes and the muffled arguing of professional hockey players about which Fast and the Furious movie was the best didn't wake them either.

It wasn't until the bedroom door creaked open that the bubble burst. Cliff Marlow was two steps into the bedroom and halfway through "Roz, get up, you lazy—" when he stopped dead and his voice died in his throat. Victor St-Simon bumped into his back, peering over his shoulder. 

The two men on the bed didn't look like the league’s most bitter rivals. They looked like a matched set. Shane’s face was pressed into the crook of Ilya’s neck, his legs tangled inextricably with Ilya’s.

"Holy shit," Cliff breathed, the words exploding into the quiet room like a slap.

Shane Hollander woke up instantly. His eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused, locking onto the two silhouettes in the room. His heart hammered against Ilya’s ribs so hard Ilya felt it in his own spine. "What—? Who—?" Shane’s voice was a panicked rasp. He scrambled backward, nearly falling off the far side of the bed, clutching the duvet to his chest as if it were a shield.

Ilya sat up slowly, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. He didn't look embarrassed; he looked like a wolf whose den had been breached. He looked at Cliff, then at Victor, and then at the hallway where the rest of the team was undoubtedly hovering.

"Marley," Ilya said, his voice dropping an octave into a low, terrifying growl. "Out. Now."

"Is that—is that Hollander?" Victor whispered, his jaw practically hitting the floorboards.

"I said out!" Ilya roared, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Living room. Give us five minutes, or I will trade you to Buffalo myself." The door slammed shut as Cliff and Victor scrambled back. In the sudden silence, the only sound was Shane’s frantic, ragged breathing.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two: The Elephant in the Room

Chapter Two: The Elephant in the Room

Inside the bedroom, Shane was panicking. He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, head between his knees, fingers digging into his scalp. "This is it," he whispered, his voice cracking. "The league, the press, hockey—Ilya, your team is going to kill me."

Ilya moved to sit next to him, grabbing both of Shane’s hands with one of his. He placed his other hand on the back of Shane’s neck, squeezing firmly to help ground and calm him. "Shane. Look at me."

Shane looked up, eyes glassy.

"They are my team," Ilya said, his voice like iron. "I am their Captain. They say a word outside this room, and I will end them. You are safe here."

He pulled Shane into a rough, protective embrace until his breathing finally levelled out. "We go out. We do not apologize for anything. Understand?"

Shane gave a jerky nod, eyes still wide and filled with unshed tears. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost, his skin a translucent, sickly pale colour.

Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the living room was thick enough to choke on. Cliff Marlow was sitting in the single sofa, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The rest of the guys—those who hadn't been in the doorway—were looking back and forth between Cliff and Victor St-Simon.

"Wait, so... it’s him?" one of the rookies whispered. "Like, Montreal’s- Shane Hollander? The guy Roz literally hates?"

Cliff stopped dead. He looked at the kitchen counter, seeing the two plates from the tuna melts. He thought about the years of "Jane." The secret phone calls. The way Ilya would suddenly go missing during Montreal games. The way Ilya's mood would darken in the long breaks between Montreal games.

"Jane," Cliff breathed, the realization hitting him like a blindside hit. "Holy shit. Hollander is Jane. He’s been Jane the whole time."

The room went silent. The weight of the secret—years of it—settled over them.

Victor St-Simon stood up, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at the closed bedroom door, then back at the team. "Listen to me," he said, his French accent thickening with emotion. "Ilya is our Captain. He has carried this team on his back since he arrived. If he loves a man—even that man—it does not change who he is to us."

He looked around the circle, challenging anyone to disagree. "I will support him. He is my brother, my captain. If it is Hollander, then Hollander is one of us now. Understood?"

One by one, the guys nodded. There was no mockery, no arguments, only a stunned and silent hockey team.

The bedroom door clicked open. Ilya emerged first, looking every bit the intimidating Captain, but his hand was tucked firmly under Shane’s elbow, practically holding him upright. Shane looked like he was walking to the gallows. He was pale, his shoulders hunched, his eyes darting toward the exits.

Cliff looked at them—really looked at them. He saw the way Shane leaned into Ilya's side, and the way Ilya’s thumb was tracing small, comforting circles on Shane’s arm.

"Shit," Cliff muttered, his voice surprisingly soft. He stood up from the oversized armchair he’d been claiming. "Sit down. Both of you, before you fall over. Hollander, you look like you’re about to faint."

Ilya guided Shane into the vacated chair. There wasn't enough room for two grown hockey players, so Ilya simply sat on the arm of the chair, his hand remaining on Shane’s shoulder, a clear "keep back" signal to the rest of the room.

The silence that followed was agonizing. It stretched for a full minute, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of breathing. The Boston players stared. Shane stared at his own knees.

Finally, Cliff leaned against the wall, eyes fixed on Shane.

"You’re Jane," he stated. It wasn't a question; it was a fact that simply needed confirmation.

Shane took a shaky breath, finally lifting his head to meet Cliff’s gaze. He gave a single, slow nod.

"Yeah," Shane whispered. "I'm Jane." 

Chapter 3: Chapter Three: The French Connection

Chapter Three: The French Connection

Ilya scanned the room, his expression terrifyingly blank. This was his "Captain" face—the one he used when he was about to drop his gloves and take care of business on the ice. He didn't let go of Shane.

"Let us be clear," Ilya said, his Russian accent thickening. "This is my house. This is my life. Shane and I... we are together. If you have problem with this, leave now. You leave my home, and you leave my life. Will not ask twice."

He waited. The silence was heavy, but not one player looked for the door. Cliff just crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. "Nobody's leaving, Roz,"  St-Simon said softly. He stepped forward, his eyes moving from his Captain to the pale, trembling man sitting in the armchair. "But... were you planning on keeping this a secret forever? Just... forever?"

Shane finally found his voice, though it was small. "We don't have a choice. Not while we're playing. The league... the sponsors... other players... it’s too much. It would destroy everything."

"And it's not just hockey," Ilya added, his voice dropping sounding smaller and sadder. "In Russia, it is illegal to be with man. My family is police. I would be arrested."

The room went cold at that. For the American players, the idea of being arrested for who you loved felt like something out of a history book, not their Captain's reality.

"That’s complete bullshit," Cliff snapped, though his anger wasn't directed at Ilya. "You’re the best players in the world. If you care about each other, it shouldn't matter if it’s a guy or a girl. The world is supposed to be better than that."

Ilya shrugged. "I agree, Marley. But that is Russia. The laws will not change because I am good at putting puck in net."

Victor St-Simon let out a string of rapid-fire, vitriolic French curses that made the other non-French speakers blink. He ended with a sharp, "Le gouvernement est géré par des lâches et des imbéciles." (The government is run by cowards and fools.)

To everyone's shock—especially Ilya’s—Shane looked up, his eyes clearing for a moment. "Entièrement d'accord," Shane replied, his accent perfect. "C’est une situation barbare, et ça me brise le cœur pour lui." (I completely agree. It’s a barbaric situation, and it breaks my heart for him.)

Victor’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. He stepped toward the chair, grinning wildly. "Tu parles français? Mais c'est magnifique!" (Do you speak French? That's magnificent!). He turned to the rest of the team, gesturing at Shane with the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning. "We need to keep him! Finally, someone I can have an intelligent conversation with in my own language!"

Shane’s pale face suddenly flooded with colour. He wasn't "Montreal’s Golden Boy" or "Ilya’s Secret" anymore; he was just a guy getting teased by a fellow player. He ducked his head, a shy, genuine blush creeping up his neck.

Ilya narrowed his eyes, pulling Shane slightly closer. "What are you saying to him?" he demanded, though the lethal edge in his voice had finally softened into his usual grumpiness. "I do not speak French. And I am only one allowed to make Shane blush."

The tension in the room snapped like a dry twig. Cliff barked out a laugh, and soon the rest of the guys were howling, the absurdity of the situation—Ilya Rozanov being a protective boyfriend over Shane Hollander—finally sinking in.

Shane groaned, hiding his face in the fabric of Ilya’s t-shirt, his shoulders shaking with a mix of relief and fresh embarrassment. For the first time in years, the secret wasn't a weight.

Chapter 4: Chapter Four: Operation Adopt-a-Stray

Chapter Four: Operation Adopt-a-Stray

The rest of the evening took on a surreal, domestic quality. The Boston team settled in Ilya’s living room like they would have any other occasion, simply accepting Shane belonged there as much as they did. They ordered an ungodly amount of pizza, and somehow, everyone agreed on The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift.

Ilya and Shane had squeezed into the single sofa, meaning Shane was half in Ilya’s lap. Shane was leaning back against Ilya, a slice of vegetarian pizza in one hand, actually laughing at a joke St. Simon made about drifting a Zamboni.

Only Cliff Marlow wasn't watching the screen. He stood, staring out a window with his arms crossed. His brain was working overtime; he needed to fix this for his best friend. No one deserved to hide this much of their life.

Three-quarters of the way through the movie, just as a car was about to explode, Cliff turned around. "Pause it," he barked.

"What? No! He's about to—" a rookie started to protest.

"Pause the damn movie and shut up," Cliff snapped, though there was a glint in his eye that signalled how serious he was. He walked into the centre of the room, looking between Ilya and Shane. "I’ve been thinking. This 'Jane' thing? The hiding? It sucks. It’s not fair for either of you. We need a cover that lets Hollander be here without outing you both."

The room went quiet. Ilya sat up straighter, his hand tightening protectively on Shane's shoulder. "What are you talking about, Marlow?"

"I'm calling it 'Adopt a Stray,'" Cliff announced, pacing the rug. "Tomorrow night. Boston vs. Montreal. We announce a new 'tradition.' We say that Boston has noticed that not every team is as close as ours. We say we’re looking for 'strays'—players who aren’t really accepted by their team, always seem an outcast, that need a little extra team bonding or whatever. And the first 'stray' we’re adopting? Is Shane Hollander."

Shane scoffed at the term. "I'm sorry—a stray?" he sputtered. "Cliff, I’m the Captain of the Montreal Metros. I'm not a lost puppy."

"Think about it, Hollander! Don't get hung up on the name," Cliff waved him off impatiently. "A 'stray' is just a player who... I don't know, needs a breath of fresh air from their own team? We’ll workshop the definition later. But the point is, under this 'program,' you’d get a signature Boston-themed Raiders jersey. We can sell the jersey to raise money for animal shelters. You’d 'have' to go on team outings with us when you’re in Boston, or when we are in Montreal. You’ll be at our dinners and events. It’s perfect PR. We can visit actual animal shelters to start with, take photos with puppies—everyone loves puppies—and it gives you a legal, public reason to be seen with Roz and spend more time with him."

Shane opened his mouth to argue the logistics, but the words died in his throat. He looked at the team—Ilya’s team—and saw them actually nodding.

"It’s genius and just something crazy enough that Boston fans will love it," Victor whispered. "The media will eat up the 'rivals-turned-friends for good cause' angle."

Ilya didn't say anything for a long moment. He looked at Cliff, really looked at him, realizing his best friend had just spent the last two hours trying to figure out how to keep Ilya from being lonely.

"Marley," Ilya said, his Russian voice uncharacteristically thick. His eyes were suspiciously watery as he looked at the man who had been his brother since joining Boston. "You have come up with plan that lets me have more Shane... and puppies. You truly are best friend. Thank you."

Cliff looked away, suddenly awkward now that the "mushy" stuff had started. "Yeah, well. Someone has to keep you idiots out of trouble."

One of the rookies stood up, digging through the bottom of a gear bag he’d brought in. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and a chewed-up ballpoint pen. He smoothed the paper out on the coffee table with a grin.

"Alright," the rookie said, clicking the pen. "Let's figure out how to adopt a stray Hollander, then."

Chapter 5: Chapter Five: The First Stray

Chapter Five: The First Stray

The atmosphere in the arena was electric, though confused. Usually, a Montreal-Boston matchup started with booing for Montreal and ended with dropped gloves and a fair bit of tension. Instead, there was a strange, formal silence as the two teams lingered near their benches.

Shane was tense. He stood next to JJ Boiziau, his heart hammering against his ribs. To everyone else, he looked like he was in his typical "Captain Mode"—composed, stoic, and slightly annoyed. In reality, he was one second away from a total meltdown. Shane tried to relax. He still couldn't believe they had pulled this off. In less than twenty-four hours, Cliff and the rest of the hockey team had somehow convinced Coach LeClaire and the Boston front office that this was "groundbreaking positive PR and the best thing that Boston has ever done." Boston management had jumped at the idea. 

At centre ice, three figures skated out: Coach LeClaire, Cliff Marlow, and Ilya Rozanov.

LeClaire took the microphone, his voice booming over the PA system. "Fans, tonight is about more than just a game. Today, the Boston Raiders are starting an exciting new tradition, and I am handing the microphone to our own Cliff Marlow to explain."

Cliff came forward. He looked remarkably comfortable for a man about to change the world of hockey forever. 

"I've been lucky to be a Boston Raider," Cliff began, his voice surprisingly warm and sincere. "In this team, we’re a family. But we look around the league, and we see players who don't always have that. Players who look like outcasts, who aren't always included by their team, who maybe just need a place to belong. We want to change that, while also supporting a cause close to our hearts."

He paused for dramatic effect, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"We are officially launching the 'Adopt a Stray' tradition. Every year, we will 'adopt' a player from another team. They’ll be honorary Raiders. They’ll come to our dinners, join our outings, and most importantly, work with us to raise awareness and funds for local animal shelters. Because let’s be honest—sometimes a hockey player is just like a big, confused stray dog looking for a home."

A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. It was absurd, but it was just eccentric enough for people to buy it. Especially Boston fans. Cliff then turned and handed the microphone to Ilya.

Shane held his breath. Ilya hated public speaking in English. He usually avoided it with a shrug and a "No comment." But now, Ilya stood tall, his eyes locking onto Shane’s across the ice.

"The first stray to be adopted is here tonight," Ilya said. His English was perfectly articulated, every word practiced and deliberate. The stadium went dead silent. "After an entire afternoon of discussion with my team, we have decided that we are adopting Shane Hollander."

The roar that followed was deafening. Half the crowd was laughing, the other half was stunned, and Shane Hollander—Captain of the Montreal Metros—simply stared at Ilya, his face turning a brilliant, betraying shade of red as the "Adopt a Stray" era officially began.

Chapter 6: Chapter Six: The Jersey Swap

Chapter Six: The Jersey Swap

The silence on the Montreal bench and surrounding ice was a physical weight. While the fans were still buzzing, Shane’s own teammates looked like they had been turned to stone. Slowly, Shane pushed off, his skates carving a lonely path toward centre ice. Every eye in the arena was on him.

Waiting there, Coach LeClaire were holding something folded—a flash of black and gold. As Shane approached, he unfurled it and held it high. It was a standard Boston Raiders jersey, but when he turned it around, the crowd let out a collective gasp of laughter and cheer.

STRAY #1

HOLLANDER

Shane stared at it, his brain short-circuiting. How? They must have had the uniform team running a rush order the moment the management team approved it.

"Thank you, I... I don't know what else to say right now, sorry," Shane stammered into the microphone LeClaire held out. His face was a mask of shock. "Thank you. I'll... I’ll definitely try it on after the game.”

He turned to skate back to his own bench holding the jersey, but he caught the icy, blank stares of his Montreal teammates. A cold shiver of realization washed over him—he shouldn’t bring the jersey back with him, it might not survive the game. He turned back to LeClaire, his voice quiet. "Coach, can you... can you hold onto that for me? On your bench?"

LeClaire nodded, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Of course, Shane. It’ll be waiting."

The moment Shane rejoined the Montreal team, Hayden and Comeau were in his face. "Did you know about this? Is this some kind of joke, Hollander?" Comeau asked. 

"He obviously didn't know, look at his damn face," JJ snapped, stepping between them. "He looks like he’s seen a ghost. Leave him alone."

Coach Theriault didn't even look at Shane. He just slammed a hand against the boards. "It’s a distraction! Boston is playing head games to get us off our rhythm. Focus on the puck, not the circus! Win the game!"

The game that followed was some of the most intense hockey of the season. Driven by a mix of desperation and fury, Shane played like a man possessed, weaving through the Boston defense to net a spectacular hat trick. But across the ice, Ilya was answering him goal for goal, his eyes burning with a competitive fire that only Shane could ignite.

With two minutes left and the score tied 3-3, the arena held its breath. Ilya forced a turnover at the last second, passed the puck to Cliff Marlow, and Cliff buried it into the top corner.

Final Score: 4-3, Boston.

As the buzzer sounded, the contrast was devastating. The Boston players erupted, jumping over the boards to celebrate. On the Montreal side, the players didn't even look at the scoreboard. They turned and skated toward the tunnel. Not a single glove tapped Shane’s pads. No one congratulated him on the hat trick. Only JJ lingered for a second, giving him a sympathetic look before being swept away by the retreating tide of Montreal jerseys.

Shane stood alone in the face-off circle. He felt like the name on that jersey was more accurate than he’d ever admitted. He was a stray.

He turned his back on the Montreal tunnel and skated toward the Boston bench. Coach LeClaire was standing there, holding the black and gold jersey out like a lifeline. Shane took it, his hands shaking slightly.

He looked across the ice. Ilya and Cliff had stopped their celebration. They were watching him, waiting. Ilya gave him a nearly imperceptible nod—a silent 'Come home.'

Shane took a deep breath. Right there, calm in the middle of so much chaos, he pulled his Montreal jersey over his head and tossed it onto the bench. He yanked the Boston STRAY #1 jersey on, the heavy fabric feeling warmer than anything he’d worn in years.

The explosion of sound from the Boston fans was deafening. It wasn't just applause; it was a roar of acceptance. Before Shane could even adjust the jersey, the entire Boston Raiders team swarmed him. He was engulfed into a sea of black and gold, a massive, crushing group hug that smelled like sweat, victory, and—finally—felt like belonging

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven: The Joint Front

Chapter Seven: The Joint Front

The press room was usually a place of battle for Shane. He sat at the long table, the weight of the STRAY #1 jersey still strange against his skin. His mind was a mess of conflicting loyalties. Logically, he was the Captain of the Montreal Metros. He owed them his focus.

But his heart was louder tonight. It kept replaying the sound of the Boston fans chanting his name—a sound he had rarely heard on the ice, despite bringing Montreal two Stanley Cups. In Montreal, he was a high-performing asset; in the middle of Boston’s embrace, he had felt like a person. He felt like he belonged. 

He sat alone, waiting for the Montreal media rep or Coach Theriault to join him. When the door finally swung open, it wasn't the red-and-blue tracksuits of Montreal that entered. It was a sea of black and gold.

"We informed the press we are holding a joint conference tonight," Coach LeClaire said smoothly, taking a seat at the far end of the table.

Victor St-Simon leaned over as he passed Shane, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Le noir et l'or te vont beaucoup mieux que le rouge et bleu, Shane," he whispered. (Black and gold suit you much better than red and blue, Shane.)

Shane’s cheeks flared pink, but before he could respond, Ilya let out a low, territorial growl from the seat next to him. "No more French," Ilya grumbled, loud enough for the microphone to catch a muffled version of it. "He is my Shane. Speak English so I can hear if I need to punch you."

The Boston media rep stepped to the podium, and Shane watched in genuine awe. Usually, Montreal pressers were a free-for-all of shouting journalists. But this woman was a conductor. She pointed to a reporter in the third row. "Mark, go ahead."

The first few questions were standard: How did it feel to win? How does the "Adopt a Stray" program work? Cliff leaned into his mic, playing the part of the visionary perfectly. "It's about the hockey community, Mark. We’re rivals on the ice, but off the ice, we want to make sure no player feels like they’re out in the cold. Plus, we’re going to raise a lot of money for animals. Everyone wins."

Finally, a reporter turned the focus to the man in the middle. "Shane, you’re still wearing the jersey. How does it feel to be Boston’s first 'Stray'?"

Shane looked down at the logo on his chest, then felt Ilya’s foot find his under the table, hidden from the cameras, giving him silent strength. 

"I honestly didn't know what to expect," Shane said, his voice gaining strength. "But the response from the fans and the Raiders tonight... I’ve never felt acceptance like that. I’m grateful. And honestly, I’m just excited to join Boston to help animal shelters. If my name on this jersey helps a few more pets find their forever homes and raises awareness for the hard work happening in animal shelters, then I’m proud to be the first stray."

LeClaire wrapped things up with a professional flourish. "For those asking, the 'Stray #1 Hollander' jerseys go on sale tonight. One hundred percent of the profits go directly to the North American Animal Shelter Association. We expect to sell out."

As the conference ended, the photographers swarmed the front. "One shot of the group!"

Shane stood, flanked by his "adopters." He felt Ilya’s solid presence on one side and Cliff’s on the other, with St-Simon and LeClaire anchoring the ends. He angled his body, showing off the STRAY #1 on his back, but turned his head back toward the lenses.

For the first time in a long time, the smile the cameras caught wasn't the "Golden Boy" mask. It was real, bright, and slightly relieved. He was a stray, sure—but he had never felt less lost

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight: The Locker Room 

Chapter Eight: The Locker Room 

Shane walked toward the visitor’s locker room, still buzzing from the press conference. He felt lighter than he had in years, but as he reached the heavy double doors, that lightness vanished.

The Montreal Metros weren't showering. They weren't packing. They were sitting on the benches, silent and some judging. Hayden and JJ were both looking down towards the ground, defeated and exhausted. Coach Theriault stood in the centre, his arms crossed over his chest, his face red. Shane realised Hayden and JJ (at least) had been on the receiving end of Theriault's temper while he was doing the press conference. 

"Done with Boston now? Traitor," Comeau spat, the word echoing off the tiled walls.

The old Shane—the one who lived in constant fear of a PR disaster—would have stammered an apology. But tonight, Shane felt the acceptance that came with putting on the black-and-gold jersey, and that gave him strength. He stood his ground, his voice remarkably steady, even to him.

"I didn't know about the program, and I didn't ask to be chosen," Shane said, looking Comeau dead in the eye. "But I'm not going to apologize for supporting a charity or for another team seeing how some of you treat me. I spoke the truth tonight, and maybe I should have started speaking it sooner"

Theriault took a step forward, his face reddening. "Let’s be clear, Hollander. This 'stray' nonsense will not interfere with your duties. If I see you distracted, if I see your head in Boston’s business more than Montreal’s, you won't be wearing the 'C' for much longer. Do I make myself clear?"

Shane looked at his coach, then at everyone as they sat in silence while his captaincy was threatened. Something inside him finally snapped. He didn't answer. He didn't even look back. He grabbed his gear and his bag, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room.

He made his way down the corridor to the Boston Raiders' locker room. He stopped at the door, his hand hovering over the handle. His heart was racing, the adrenaline of the confrontation fading into a cold, shaky hurt.

"It’s Shane Hollander!" he called out, his voice cracking slightly. "Can I come in, is... is everyone decent?"

"It’s cool, come in Shane!" a rookie called Dylan shouted back.

Shane pushed the door open. The room was a chaos of laughter, loud music, and the smell of victory. Players were in various stages of undressing, but as Shane walked in—still in his full Montreal gear, carrying his bag—the room gradually went quiet.

Victor and Cliff paused, shirts halfway over their heads. Ilya was already dressed, sitting on the bench at the far end, how he had managed it in such a short time, Shane didn’t know. He looked at Shane, and the moment he saw Shane’s face, his expression shifted from triumphant to lethal. He knew that look. He knew what "home" in Montreal felt like to Shane when his team didn’t win. 

"Is it... is it okay if I change here?" Shane asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Ilya didn't hesitate. He stood up, towering and solid, and gestured to the empty stall beside him. "Here," he commanded, though the tone was soft.

Shane walked over, dropping his bag. He stared at his feet, willing the hot, stinging tears in his eyes not to fall. He was a professional. He was a captain. He wasn't supposed to cry in a rival’s locker room.

But then Ilya’s arms were around him, pulling him into a crushing, protective hug that shielded him from the rest of the room. Shane let out a shaky breath, burying his face in Ilya’s shoulder for just a second.

"What did they say?" Ilya growled into his hair.

"Coach..." Shane swallowed hard. "He threatened my captaincy. Comeau called me a traitor."

The silence in the Boston room lasted exactly one second. Then, it exploded.

"Are you kidding me?" Cliff yelled, slamming his hand into the wall. "After you put up a hat trick for them tonight?"

"Fuck Montreal!" St Simon added, throwing a towel across the room in a rare show of genuine anger.

A chorus of "Fuck 'em" and "Arseholes" rippled through the rest of the roster. The Raiders weren't just welcoming a "stray" anymore; they were closing ranks around one of their own. Shane looked around at the angry, supportive faces of the men he was supposed to hate, and for the first time since entering Montreal’s locker room, he felt like he could breathe again.

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine: The Longest Secret

Chapter Nine: The Longest Secret

The steam from the showers was still curling around the ceiling when Coach LeClaire walked into the locker room. He took one look at the grim faces of his players and the heap of Montreal gear on the floor and knew something had gone south.

Ilya didn't wait for him to ask. In short, jagged sentences, he explained the confrontation in the Montreal locker room. By the time he finished, LeClaire’s face was like stone.

"They threatened his captaincy?" LeClaire’s voice was dangerously quiet. "For a charity stunt? That’s not just poor sportsmanship; that’s a failure of leadership."

Ilya glanced at the showers, hearing the water turn off. He knew Shane would be out in a minute. He turned back to LeClaire, his eyes more intense than the coach had ever seen them. "Coach. I need to tell you something. The team... they already know. But you need to know too."

The locker room went deathly silent. Cliff stopped fidgeting with his tie. Victor stood perfectly still. It was a silent wall of support, the Raiders backing their Captain.

"Shane and I... we are not rivals," Ilya said, his voice steady. "We are more. We are together."

LeClaire blinked, his jaw tightening as he processed the weight of that statement. "Together? You mean..."

"I mean he is mine, and I am his," Ilya said firmly. "We have lived in shadows for years because of the league, because of Russia."

Just then, the door opened, and Shane stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist, skin still wet from the shower. He froze, sensing the heavy atmosphere, his eyes darting to LeClaire.

"Years?" Cliff broke the silence, his voice high with disbelief. "Ilya, wait—how long?"

Shane looked at Ilya, seeing the secret was finally out with the Coach. He gave Ilya a small, tired, but incredibly loving smile. "Since we met, really," Shane answered softly.

LeClaire’s eyebrows shot up. "You’ve known each other since your rookie seasons. You’re telling me you’ve been doing this since you were eighteen?"

Ilya shook his head, a ghost of a smirk appearing. "The summer before. Before the draft."

The room erupted in a chorus of low whistles and muttered "holy shits." The timeline was staggering—the rivalry, the fights on the ice, the media drama—all of it underpinned by years of hidden devotion.

"Is this why?" LeClaire asked, gesturing vaguely to the "Stray" jersey on the bench, “we have this whole 'tradition' Cliff cooked up?"

"Yes," Cliff said, stepping forward. "Because they don't deserve to spend their lives hidden, seeing each other for a few hours in hotel rooms once every couple of months. It’s not a perfect plan, but it gives them time together. It gives them a reason to be closer without the paparazzi losing their minds."

LeClaire looked at Shane—the man who was supposed to be Ilya Rozanov’s greatest rival—and then at Ilya. He didn't see two rival captains. He saw two people who had carried a massive burden alone for far too long.

Shane pulled on his clothes quickly, the last one to finish. He stood up, looking at the door and then back at the group, waiting for the reminder about curfew or a lecture on "team optics."

Ilya looked at LeClaire. "Is okay if we go for food now?"

LeClaire stared at him for a beat, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Since when do you ask for permission to go out, Rozanov? You’ve been breaking my curfews since day one."

Cliff let out a loud bark of laughter, clapping a hand on Shane’s shoulder. "It’s only because Hollander is here! He’s a 'good boy,' remember? He’s rubbing off on our Russian."

The tension finally shattered, replaced by the familiar, rowdy energy of a team heading out to celebrate. Across the locker room, Shane’s eyes met Ilya’s. The fear from the Montreal room was gone, replaced by a wide, genuine grin that was replicated by Ilya. 

Chapter 10: Chapter Ten: The Safest Place in Boston

Chapter Ten: The Safest Place in Boston

The steakhouse was a legendary Boston haunt, the kind of place where the lighting was low, the leather booths were deep, and the walls were lined with photos of Boston hockey icons. As the team walked in, it became clear this was safe ground for them. The hostess didn't just greet them; she beamed at them like a proud family member.

"Great game, boys," she chirped. Then her eyes landed on Shane, who was still wearing the STRAY #1 jersey because Cliff had grabbed the jersey and insisted on "dressing him" back at the arena. She didn't blink. "And welcome to our newest addition. You’re got the back room tonight."

Victor held the heavy oak door open, ushering the group into a sprawling private suite. As the door clicked shut, the muffled noise from the front of the restaurant vanished.

"The staff here are family," Ilya murmured, leaning close to Shane’s ear as they navigated toward a long table. "They take orders, they bring food, then they vanish. No phones, no fans or reporters. You can breathe here, Shane."

Shane sat down, his ingrained discipline immediately taking over. He opened the leather-bound menu, his eyes scanning for anything that wouldn't ruin his strict macrobiotic regimen. His heart sank slightly. It was a steakhouse—everything was butter-basted, deep-fried, or heavy with cream. The closest thing was a fish burger, but even that felt like a defeat.

He was so engrossed in his anxiety that he didn't notice Ilya slip away to speak with a waiter in the corner. A moment later, a large hand gently pried the menu from Shane’s grip. Shane looked up, startled, to find Ilya standing over him with a knowing look.

"Stop looking at the menu," Ilya said softly. "I talked to the kitchen. They’re doing two pieces of salmon, pan-seared dry. No oil, no butter. And a massive green salad, no dressing. I know it isn't perfect for your 'robot diet,' but is close."

The relief that washed over Shane was visible. It wasn't just the food; it was the fact that Ilya had anticipated his stress and handled it without making it a "thing." Shane looked up at him and gave him a smile so bright, Ilya felt like it could light up the entire room.

"Aww!" Cliff and Victor erupted in unison from across the table.

"Look at them! So domestic," Cliff teased, clutching his heart.

"Truly, a romance for the ages," Victor added with a dramatic sigh.

Ilya just flipped them a casual middle finger and sat down, immediately claiming the space next to Shane.

The dinner was a revelation. For the first time, Shane was just Shane. He swapped stories with the Boston rookies, laughed at Cliff’s exaggerated locker-room tales, and felt the steady, grounding weight of Ilya next to him.

Under the table, away from the eyes of the rest of the team, their knees were pressed together. Shane felt Ilya’s hand find his, their fingers interlocking in the dark. It was a small, hidden gesture of support—and Shane gently squeezed back conveying his thanks. 

As the plates were cleared, Shane felt the inevitable weight of exhaustion. He had played a hat-trick game and survived an emotional rollercoaster in the Montreal locker room; and his body was finally crashing. He looked at Ilya, a silent "I'm tired" in his eyes.

Ilya sighed, squeezing Shane's hand one last time before letting go. "You have to go back to the hotel."

"Yeah," Shane whispered, thinking of the fact that at least he was sharing with JJ this trip, after Theriault had ruled at the beginning of the season that the Captain couldn’t room with the same person each trip, and had to get to know the whole team. "Afternoon flight tomorrow."

Cliff, who apparently had ears like a hawk, leaned over the table. "Afternoon flight? Perfect." He grinned, looking around at the rest of the Raiders. "Be ready at 8:30 AM, boys. We’re taking our Stray to the city animal shelter. First official duty."

The Boston team let out a collective roar of approval, banging their fists on the table. Shane laughed, the sound tired but happy.

Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven: The Morning Post

Chapter Eleven: The Morning Post 

The hotel room was thick with the heavy, rhythmic breathing of JJ Boiziau when Shane’s internal clock nudged him awake. He moved like a ghost, his movements practiced from years of early morning routines and skates.

After a blistering hot shower to shake off the last of the previous night’s exhaustion, he pulled on his clothes. The final layer was the STRAY #1 jersey. Sliding it on felt like putting on a suit of armour—a black-and-gold shield.

He left a quick scrawl on a notepad for JJ: Gone to do PR with Boston. Back before the flight to grab my bag. See you then.

The lobby was blissfully empty of Montreal players. Shane felt a surge of quiet defiance as he grabbed a green apple and checked his phone. A text from ‘Lily’ flashed on the screen: On our way. See you soon.

While he waited, Shane did something he usually agonised over for hours: he opened Instagram with the intention of posting.

With a few taps, he followed the Boston Raiders' official account. Then, he went through their stories, reposting the clips of the press conference, the "adoption" on the ice, and even a fan-captured video of the "Boston Hug."

He scrolled through some of the comments, stunned to see the support from strangers. He was also grateful to see some people calling out Montreal for their behaviour. Finally, he held his phone up for a selfie. He made sure the Boston logo was front and centre.

Caption: First full day as the @BostonRaiders official Stray. Heading to the shelter to meet some actual four-legged strays with the team. 🐾🏒 #AdoptAStray #Stray1

He hit "Post" before he could overthink it. No PR approval, no agent consultation. Just Shane.

The vibration of his phone signalled another message from ‘Lily’ about the arrival of the bus. Shane stepped out into the crisp morning air to see the massive Raiders team bus idling at the curb. As he approached, the tinted windows seemed to rattle with the sudden explosion of cheering and whistling from inside.

The doors hissed open, and Coach LeClaire stood there, a coffee in one hand and a smile on his face. "Morning Hollander. You look better today than last night."

Shane climbed the steps, grinning back. "I might need to get a couple more of these jerseys so I can actually wash this one."

Cliff, sitting in the front row, barked out a laugh. "Too bad, kid! We put the first batch online after the buzzer last night. All five thousand sold out before this morning."

Shane froze in the bus aisle, his jaw literally dropping. "Five thousand? In one night?"

"Yep," Ilya said. He was leaning against the window halfway down the bus, looking relaxed and devastatingly handsome in a casual team hoodie. He gestured to the empty seat next to him.

Shane sat down, and the moment he was settled, Ilya’s hand found his. It wasn't a hidden squeeze under a table this time; it was just... there. Ilya’s thumb traced slow, soothing circles over Shane’s knuckles.

"Good morning," Shane whispered, his heart feeling twice its normal size.

"Morning," Ilya replied, his voice a low rumble.

"AWWWW!"

The entire bus erupted in a synchronised chorus of teasing, causing Shane to bury his face in Ilya’s shoulder and Ilya looked up and down the aisle with a look of supreme, "I-don't-care" satisfaction. As the bus pulled away from the curb, heading toward a day of puppies and public appearances, the weight of being a "Stray" felt like the lightest thing in the world.

Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve: Stray Sanctuary

Chapter Twelve: Stray Sanctuary

The bus pulled up to a modest brick building surrounded by sprawling green grass and a chain-link fence. As they stepped out, the air was filled with a frantic, melodic symphony of barking.

Jean, the shelter manager, met them with a weary but warm smile. "Welcome, boys. I think it’s best we head to the grass. Between all of you and the dogs, we won’t fit inside!"

As they walked, Shane caught sight of the Boston media rep, unloading a professional camera from her car. The familiar "public figure" anxiety spiked in his chest. He subtly moved away from Ilya, putting some distance between them.

Ilya noticed the shift immediately. He leaned in, his voice a low rumble. "What is wrong? That’s Abby, PR person. You look like you are back in Montreal locker room."

"Abby is what’s wrong," Shane whispered, nodding toward the cameras. "Ilya, we have to be smart. We can’t go from 'hating' each other to best friends in one night. People will get suspicious."

Ilya’s brow furrowed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face, but he nodded. "Right. The 'Stray' is teammate now, best friend later. I understand."

They gathered in a large grassy circle. Jean began to explain the harsh realities of animal shelters, discussing the grim differences between kill and no-kill shelters.

"Do people know?" Bradley, one of the rookies, asked while raising a hand. "I mean, if they surrender a pet, does the shelter tell them if they're a kill shelter?"

"Sometimes not openly," Jean sighed. "It can be hidden in the fine print or just not mentioned."

Beside Shane, Ilya went rigid. His jaw set hard, and the air around him seemed to chill. It was a reminder that for Ilya, the concept of a "system" deciding someone's fate was a little too close to home.

"That's absolute bullshit," Cliff muttered, and Jean gave a grim nod of agreement.

Sensing the mood had dipped, Jean clapped her hands. "Alright, enough of the heavy stuff. Let’s meet the residents. Everyone, sit in a circle on the grass while I go get some of the dogs."

Ilya nudged Shane toward the other side of the group. "Go. Sit by Coach and Victor. We stay apart for today."

The final seating order was Victor, Shane, LeClaire, Cliff, then Ilya and the rest of the Boston team in a large circle, sitting patiently. 

Jean returned with the first four dogs. A golden Labrador pup immediately spotted Ilya and decided he was a jungle gym, sprinting over and knocking Boston’s best hockey player flat onto the grass to deliver a flurry of licks as he laughed and spoke to the dog in Russian.

Victor ended up with a tiny, trembling terrier mix breed. He started whispering to it in rapid-fire French, and Shane leaned over, joining in.

"Tu es si courageux, petit chien," Shane murmured, scratching the dog behind the ears. (You are so brave, little dog.)

Victor grinned at him. "Il t'aime déjà, Shane." (He already loves you, Shane.)

Abby moved around the circle, her camera clicking away. When she reached Shane, he looked up. "Abby? Just let me know if you need me to pose or do anything specific for the camera."

Abby laughed, shaking her head. "Honestly, Shane, if you could just teach Rozanov how to be this cooperative, my life would be easier. He usually just scowls at me."

Ilya—who was currently holding the Labrador, who was now asleep across his chest like a baby—stuck his tongue out at her.

"See?" Abby teased. "Just keep wearing the jersey and being yourself. The fans are already obsessed."

An hour later, the mood was light but bittersweet. Jean had to practically pry the Labrador off Ilya.

"I have suitcase," Ilya argued, looking at LeClaire. "He is small. He fits in overhead bin. He can be team mascot."

"Ilya, you cannot take the dog in the overhead," LeClaire said, though he was smiling. "We’ll come back and visit, and who knows, he might find his forever family because of you."

As the bus pulled back up to the Montreal team hotel, the reality of the situation came crashing back down. Shane stood in the aisle, looking at the sea of faces that had become his unexpected sanctuary.

"I... I just wanted to say thank you," Shane said, his voice thick with emotion. "For the last two days. Honestly? They’ve been the best two days of my life."

The bus went quiet. Ilya stood up, stepping into the aisle and pulling Shane into a fierce, rib-cracking hug. "Many more to come, Shane. I promise."

"Yeah, you're one of us now, Hollander!" Cliff yelled from the back, and the team erupted into a chorus of cheers.

Ilya pulled back just an inch, his hands on Shane’s shoulders. He searched Shane’s eyes, looking for permission. Shane gave a small, resolute nod.

In the middle of the Boston team bus, surrounded by the chaos of cheering hockey players, Ilya leaned down and kissed him. It wasn't a secret anymore. It wasn't a stolen moment in a dark room. It was calm, it was certain, and for the first time in years, it felt like home.

Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen: The Flight Home

Chapter Thirteen: The Flight Home

The transition from the rowdy, warm Boston bus to the quiet of the hotel room was jarring. Shane stepped inside, his heart still racing from that final, semi-public kiss, to find JJ Boiziau exactly where he’d left him: sprawled on the bed but now awake scrolling through his phone.

JJ looked up, a genuine smile breaking across his face. "There he is. How was the 'Adopt-a-Stray' debut? Did you have to wear a collar?"

Shane laughed, the tension leaving his shoulders in a long, shaky exhale. He sat on his own bed and told JJ everything—the puppies, Jean’s talk, and the image of Rozanov, the most feared power forward in the league, being utterly dismantled by a labrador puppy.

As they laughed, Shane slowly peeled off the STRAY #1 jersey. He folded it with obsessive care, tucking it into the deepest pocket of his gear bag like a hidden treasure. In its place, he pulled on a Montreal hoodie.

JJ watched him, his expression sobering. "Smart," he muttered.

Shane shrugged, but the weight of the hood felt heavy. He looked at JJ, the laughter dying in his throat. "JJ... I just don't get it. I played my heart out yesterday. I scored a hat trick. I’ve given Montreal two Cups and years of my life. I’ve never missed a practice, never caused a scandal... so why don't they like me? Why does it feel like I'm a traitor just for being happy for one morning?"

JJ’s face softened with a look of sadness and regret. He stood up and pulled Shane into a brief, firm hug. "I’m sorry, Captaine. I’m sorry I didn't stand up for you yesterday with Comeau and Coach. I was quiet, and that wasn't right. I'm with you, okay? Always."JJ told Shane about Coach losing it at him and Hayden before Shane had arrived. They had both been threatened with trades if they came to Shane’s defence. Shane couldn’t believe Theriault anymore, he was becoming unhinged. 

Shane and JJ were the first to arrive downstairs, taking a seat on a secluded leather sofa. To distract himself, Shane checked his Instagram. The Raiders' official account had already posted a carousel of images. He hit the re-post button before he even looked at the first photo. 

The first image was a shot of Shane and Victor whispering to the terrier, both of them looking relaxed and genuinely joyful. The caption was perfect: A successful first outing for Stray #1. Thanks to Jean and the shelter for this morning. Check the link in bio to help these pups find a home!

"Here’s the labrador," Shane whispered, showing JJ the photo of Ilya and the Labrador.

"What are we looking at?"

Shane jumped slightly as Hayden approached. Taking a deep breath, Shane didn't hide the phone. He invited Hayden to sit. Hayden sat and leaned in, scoffing as he saw the photo of Ilya. "The big bad Russian holding a puppy like a newborn? Please. Yesterday you hated that guy’s guts, Shane. Now you're doing photo ops?"

Shane felt the "Boston Bravery" kick in. He didn't flinch. "He was civil, Hayden. So I was civil back. Honestly, I spent most of the time with Victor and Cliff. They were... really welcoming. It was nice."

He flicked to the photo of him and Victor with the terrier. Hayden stayed silent for a moment, his eyes lingering on the genuine smile on Shane’s face—the kind of smile Hayden hadn't seen that often on his friend's face.

"You look happy there," Hayden said quietly.

"I was," Shane replied simply. "They’re nice guys, Hayden. It’s okay for us to be human off the ice."

”I’m sorry, and I’m sorry about last night. I should have said something. Theriault and Comeau were out of line.” Hayden apologised, gently bumping his shoulder against Shane’s. 

“We will support him from now on,” JJ proclaimed to Hayden, and Hayden nodded in agreement. 

The arrival of Coach Theriault ended the conversation. "Bus is here. Let’s move. We have a flight to catch and a lot of film to review on why we lost once we land." The walk to the bus was quiet, as it often was after a loss. Shane sat with Hayden, staring out the window at the Boston skyline. He felt the familiar weight of his Montreal captaincy—the pressure, the scrutiny, the isolation.

But as the plane lifted off, Shane thought of how he used to look forward to Boston games because they were the only time he could see Ilya. Now, he was looking forward to spending time with Ilya and the rest of the Boston team. He chuckled to himself as a thought came to mind, he was just like the stray dogs he met today, waiting patiently and looking forward to his next visit. Maybe Cliff Marlow was secretly a genius. 

Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen: The Group Chat and Yuna Hollander

Chapter Fourteen: The Group Chat and Yuna Hollander

Shane’s apartment in Montreal had never felt quieter. He was glad after the film review. Once he realised Theriault was just going to spend the whole time critiquing Shane, he had mentally switched off and doodled different dogs in his notebook rather than listen to the rubbish his coach was saying. He was eating a bowl of steamed vegetables and plain quinoa when his phone buzzed.

[Lily]: Permission to add you to Boston group chat?

Shane paused, his thumb hovering.

[Jane]: Is your management okay with that? I’m still a Metro, remember?

The reply was instantaneous.

[Lily]: Management is not in chat. Team is in the chat. We all want our Stray. 

Shane took a breath and typed back: [Jane]: Okay then.

The next thirty seconds were a digital avalanche. Notifications flooded his screen so fast his phone could have vibrated right out of his hand if he wasn’t holding it tightly enough.

[Cliff]: HOLLANDER!

[St-Simon]: Shane!!!!

[Bradley]: HOLLANDER!!!!! 🐾

[Ilya]: Don’t expect much from Mr. Boring. He doesn’t even know emojis. 

Shane chuckled, his chest warming. He typed a simple, [Shane]: Hi guys, and watched as the "typing..." bubbles multiplied. It was a chaotic, loud, and messy digital welcome. He was still grinning at a meme Cliff had sent of a labrador in a hockey helmet when the screen changed. 

Incoming Call: Yuna Hollander.

Shane’s smile shifted into something more guarded. "Hi Mum," he greeted, leaning against the counter, he had been waiting for her to call, and was honestly surprised it had taken her this long.

"Hello, Stray Number One," Yuna answered, her voice dry and humour as sharp as a razor. "Tell me you knew nothing about this."

Shane took a bite of his quinoa, choosing his words with the precision of a lawyer. "I was honestly surprised to hear about Boston’s 'Adopt a Stray' tradition, Mum." It wasn't a lie—he had been surprised when Cliff first announced it in the living room.

"Well," Yuna sighed, and Shane could practically hear her checking off a mental list. "It has proved to be spectacular PR. You’ve never been so popular, Shane. Social media is overwhelming in your corner, with Montreal fans as well as Boston supporters. My inbox is being bombarded. Everyone wants an interview. The jerseys sold out in hours, and animal rights associations are calling you and Boston miracle workers. Even the league office is re-posting the photos from today because public approval is so high."

Shane leaned back, letting her talk. He knew the drill; when Yuna was in "Manager Mode," it was best to let her talk.

"The shelter visit... you looked happy," she added. "How was it?"

Just as he had with JJ, Shane felt himself opening up. He told her about the dogs, the positive atmosphere, and the ease of spending the morning with the Boston team. "It was just... nice, Mum. Really nice."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "You sound happy, Shane," Yuna said quietly. The sharp edge of her voice had softened into something rare and vulnerable.

"I was," Shane admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I really was."

"And how are Montreal taking it?" Yuna asked, her tone shifting back to business.

Shane’s mood soured instantly. He thought about changing the conversation, or giving a non-answer, but after seeing LeClaire’s anger and then his frustration over not being able to say anything, he thought unleashing Yuna Hollander might be the next best thing. "It hasn't been good. Comeau called me a traitor. Coach Theriault... he threatened my captaincy, Mum. He told me if I got distracted, the 'C' was gone. Today's film review was just him nit-picking my every move while everyone else wasn’t even mentioned."

The silence on Yuna’s end was terrifying. Shane knew that silence—it was the sound of a storm front moving in.

"He threatened your captaincy?" Yuna’s voice was a low, dangerous vibration. "After two Stanley Cups? After you scored a hat trick yesterday? The nerve of that man. Dad and I will be up for the next game against Boston and he won’t know what hit him if he decides to open his mouth again."

Shane felt a flicker of panic. "Mum, wait. I’ll probably be booked for PR with Boston. We won’t be able to do our usual dinner."

"Then we’ll come to the PR event," Yuna stated, brooking no argument. "I’m proud of you, Shane. You’re doing something for a good cause, and you aren't bowing to that petty excuse of a coach. We’ll see you soon." As the line went dead, Shane looked at what remained of his dinner, no longer hungry. Within the month, his parents and Ilya were going to be closer than Shane had ever imagined. 

Chapter 15: Chapter Fifteen: The Bridge

Chapter Fifteen: The Bridge

The last two weeks, the Metros were a machine—winning against Florida, Tampa, and New York. Off the ice, the silence was less but the atmosphere was still uneasy. Shane found himself playing to win to stop Coach Theriault’s criticism, rather than for the roar of the crowd. He lived for the pings of his phone, private messages from Ilya and the Boston group chat that was a constant, rowdy stream of chirps, memes, and genuine check-ins.

Shane was currently perched on his sofa, his laptop balanced on his coffee table. On the screen, the Raiders were a blur of black hoodies and chaos, all crammed into Ilya’s living room.

"If we go to the shelter the morning of the game, we still have the next day free," Cliff was explaining.

Just as Ilya opened his mouth to speak, Shane’s doorbell rang. He frowned, heart skipping— he wasn’t expecting anyone. "One sec, guys," Shane said, stepping away from the camera.

He opened the door to find JJ Boiziau. "JJ? Everything okay?"

"Just checking in," JJ said, looking a bit sheepish. "Thought you might want a friendly face to talk to."

Shane felt a swell of gratitude. "Come in. I’m actually on a video call with... well, Boston."

JJ hesitated. "You want me to go?"

"No. Stay. Maybe you’ll see what I mean." Shane said.

As they walked into the living room, a scream erupted from the laptop speakers. "HOLLANDER! GET BACK HERE BEFORE I KILL HIM!"

Shane and JJ reached the screen just in time to see Cliff Marlow and Ilya Rozanov wrestling on the rug, a tangle of elite-athlete limbs, while the rest of the team moved back, half cheering and half shaking their heads, but no one moving to stop the spectacle before them.

"Marlow. Rozanov. Stop it."

Shane didn't raise his voice, but he used his "Captain’s Voice"—the one that commanded respect. The effect was instant. Both men froze at hearing their last names.

Ilya looked up, shaking his hair out of his eyes, and stopped dead when he saw JJ sitting next to Shane.

Shane didn't miss a beat. He grabbed his phone under the table, while JJ was looking intently at the screen at the scene before them, fingers flying as he sent a silent warning to the group chat: [Shane]: JJ doesn't know about Ilya and me. Watch the chirps.

A dozen phones in Boston chimed simultaneously. Eyes looked down, read the message, and then looked back up, understanding.

"Why was Marlow trying to kill you?" Shane asked, fixing Ilya with a look.

Ilya huffed, smoothing his shirt. "Marlow is old and slow. He is no threat. He is just mad because I do not want to go shopping."

"He promised!" Cliff countered, pointing a finger at Ilya. "He said he’d help me find a birthday gift for my sister tomorrow, and now he’s dodging!"

Shane raised a single, judgmental eyebrow at Ilya. Ilya looked at the camera, looked at Shane’s expression, and groaned. "Fine. We go shopping. Happy?"

JJ, watching from the side, let out a soft chuckle. "Once a capitaine, always a capitaine," he murmured, impressed at Shane’s wrangling skills. He then said a hello to the Boston team, which got many (but not all) of the players saying hello back. 

Shane flushed pink at JJs compliment, and he saw Ilya’s eyes narrow instantly at the sight of the blush, but not commenting. Shane tried to send a silent 'thank you' through the screen, hoping Ilya could read the gratitude in his eyes.

"So," Paul, the Boston goalie, intervened to get them back on track. "We have the shelter visit in Montreal the morning of the game, but we have most of the next day free because LeClaire moved the flight to the afternoon. Any ideas, Hollander?"

"What about the Rideau Canal?" JJ suggested suddenly.

"In Ottawa?" Shane asked, surprised.

JJ turned to him. "You were talking about it yesterday—how much you miss it. It’s only two hours away. You could leave early, skate, and be back in time for the flight."

Ilya leaned forward, chin in his hand. "What is 'Rideau Canal'?"

Shane’s face lit up, his voice losing its cautious edge. "Rozanov, it’s incredible. It’s miles of frozen river. You can skate forever. People skate, they play hockey, and either side of the ice is filled with food vendors, so the smells are incredible. It’s the best place in the world.”

Victor St-Simon grinned. "Well, that settles it. We are going to the Rideau Canal." The team cheered, the idea of an unofficial "team skate" with their Stray clearly winning them over.

"LeClaire is sending the email this afternoon," Cliff informed Shane.

Shane nodded, feeling JJ’s questioning gaze. "I’m skipping the optional morning skate for the shelter visit," Shane explained to JJ. "I was worried Theriault would try to use it to strip my 'C,' so LeClaire is emailing the NHL, Montreal, and my mother. It’s an official 'Adopt a Stray' PR event with league backing, Theriault can't touch me without looking like a villain."

JJ whistled. "That is smart. Using the system against him."

The conversation drifted easily into hockey—last night’s scores, power play stats, and league gossip. For the next hour, JJ sat beside Shane, laughing and contributing, any tension completely forgotten. When the call finally ended and Shane shut the laptop, the silence of the apartment felt different—warmer.

"See what I mean?" Shane asked softly.

JJ nodded, a thoughtful smile on his face. "They are good for you, Shane. And they are good with you. I’m glad they picked you."

Chapter 16: Chapter Sixteen: The Price of a Goal

Chapter Sixteen: The Price of a Goal

The Montreal morning air was biting as he exited an uber, but Shane felt a strange sense of warmth as he stood in the shelter parking lot. He was wearing the STRAY #1 jersey, its fabric smelling faintly of the lavender detergent he used at home. Behind him, the threat of Theriault lingered in the back of his mind—the coach had been purple with rage when he realised the "optional" skate was not going to include Shane — but the paper trail LeClaire had created was an ironclad shield from any consequences.

When the Boston bus pulled in, the doors hissed open to a wall of sound. The Raiders piled out, and one by one, and they pulled Shane into bruising, genuine hugs. When it was Ilya's turn, the hug lasted a beat longer than the rest—a silent, steady grounding that Shane leaned into with everything he had.

Patrick, the shelter manager, led them to a wide, fenced-in paddock. Before the visit, Ilya had been adamant: the "Adopt a Stray" funds would only go to approved shelters. Boston had people from the PR team check and ensure the shelters had good reviews, were actively trying to get their animals adopted, and were in need of extra money and support. It was a non-negotiable point that the entire team and Shane had rallied behind.

As they settled into their now-familiar circle—Victor, Shane, LeClaire, Cliff, and Ilya—the energy was happy and exciting. "Ten thousand more jerseys," Cliff said to Shane as Patrick went to fetch the dogs. "All gone. You’ll have half of America wearing your name soon."

Shane grinned, thinking of his parents. He’d managed to snag three for himself—one spare and two for Yuna and David. He’d almost laughed out loud the other morning when Hayden told him that his own wife, Jackie, had bought one. The "Adopt a Stray" tradition was becoming a movement.

The dogs exploded into the lawn as Patrick let them off their leads. Ilya was immediately claimed by a compact Staffy with a bright pink collar. He scooped her up, cradling her against his chest like a baby and murmuring soft, low Russian into her velvet ears.

Shane and Victor were captivated by a striking brown Collie. The dog’s eyes were unnervingly intelligent, tracking the ball that Patrick had given Shane with professional focus.

"She looks like she’s scouting us," Victor joked in English, as Ilya had banned any French, as they stood up and began a high-energy game of fetch.

Abby was everywhere, her camera shutter clicking like a heartbeat. Ilya, as usual, was playing a game of PR cat-and-mouse, ducking behind Cliff or turning his back whenever she aimed the lens his way.

Shane waited until Ilya walked past him. "Ilya," Shane whispered, leaning in close. "Make Abby’s life easier. One good photo session. I’ll give you whatever you want tonight, regardless of the score."

Ilya stopped dead. A slow, wicked smirk spread across his face. "Anything?"

"Anything." Ilya didn't hesitate. He turned on a dime, called out to Abby, and struck a pose with the Staffy that was so photogenic it would likely break the internet by noon. Victor had lost it laughing, joking that maybe Ilya needed a leash for when Shane walked him. Shane was just thankful that Ilya was far enough away that he didn’t hear the comment, no matter how much he thought it was funny. 

The transition at the rink was like stepping into a freezer. Shane pulled off the Stray #1 jersey on the bus, revealing his Montreal shirt, and walked into the locker room.

The silence was pointed. Theriault stood at the front, his eyes tracking Shane like a hawk watching a rabbit. "Glad you could join us, Hollander. Do you have anything you’d like to say to your team before the game?"

Shane stood, his voice steady. "We play together, we hold the line, we get the win. Let's keep this winning streak alive and growing." JJ and Hayden cheered, a solitary, brave sound that died out quickly when no one else joined in. The locker room felt like a funeral. 

The game was a war. Shane and Ilya played with a ferocity that bordered on desperation. Shane was a blur on the ice, netting a spectacular hat trick that had the Montreal fans roaring. Hayden had scored a single goal early on that had the team rushing to celebrate with him. Shane had joined in the pile, but had felt anger when his congratulations had only come from JJ and Hayden. 

But Boston was a wall. Ilya and Cliff had two goals apiece, as well as Bradley scoring one, and the clock was ticking down the final seconds.

Shane saw the opening. He was flying toward the net, perfectly positioned. Comeau had the puck. If he passed, it was a guaranteed goal. A tie. Overtime. And a chance to win. 

Shane screamed for the puck, his stick blade flat on the ice, ready. Comeau looked up. He saw Shane. Then, he looked away. Comeau chose to take a low-angle, impossible shot himself. Paul, the Boston goalie padded it away with ease just as the buzzer sounded.

Final Score: 5-4, Boston.

Shane stood in the crease, chest heaving, staring at Comeau. The fans were screaming, their anger overwhelming. It wasn't just a missed play. It was a message. He would rather lose the game than pass the puck to his "Stray" captain. The rift in the Montreal team was no longer just "awkward"—it was now affecting the scoreboard

Chapter 17: Chapter Seventeen: The Breaking Point

Chapter Seventeen: The Breaking Point

The locker room doors didn't just close; they practically shuddered under the force of Shane’s rage. For years, Shane Hollander had been the perfect person. He had been quiet, disciplined, and stoic. But seeing Comeau purposefully tank a game-tying play out of petty spite had finally snapped the tether.

Shane didn't even drop his gloves before he had Comeau pinned against the lockers. "What the hell was that about?" Shane roared, his voice echoing off the concrete. Hayden and JJ were right behind him, ready to intervene to protect Shane. 

"I don't play with traitors!" Comeau snarled back, trying to shove Shane off.

JJ jumped in, but not to calm Shane down. He shoved Comeau back into the metal locker with a resounding clang as the rest of the team watched in stunned silence, Hayden pulled Shane back slightly, putting room between him and Comeau. "You cost us the game," Shane yelled, his face flushed with a fury that looked alien on him. "You threw it away because you're a small, bitter prick!"

"Enough!" Theriault’s voice cut through the air like a whip. The coach stepped into the center of the room, looking not at Comeau, but at Shane. "It is your distractions that cost us this game, Hollander. You’re so busy playing house with the enemy that you’ve forgotten your own team. You brought this toxicity, not Comeau."

Shane spun on him. The dam didn't just leak; it burst. "I have carried this team for years!" he screamed, stepping into Theriault’s space. "I won you two Stanley Cups! I gave you my life, my time, and every bit of my soul! And the second—the second—someone else treats me with a shred of respect, you turn on me? You’re jealous, Theriault. You’re pathetic. I’m the only reason this team is even getting to the playoffs, and you’d rather sink our chances at a third Cup than admit the truth."

Shane was vibrating, his vision blurring with tears of pure adrenaline. He didn't notice the heavy silence falling over the room or the silent tears that were falling down Hayden’s face as he shared in Shane’s grief. He didn’t notice JJ positioning himself between Shane and Comeau, ready to act as a barrier if need be. He didn't notice that the locker room doors had been pushed open while he had been yelling at Theriault. He didn’t notice that standing in the doorway was the Boston Raiders team with LeClaire. They looked like a legion of death in their black and gold uniforms—Ilya and Cliff in the front, their expressions dark and lethal.

"Take the 'C' off," Theriault hissed. "Take it off now, or I’ll pull it off your chest myself."

Theriault took a menacing step toward Shane, but he never reached him. In a blur of black and gold, the gap was closed. Cliff and Victor moved like a synchronised unit, forming a physical wall between Shane and Theriault. Hayden once again grabbed Shane by the shoulder, holding him steady. Theriault's words had hit Shane like a physical blow. 

"You touch him," Ilya said, his voice a low, terrifying growl that made the Montreal players instinctively back away, "and you do not leave this room on your feet."

Coach LeClaire stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Theriault with pure disgust. "You are a pitiful excuse for a coach. Shane was the MVP tonight for Montreal, just like he's been for years. You don't deserve him."

JJ, seeing the chaos spiraling and the tension growing, didn't hesitate. He grabbed Shane’s gear bag, shoved his remaining belongings inside, and hoisted it over his shoulder. He walked over to Victor St-Simon. "Take this," JJ said, his voice firm. "It’s Shane’s stuff. Get him out of this toxic shithole."

Victor nodded gratefully, taking the bag. "We're leaving," Victor announced to the room. "And we're taking Hollander with us."

Ilya turned and nodded his thanks to Hayden and JJ, and then he and Cliff held Shane’s arms, half-carrying him as his knees began to give way. The adrenaline was crashing, and the realisation of what he’d just done—the bridges he’d just burned—was sending him into a hyperventilating panic.

"Breathe, Shane. Just breathe," Cliff whispered. "We've got you."

They swept out of the locker room and into the narrow concrete hallway leading to the exits. They were moving fast, the hockey players protecting Shane, until they stopped dead.

Standing in the middle of the hallway, blocking the exit like two statues of judgment, were Yuna and David Hollander.

Yuna’s arms were crossed over her expensive wool coat. Her eyes went from her son’s pale, panicked face, and then to the looks of fury and concern on every Boston player's face.

"Who do I need to kill?," Yuna asked, her voice freezing the air in the corridor. “Theriault or Comeau?"

Chapter 18: Chapter Eighteen: The Wrath of Yuna Hollander

Chapter Eighteen: The Wrath of Yuna Hollander

Ilya stood in the concrete hallway, his heart hammering against his ribs as he watched Shane struggle for air. He looked at Yuna Hollander. He had heard the stories—Shane’s whispered warnings about "Scary Yuna"—and in this moment, Ilya decided to point that weapon in the right direction.

"Theriault tried to rip the 'C' off him," Ilya said, his voice cold and steady. "We stopped him. He is reason Shane is like this."

Yuna’s face didn't just change; it transformed. The professional mask shattered, revealing a mother who was ready to burn the world down to protect her son.

"David, take Shane," Yuna ordered, her voice like a whip. "Rozanov, Marlow—you’re coming with me. You might be helping me bury a body later."

David Hollander didn't hesitate, stepping in to take Shane’s weight from Ilya. Coach LeClaire looked at the scene, realising that trying to stop Ilya and Cliff from following Yuna would be like trying to stop a landslide. He sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Should we take him to the hotel or his apartment?" LeClaire asked.

"Shane’s," Ilya answered immediately, his eyes never leaving Yuna. "Get out the weighted blankets from the back of his closet. Use two."

David’s head snapped up, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. How does Ilya Rozanov know about the blankets? Or that they were in the closet? But this wasn’t the right time to be asking questions. LeClaire nodded at Ilya, ushering the rest of the Boston team, David, and Shane toward the bus.

The apartment was quiet, a stark contrast to the violence of the rink. David used his spare key, and he and Victor led Shane to the sofa. Victor, moving with surprising familiarity, went straight to the closet and returned with the heavy gray blankets.

He draped them over Shane, tucking the edges in. The effect was magical. The physical weight grounded Shane’s nervous system; his gasping breaths slowed, and his glazed eyes finally began to focus.

David watched this, his mind racing. Victor and Ilya knew the layout of his son's home. They knew his comforts. There are questions I need to ask, David thought, but not tonight.

"Pizza's on the way," LeClaire announced, sliding his phone into his pocket. Muttered thanks came from around the house from the Boston team. They were still all in their gear, sweaty and exhausted from the long day and game. 

"Thank you," Shane whispered. He looked around the room. "Where are Ilya and Cliff? And... where's Mum?"

"They're with her at the rink," David said, adding the use of first names to his questions list.

Shane’s eyes went wide. He tried to surge upward, but the force of the weighted blanket pinned him down. "She’s going to kill Coach! And they’re going to help her!"

Back in the locker room, the air didn't just chill when Yuna entered—it froze. Ilya and Cliff flanked her like two massive, silent enforcers.

Yuna didn't waste words. She flew across the room and slammed Theriault back against the metal lockers, the sound echoing like a gunshot, just as it had earlier when Shane had done the same to Comeau. "You miserable, small-minded coward," she hissed, her face inches from his.

Ilya stood nearby, his eyes scanning the room. He saw Comeau edge forward, looking like he wanted to intervene. Ilya stepped into his path, his height and sheer bulk an immovable wall. He didn't say a word; he just stared at Comeau with an expression that said: Give me a reason.

Across the room, Cliff caught Hayden’s eye. Cliff knew JJ and Hayden were Shane’s only friends on the team. 

"Is he okay?" Hayden mouthed, his face pale.

"They’re taking him home," Cliff replied, his voice softening. "He's not alone. He's safe."

JJ and Hayden shared a look of pure relief, but it was short-lived.

"Hollander is suspended!" Theriault yelled at Yuna, trying to regain some shred of authority. "He’s done on this team!"

Yuna went deathly quiet. She stepped back, smoothing her coat, but her eyes were lethal. "You’ll be hearing from my legal team in the morning. And Shane Hollander will be waiving his no-trade clause immediately. He is done being blamed for every loss this team has. Especially when it’s your poor excuse for coaching and the toxic players on this team that’s to blame.” 

JJ and Hayden felt the floor drop out from under them. They were going to lose Shane. As they looked at the people around them, they knew it was exactly what Montreal deserved.

Chapter 19: Chapter Nineteen: The Sleepover 

Chapter Nineteen: The Sleepover 

The apartment was a hive of quiet, purposeful activity. The entire Boston team knew where everything was in his apartment, thanks to Ilya making him to do a walk through of the house on video call once, while announcing to the team that his boyfriend was ‘Mr Real Estate’, though in a way he was grateful as Victor had been able to fetch his weighted blankets, and the team had been able to utilise the bathrooms while he had been in shock. Following LeClaire’s orders, the rookies had vanished to the hotel in a taxi to fetch everyone’s bags. They were committed now; no one was sleeping in a hotel bed tonight. They were camping out in the spare rooms and on the floor of their stray’s living room.

Shane was kneeling on the floor, the hum of an electric pump filling the room as he inflated the last of three air mattresses he hadn't touched since a camping trip with the Pike family years ago. It felt surreal—but it kept him busy doing something other than worrying. No one had let him leave to stop Ilya, Cliff and his mother from committing any crimes, and he had too much pent up energy now to stay sitting on the couch. 

The front door opened, and the tension in the room spiked and then immediately dissipated as Yuna, Ilya, and Cliff walked in.

Ilya and Cliff looked exhausted, but their eyes were bright with a dark kind of triumph. They didn't say a word, heading straight for the pizza boxes like a pair of starving wolves.

Shane stood up, smoothing his hands on his pants. He walked to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of Ilya’s Russian vodka he kept tucked in the back, and caught Ilya’s eye. A silent question passed between them. Ilya gave a short, sharp nod. Shane poured a chilled glass, handed it to him, and tucked the bottle back into its hiding spot.

David Hollander sat in an armchair, watching the exchange with narrowing eyes. Another question for later to add to the list: why does my son keep Russian vodka in the back of his fridge? He glanced at Yuna, who was watching Shane and Ilya with a calculating, sharp expression. She definitely had her own list.

"Is Theriault still alive?" LeClaire asked, leaning against the kitchen counter and eyeing the three of them, but settling on Ilya.

Ilya took a sip of the vodka, exhaling a long, cold breath. "I am innocent man," he said with a mock-pout. "Yuna is one you should ask. She is terrifying. She would make very good Russian."

Shane let out a genuine chuckle at that, drifting toward Ilya’s side. He looked at his mother, his heart hammering. "So? What happened?"

"Theriault is alive," Yuna stated, her voice returning to its professional, icy clip. "He has officially suspended you. I will be on the phone with the legal team tomorrow morning."

The news hit Shane like a body check. Even though he’d seen it coming, hearing the word suspended felt like having his heart cut out.

"Coach will be on phone tomorrow morning too," Ilya said solemnly, not looking up from his pizza and vodka.

LeClaire squinted at his captain. "Will I, Rozanov?"

"Da," Ilya said, finally looking up with a grin of pure, predatory satisfaction. "Shane Hollander is waiving no-trade clause. We can adopt officially now."

The apartment went dead silent. David Hollander gasped; LeClaire’s mouth actually fell open. Shane stood frozen, the reality of Ilya’s words sinking in. They weren't just playing "Adopt a Stray" for the cameras anymore. They were going to make it real.

The silence lasted three seconds before the room exploded. The Boston players erupted into a chorus of whoops and cheers, Victor slamming a hand onto the table so hard the empty pizza boxes went airborne.

Shane looked at LeClaire across the room. The Boston coach had one eyebrow arched high, his brain clearly already reworking his power-play lines to include a certain former Montreal superstar.

"I want an official adoption ceremony," Shane declared, his voice rising above the noise, clear and certain. The Boston Raiders responded with a roar of laughter and approval that shook the walls of the apartment.

Chapter 20: Chapter Twenty: The Morning After

Chapter Twenty: The Morning After

The apartment was a labyrinth of tangled limbs and borrowed blankets. In the living room, air mattresses were full of sleeping pro hockey players, and the two guest rooms were filled beyond capacity. In the master bedroom, Shane, Ilya, Cliff, and Victor—piled into Shane’s king-sized bed.

"Only sleeping tonight, boys," Cliff had muttered with a sleepy grin as he claimed the far edge. "I'm too tired for anything else." Ilya snorted at that, while pulling Shane towards him at the same time. 

Long after the lights went out, David and Yuna Hollander crept into the bedroom. They stood in the shadows, looking at Shane and Ilya as they slept, their bodies tangled together, with Ilya’s arm draped heavily and protectively across Shane’s chest, while Shane used Ilya’s other arm as his pillow, closely tucked into Ilya’s neck.

They retreated to the kitchen table, snoring and the low hum of the refrigerator the only other sounds as they whispered in the dark. They spoke about what they had witnessed, their questions, and both their eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place, no matter how unlikely it was.  

"They all know," Yuna whispered, her voice full of shock. "The entire Boston Raiders hockey team has been helping them. Helping Shane."

David nodded slowly, thinking of how comfortable Shane had looked and acted this evening, and felt grateful to all the men sleeping around them. David and Yuna spent the rest of the night combing through news articles and social media. 

The entire world had Shane’s back, and the outrage over Comeau and Montreal was deafening. Not just fans, but players from other teams, and news outlets were all in agreement, Comeau’s actions lost Montreal the game, and Montreal suspending Shane was the most outrageous thing to happen in the hockey world this season. Many were questioning if the suspension was even legal, and were hoping Shane would fight it. 

At 5:00 AM, Shane’s internal clock woke him up. He moved with the grace of a cat, easing out from under Ilya’s arm. As he stood, Ilya immediately rolled over and threw an arm around a snoring Cliff Marlow, pulling him close. Shane had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud at the sight.

He dressed quickly and slipped into the living room, finding his parents at the kitchen table. They looked exhausted, the weight of the night’s revelations etched in the shadows under their eyes.

"Want to come on a bakery run?" Shane suggested softly. "We have a small army to feed." Yuna and David nodded, with Yuna grabbing her keys. They shared a look and decided to get this conversation over with early. 

He left a quick note on the whiteboard: Gone to get us all breakfast. Back in 20. Don't eat each other.

The morning air was crisp as they walked toward Yuna’s car. The silence that came with early mornings surrounded them—until David stopped beside the car and looked at his son.

"Shane," David began, his voice steady but gentle. "Are you okay to answer a few questions?"

Shane felt that familiar spike of anxiety, but then took a deep breath and summoned his new Boston bravery. He squared his shoulders. "Ask me anything, Dad."

David exchanged a glance with Yuna before turning back to Shane. "You and Ilya..." He let the sentence hang, giving Shane the power to finish it on his own terms.

Shane looked at his parents—the people who had raised him, managed his career, pushed his limits, and loved him unconditionally. The tears pricked his eyes, but he didn't look away.

"Yes," Shane said, his voice small but clear. "Ilya and I. We’re together. I love him.”

Any tension broke as David and Yuna stepped forward simultaneously, pulling him into a crushing three-way hug.

"Oh, Shane," David murmured into his hair. "We love you. This changes nothing"

Yuna pulled back just enough to wipe a stray tear from Shane’s cheek, her dry humor returning like a shield. "Well, I suppose one thing changes. I didn't realise that you dating Ilya Rozanov meant I was also adopting the entire Boston Raiders roster. They didn’t explain that this ‘Adopt a Stray’ tradition ran both ways." Shane let out a loud, wet laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet morning air.

Chapter 21: Chapter Twenty-One: Shane, the genius 

Chapter Twenty-One: Shane, the genius 

Shane, Yuna, and David arrived back from the bakery looking like they were catering an event, not breakfast, their arms overflowing with bags of fresh croissants, baguettes, pastries, and rolls.

In the kitchen, Ilya was busy slicing fruit on a chopping board. He had found every piece of fruit in Shane's fridge and was methodically slicing it into neat bowls.

"Fruit is for your smoothie first," Ilya explained. "The rest can be for fruit salad."

Shane walked over, feeling lighter than air. Without thinking he leaned in and kissed Ilya’s cheek. Ilya froze, a piece of strawberry halfway to a bowl. He looked at Shane, then at Yuna and David, who were watching with supportive smiles.

"They know," Shane whispered. Then, he kissed him again.

The transformation was instant. The shock was replaced by a grin so wide it looked like his face might break. Reinvigorated and full of joy, Ilya turned to the living room and clapped his hands like a thundercrack as he roared, "everyone up! One hour until we leave for the Canal! Move, move, move!"

Shane went to get plates out for breakfast and then realised there were definitely more people than plates. He looked at Yuna, “there’s not enough plates for everyone.” Yuna’s eyes swept over the kitchen, problem solving. She walked over, opening a drawer, getting out an industrial roll of baking paper. Quickly, she covered the whole table in sheets of baking paper, and then started placing out the baked goods on top. Shane and David helped get all the food out of the bags, and soon the table was overflowing with a breakfast big enough for Boston’s appetite. 

Shane quickly picked out what fruit he needed for his smoothie and then placed the rest of the fruit bowls around the edge of the table holding the edges of baking paper down. 

Ilya came back through after heading to the bedroom to wake up Marlow and St Simon, and his smile went wider taking in the sight of the breakfast setup. He grabbed a bagel and stood next to Shane as he enjoyed his smoothie, both watching everyone enjoying breakfast. 

As the group packed and prepped, the apartment took on the lived-in chaos of a true home. Yuna hesitated by the door, checking her watch. "Shane, your Dad and I were going to come to the Canal, but I have to deal with these lawyers. We should stay."

"Come," Shane said, a new, sharp confidence in his voice. "I have an idea. We’ll sort it on the bus."

A while later, the Boston Raiders bus was idling at the curb. As it pulled away, the interior went deathly silent. Every player, from the veterans to the rookies, leaned in as Yuna Hollander dialed the NHL league offices.

"I don't want just the legal team," Yuna said into the speakerphone, her voice a cold, professional blade. "I want the Commissioner too. Now."

The power of Yuna and the Hollander name worked its magic. Within minutes, the legal team and the Commissioner were on the line, sounding wary. Shane took the phone from his mother.

"This is Shane Hollander," he said. The bus held its collective breath. Shane laid it all out—the harassment, the missed plays, the threat to his captaincy, and the almost physical confrontation in the locker room resulting in his suspension. "I know I can sue. I know I’d win. It would be a PR nightmare for the League, and the settlement would have too many zeroes for you to be comfortable with."

"What do you propose, Shane?" the Commissioner asked, his voice sounding small over the speakers.

"Two conditions," Shane stated. "One: The League does whatever administrative magic is necessary to make me a Boston Raider, effective today. Two: I will not sign an NDA. I'm not looking for a tell-all book deal or to spill everything on television, but I am done lying for people who don't deserve my silence."

The lawyers on the other end began to squawk, but Shane held firm. He wasn't the "Golden Boy" anymore; he was a man who knew his worth and was done letting people walk over him. After a tense, agonising minute of muffled consultation, the Commissioner’s voice returned.

"Agreed. We will send the digital paperwork to Coach LeClaire and your mother within the hour."

The line went dead. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the hum of the bus tires on the asphalt. Then, Ilya exploded out of his seat.

"MY SHANE IS GENIUS!" he roared, ignoring LeClaire’s half-hearted "Sit down, Rozanov!"

Ilya didn't sit down, instead pulling Shane up to join him in a loud, celebratory kiss that was met with a deafening cacophony of hoots, cheers, and sticks banging against the floor of the bus.

They weren't just going to the Rideau Canal for a skate. They were going to celebrate as a complete team.

Chapter 22: Chapter Twenty-Two: The Rideau Canal

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Rideau Canal

The Rideau Canal was a masterpiece of white ice and winter sunlight, stretching over 7 kilometres through the heart of Ottawa. For Shane, it was the smell of baked goods, woodsmoke and the sound of blades on wild ice that made it feel like a homecoming.

He didn't give the others a chance to gawk. He grabbed Ilya by one hand and Victor by the other, dragging them toward the wooden benches. "Hurry up! The ice is perfect today."

Ilya’s eyes were wide, darting between the massive stone walls of the canal and the families gliding past. Most of the Boston Raiders had never seen anything like this. To them, ice was something measured, polished and surrounded by plexiglass. Here, it was like a never ending horizon.

"It is... big," Ilya said, sounding uncharacteristically small.

Coach LeClaire was already on his phone, snapping photos. "Abby is going to kill me if I don't get content," he muttered, though he looked just as impressed as the rookies.

Shane was the first to lace up. He stood on his blades, the STRAY #1 jersey bright against the snow-covered banks. He looked down at Ilya, who was still fumbling with his laces because he kept getting distracted, and poked his tongue out.

"Can’t catch me, Rozanov!" Shane shouted, and then he was gone.

He didn't skate like a pro in a drill; he skated like a kid on the first day of winter. He carved deep, effortless arcs into the ice, disappearing into the crowd of tourists and families.

"HOLLANDER! YOU CHEATER!" Ilya’s roar echoed over the canal a second later. He scrambled onto the ice, his powerful stride immediately eating up the distance, though he had to dodge a group of toddlers in maple-leaf sweaters.

The rest of the team followed, their laughter a bright, loud contrast to the quiet morning. High above on the bank, Yuna and David Hollander found a table at a coffee shop. They watched, sharing a quiet smile as they saw a flash of a Boston jersey weaving through the crowd, followed closely by a very determined Russian.

What started as a chase between two lovers turned into the most high-stakes, chaotic game of tag in Ottawa’s history. The Boston Raiders—some of the best athletes in the world—were suddenly playing like children. They utilised the vast space, using bridge pillars as "bases" and weaving around the public and kiosks.

LeClaire gave up on photos. He held his phone steady, filming the sight of his elite roster nearly falling over themselves with laughter.

The public began to notice. People stopped skating to watch the spectacle. "Is that... is that the Boston Raiders?" someone whispered. Soon, a small crowd had gathered on the bridges above, cheering when Shane pulled a tight turn to evade a lunging Cliff, and booing playfully when Victor got tagged ‘it’ by a rookie.

The fun only stopped when LeClaire checked his watch and whistled. "Alright, boys! Fun's over. We have a bus waiting, an apartment to clear out, and a plane to board."

They skated back to the benches, their faces flushed red from the cold and their breath coming in white clouds. As they sat to take off their skates, the atmosphere was one of total, exhausted contentment.

"I think," Ilya panted, leaning his head on Shane’s shoulder, "I like Rideau Canal as much as you."

"It’s not the ice," Shane whispered back, squeezing Ilya's hand discreetly. "It’s the company." They piled back onto the bus, leaving the canal behind. Shane looked out the window as they drove away, knowing that while he was leaving his old life in the rearview mirror, he was finally heading toward exactly where he was meant to be.

Chapter 23: Chapter Twenty-Three: The Cost of Coming Home

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Cost of Coming Home

The packing of the Montreal apartment was a whirlwind of efficiency. With the combined efforts of the Raiders and Shane’s parents, the life Shane had built there was dismantled and tucked into suitcases within the hour. Yuna and David stayed behind, promising to handle the cleaning and tidying up, but their eyes were fixed on Shane with a newfound softness as they watched him head for the door.

Shane felt a jittery, electric kind of excitement. He was moving to Boston. He was going to be moving in with Ilya. They had already agreed on the cover story: it was "temporary" while Shane scouted for his own place. It was a lie they were both happy to tell if it meant waking up in the same bed every morning.

As they were dropped off by a taxi outside Ilya’s house after a quiet flight, the shared excitement died the moment they reached Ilya's doorstep.

Two large, battered cardboard boxes were waiting by the door. They were covered in Russian shipping labels, the corners crushed from a long journey across the world.

Inside the house, the atmosphere shifted from celebratory to stone-cold. Shane helped Ilya lug the heavy boxes into the living room. Ilya’s hands were steady as he sliced the tape on the first one, but as soon as he saw the single sheet of paper resting on top, his posture went rigid.

The letter was from his brother, Andrei. It was short, brutal, and final.

Father died two months ago. I had him buried next to Mother. You abandoned your family. I have packed what was yours. Do not come back to Russia. You have no home here. You have no brother.

Ilya stood frozen, the paper trembling slightly in his grip. Then Ilya began to move with a frantic, desperate energy, tearing into the second box. He bypassed the old jerseys and childhood trophies until he found a worn-out shoe box at the bottom.

He opened it. It was filled with photographs. Ilya and his mother laughing in a park; a grainy shot of a young Ilya and Andrei on a frozen pond; his father looking stern but proud beside a much younger version of Ilya in his hockey gear.

The first tear fell, just missing the photo and hitting the floor. Then another. Ilya didn't sob; he just went quiet, the tears still falling.

"I have been sending money," Ilya whispered, his voice cracking. "Every two weeks, for the doctors. For Andrei to buy the good medicine for Papa. I thought it was strange he had not called to scream at me for more... I thought maybe things were finally better."

He pulled his phone out and his fingers moved over the phone screen, a few sharp taps officially ending the bank transfers to a brother who had been lying to him for months. The strong, untouchable Ilya Rozanov seemed to collapse inward. He sat on the floor among the boxes, his broad shoulders shaking. Shane didn't say a word.

He simply sat behind Ilya on the rug and pulled him back. Ilya went willingly, curling his large frame until his head was resting in Shane’s lap.

Shane ran his fingers through Ilya’s curls, a rhythmic, grounding motion. He let the photos and contents of the boxes sit scattered around them, providing a steady and comforting hand, and the knowledge that while Ilya might have lost a family in Russia, he had Shane and his found family in Boston.

Chapter 24: Chapter Twenty-Four: No More Hiding

Chapter Twenty-Four: No More Hiding

Shane woke up with a sharp ache in his back and a crick in his neck from sleeping on the hardwood floor, his lap empty. He couldn’t believe he had fallen asleep holding Ilya on the floor. He quickly checked his phone, he’d been asleep for an hour. 

He scrambled to his feet, a momentary spike of panic hitting him. "Ilya?"

He followed the sound of rustling from the master bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, bracing himself to find Ilya in the midst of a breakdown. Instead, he found a whirlwind.

Ilya was methodically clearing out half of his massive walk-in closet. He was tossing old suits onto the bed and shifting his jerseys to one side, making space for Shane.

"Ilya?" Shane asked softly, leaning against the doorframe. "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

Ilya turned around. He wasn't crying. His eyes were clear, and a sharp, determined grin stretched across his face.

"I am better than okay, Shane," Ilya said, his voice firm. He gestured to the empty shelves. "I was awake thinking while you napped. There is no reason to hide anymore. No more need for 'temporary' apartment story."

Shane walked over, placing a hand on Ilya’s arm. "But you’ll never go back to Russia then, Ilya. Not safely."

Ilya pointed at the open shoe box of photos he had placed on the dresser. "In Russia, there are only graves now. Everything that mattered from Russia was in boxes."

He stepped closer to Shane, his intensity radiating off him. "I do not want to be your rival. I do not want to be your 'teammate.' I do not want to be secret anymore."

Before Shane could process the words, Ilya dropped to one knee among the discarded clothes. He didn't have a velvet box or a ring; he just had a look of unshakable certainty blended with absolute love.

"Shane Hollander," Ilya said, his voice thick with emotion. "You hold my heart. You are my home. Will you marry me?"

Shane didn't hesitate. "Yes! Yes, Ilya. I love you, yes."

Ilya surged upward, lifting Shane off his feet and spinning him around the room kissing him like his life depended on it. Soon clothes added to the mess on the floor, and the bed creaked as they celebrated their engagement and the first step towards their happy ending. 

Chapter 25: Chapter Twenty-Five: The Gold Band

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Gold Band

Shane and Ilya eventually left the bed, showered, and dressed in clean clothes. Shane found his phone where he left it on the coffee table and video called his parents, eager to share the good news. Ilya had told him to go ahead, that he just needed to get something and he would be there. 

Yuna appeared on the screen first, a cup of coffee in her hand. "How was the flight, Shane? Did you finish unpacking already?"

"The flight was fine," Shane mumbled, his heart beginning to thrum with excitement. "Mum, can you get Dad? I have something to tell you both."

David appeared a moment later, leaning over Yuna’s shoulder. Shane took a deep breath, a smile covering his whole face. "Ilya proposed. I said yes."

The reaction was instantaneous. David’s eyes went wide and then teary, and Yuna let out a sharp gasp. "Oh, Shane! Congratulations. Let me see the ring!"

Shane flushed. "Actually, it was spur of the moment, Mum. We haven't—"

He was cut off as Ilya appeared and shifted beside him. "Shane. Give me left hand."

Shane offered it, confused, only to watch Ilya hold out a thin, delicate band of plain gold. It was warm from his skin. Ilya slid it onto Shane’s ring finger, and it glided on as if it had been made for him.

"It was with mama’s things," Ilya said softly into the silence of the video call. "It is from her family."

Shane choked up, staring at the gold band. It was simple, special, and carried the weight of a woman he would never meet, but who had raised the man he loved. "It’s perfect, Ilya. It’s absolutely perfect."

Ilya didn't waste any time. He took to the Raiders' group chat with a military-grade summons: Dinner at my house. 7:00 PM. Mandatory. No excuses. He messaged LeClaire the same thing, with LeClaire replying that he was meant to boss Ilya around, not be bossed around by Ilya. 

By seven, the house was packed. The air was filled with the usual rowdy energy, though a few players looked significantly worse for wear.

"I love you guys," Cliff groaned as he dropped onto the sofa, "but I was really looking forward to a lazy night of doing absolutely nothing. My knees still hurt from the Canal. Why are we here?"

Shane kept his hands shoved deep into his pockets, leaning against the kitchen island.

Ilya stepped into the centre of the room. The chatter died down instantly. First, he told them about the boxes. He told them about his father’s passing and the letter from his brother. The room went somber; the Raiders mourning Ilya’s loss with him.

Then, Ilya’s expression shifted. The brooding captain vanished, replaced by a man with a grin and triumphant spark in his eye. "And because I have nothing left in Russia, there is no more reason for us to hide," Ilya announced, "Shane and I are engaged."

Shane lifted his left hand out of his pocket, the gold band catching the light. He shook his head at Ilya, a small, knowing smile on his face as the emotional whiplash hit the team. Once an arsehole, always an arsehole. Ilya had jumped from tragedy to joy in a single breath, dragging everyone along for the ride. If chaos existed as a person, Ilya would be it. 

But as the team erupted into a roar of cheers that likely shook the neighbours' windows, Shane realised he wouldn't have it any other way. Ilya was his.

Chapter 26: Chapter Twenty-Six: The Official Adoption

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Official Adoption

The second "game plan" was drafted over greasy pizza boxes and scribbled napkins. Another tradition. They worked with precision and the goal was simple: start with the formal adoption ceremony, then hit the world with the "Hard Launch"—a polished video, edited by Abby, that would reveal their relationship and engagement in one final, world-stopping blow. Ilya was already excited at the idea of breaking the internet and the hockey world simultaneously. 

Shane received one adoption present early. It was from JJ and Hayden, who had been invited but unable to come due to a Montreal match that evening. When Shane opened it, he burst into a fit of laughter that nearly had him doubled over. Inside was a high-end leather dog collar with a polished silver tag.

STRAY #1

SHANE HOLLANDER

The collar was tiny—clearly meant for a literal dog. Ilya snatched it up, grumbling about "dumb Montreal players" and that the collar was "too small for Shane to wear," though he carefully placed it on a shelf full of their trophies.

Two days later, the arena was a sea of black and gold. Yuna and David sat in the front row, their faces beaming with a pride wearing the Stray #1 jerseys that Shane had got them. 

The atmosphere inside the arena was electric. Thousands of fans were decked out in their STRAY #1 jerseys, their screams shaking the rafters as the Boston Raiders lined up on the ice.

Coach LeClaire took the microphone first. "In this league, we talk a lot about trades and contracts. But sometimes, you don't just sign a player. You find someone who belongs with you." He turned to Shane. "Shane Hollander, Stray #1, we are beyond proud to officially adopt you and call you a Raider."

Ilya stepped forward, his eyes burning with an intensity that made the crowd lean in. He was holding a crisp, folded Boston jersey. He shook it out, revealing the familiar colors and a familiar number: 24.

Shane slid the jersey on right over his "Stray" gear. The roar from the fans was deafening. Shane took the microphone, his hand steady even as his heart hammered. "I spent a long time believing that if I worked hard enough, won enough games, and stayed quiet enough, Montreal would eventually accept me," he told the silent arena.

"I was wrong. Nothing I ever did, including two Stanley Cups proved enough for them. And I’ve learnt that you don't find a home by staying quiet. You find it by being brave enough to take chances, to trust in other people, and to leave the places that don't want you. I’m forever grateful to the Boston Raiders for being brave enough to call out the truth, and for helping me find the courage to stand up for myself."

He barely finished the sentence before he was swallowed by a massive, surging group hug. It was a riot of black and gold—a pack of brothers who had gone to war for him before he even wore their colours. As Shane looked out over the cheering fans, he realised that while the collar from JJ and Hayden was a joke, the sentiment was real: the Stray was no longer lost. He had found his forever home.

The video was barely three minutes long, but every second was years in the making. Abby had chosen a crisp, sun-drenched afternoon in Ilya’s backyard. There was no flashy studio, no teleprompter, and no PR minders hovering in the background. It was just a wooden bench, a backdrop of budding spring trees, and two men who finally had nothing left to hide.

The frame opened on them sitting close—shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Shane was wearing a simple black sweater that matched Ilya’s. On Shane’s left hand, the thin gold band of Ilya’s mother glinted, a silent promise finally brought into the light. Ilya was wearing a ring of a similar style but thicker in width, once belonging to Shane’s grandfather. 

"We aren't here to give you a timeline or justification," Shane started, his voice calm and grounded. "There are parts of our lives that belong only to us, and we intend to keep it that way."

Ilya took over, his Russian accent thick but his English clear. "We have been together since before we were drafted. We were boys who found each other in the middle of chaos. For years, we were 'rivals' because we were told we had to be. Pressure from Russia made it too dangerous to consider telling truth."

They spoke about the All-Star game—the turning point where they realised the strength of their feelings and the decision to become exclusive. They spoke with soft smiles about how Cliff Marlow and the Raiders had stumbled upon their secret and, instead of turning them away, had supported them.

"The 'Adopt a Stray' tradition was born out of love," Shane explained, glancing at Ilya. "The team saw we were drowning in the distance between us, and they gave us a way to breathe. They gave us a way to spend more time together safely."

"The Stray tradition will continue," Ilya added, looking directly into the lens. "There are always players who are lost, who are mistreated, or who simply need a family. The Raiders will always have room for a Stray. But," he paused, his hand moving to cover Shane’s on the bench, "no one will ever fit the criteria of the first."

The video didn't end with a grand speech or a scripted kiss. It ended with a quiet, intimate close-up.

"We wanted you to hear it from us," Shane’s voice-over said as the camera zoomed in on their interlaced fingers. "We are staying with Boston. We are staying together. And we are getting married."

The sun caught the edge of the gold ring, a brilliant flash of light that signaled the end of the video.

When Abby hit "upload" on the Raiders' official channels, the hockey world shifted on its axis. Within seconds, the "rivalry" was dead, replaced by a love story that had survived years of hiding. You couldn’t turn on a tv, listen to the radio, or open social media without being exposed to it. Not that long ago, Shane would have panicked at the mere thought of so much exposure, but now, being with Ilya gave him the strength to face it all with his head held high. 

Chapter 27: Epilogue: The Next Five Years

Chapter Notes

Epilogue: The Next Five Years 

The history books would remember the years that followed as the "Golden Age of Boston." For four consecutive seasons, the NHL ladder looked like a foregone conclusion. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, playing on the same line, were a force of nature that defied logic. They won four Stanley Cups back-to-back. They finally tasted defeat in the fifth year, losing to New York by a single, heartbreaking point in Game 7, but by then, their legacy was already untouchable. Montreal had not made a playoff since Shane left the team, and Theriault had only lasted one more year before being removed as coach, and had been unable to find another coaching position with any NHL team. 

The "Adopt a Stray" tradition became the unofficial heartbeat of Boston. As Ilya had promised, adoption meant for life, and so the Strays were announced at the beginning of the season and traded into Boston officially, adoption ceremony and all. These people were chosen carefully, by the whole team. While Boston remained the most stable team in the NHL, some players retired or requested trades when offered Captain’s positions on other teams. The NHL was becoming a better environment, one player at a time, and Boston was showing them the way. 

Stray #2: Ryan Price was rescued from another one year contract and brought into the fold. ‘Pay the Price’ became a thing of the past, and Ryan learnt to love hockey again. 

Stray #3: Troy Barrett joined the pack after speaking out against Toronto’s Captain.

Stray #4: Wyatt Hayes found his home in Boston and in the goals, after being kept on a bench with his previous team for a whole season. 

Stray #5: Luca Haas, became the first draft pick adoptee, after leaving his home and country to play hockey in the NHL.

The "Adopt a Stray" charity events became the most anticipated dates on the NHL social calendar. Millions of dollars were raised for animal shelters across America, with each new "Stray" bringing a fresh wave of awareness and compassion to the sport.

The team grew into a powerhouse of talent and loyalty. Even the management changed slightly over the years; Harris Drover joined Abby’s social media team, and it wasn't long before he and Troy Barrett became the second out hockey couple in Boston, proving that Shane and Ilya had paved a safe road that others were able to walk. Brandon Wiebe was hired as assistant coach, helping LeClaire guide the team to victory after victory, and was the first coach to come out as bisexual. 

Boston became unofficially known as the "Gayest Team in Hockey," a title the city and the players wore with fierce, rowdy pride. Ilya, in particular, became a magnet for Pride merchandise. Shane often joked that their hallway looked less like a home and more like a flagship store for all things Pride, but Ilya just wore every shirt and hat with a content, happy grin.

Their wedding didn't happen in a cathedral or a luxury holiday location. It happened where their hard launch video had been filmed—in the quiet privacy of Ilya’s backyard. It was a sea of familiar faces. The entire Boston team acted as a collective wedding party. JJ, Hayden and Jackie Pike flew in from Montreal. Svetlana walked the rings down the aisle for them. LeClaire got certified online to marry them. Yuna walked Ilya down the aisle, and then David followed with Shane. The front row consisted of their close family, very little of it blood related, with Yuna, David, Svetlana, Cliff, Victor, Hayden and JJ smiling proudly. By the time Shane and Ilya had finished exchanging vows, Yuna was not alone wiping away tears. 

Years into their marriage, Shane and Ilya moved to a sprawling property on the outskirts of Boston. They needed the space; over the years, their family grew to include three dogs. Anya, a sweet mix breed, was their first, followed by two others who had the run of the massive yard.The house was also big enough to comfortably fit the entire Boston team, who enjoyed many movie nights, ensuring that Ilya answered his phone. Cliff was not allowed a spare key to this house, much to everyone’s amusement. 

Yuna and David became regular fixtures at the estate, visiting throughout the year. Yuna still managed the occasional "managerial" check-in, but mostly, she just enjoyed watching her son live a life that was loud, crowded, and completely authentic.

Shane often sat on the back porch in the evenings, watching Ilya wrestle with the dogs on the grass. He would look down at the gold band on his finger and think back to the shock of being woken by Cliff and Victor. He had found his voice, his strength, and his family. He was Shane Hollander-Rozanov, Stray #1.  

THE END

Chapter End Notes

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