Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Lily Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Mpreg | Male Pregnancy, Not graphic but it's the main plotpoint, Kid Fic, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Homophobic Language, Secret Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Good Parent Shane Hollander, Good Parent Ilya Rozanov, original kid character - Freeform, Autor has no knowledge of hockey so prepare for a hockey AU without any hockey, Angst with a Happy Ending, Custody threats, Ilya is oppressing Shane at one point, Power Imbalance, Ilya shoves Shane which could be read as, Domestic Violence, If you are affected by DV I would not recommend reading this for some scenes might be triggering

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-24 Completed: 2026-01-02 Words: 58,821 Chapters: 21/21

The Secrets We Kept

Summary

Shane Hollander disappears from the NHL at twenty with a career-ending “injury.”

Four years later, he’s the new assistant coach for the Ottawa Centaurs when Ilya Rozanov signs with the team. His former rival. His secret hookup. The father of his daughter.
Ilya doesn’t know Lily exists and Shane plans to keep it that way.

But three-year-olds don’t keep secrets, and neither do pale blue eyes.

Notes

Content Warning:
Pls read the spoiler free end note.

Chapter 1: Shane POV: “The Test”

### Summer 2011 – MONTREAL ###

Shane Hollander stares at the pregnancy test in his trembling hands. Two pink lines. Unmistakable.

He’s sitting on the cold bathroom floor of his Montreal apartment, back against the tub, still in his workout clothes. The test sits on the tile beside him like an accusation.

Fuck.

He should have known. The nausea he’d attributed to a stomach bug. The exhaustion that lingered even after a full night’s sleep. The way his body felt… different. Off.

But Shane never thought...he’d never considered that he could be pregnant.

The statistics run through his head automatically (his brain does that, catalogs information whether he wants it to or not): roughly twenty percent of men are born with the biological capability to carry a pregnancy. But most never find out. Why would they? If you’re straight, sleeping with women, it’s irrelevant. The information gets mentioned once in health class, maybe, then forgotten.

Shane had forgotten.

Or—more accurately—he’d never thought it applied to him. Because he wasn’t supposed to be sleeping with men. Wasn’t supposed to be attracted to men.

Wasn’t supposed to be in love with Ilya fucking Rozanov.

And now he’s twenty years old, Rookie of the Year, second overall draft pick, face of the Montreal Metros and pregnant.

-----

### FLASHBACK: Regina, Saskatchewan - December 2008 (World Juniors) ###

The first time Shane saw Ilya Rozanov, he was seventeen years old and thought he had the world figured out.

Shane had led Team Canada to the World Junior Championships with single-minded focus. Top prospect. Future NHL star. Everything planned, everything controlled. He’d been leading goal scorer, overall and playoff MVP for his junior league. The path was clear.

Then he watched Russia practice.

Number 81. Rozanov. The Russian phenom everyone was talking about.

Shane told himself he was scouting the competition. Analyzing weaknesses. Being strategic. That’s what he did—observed, cataloged, planned.

He told himself that right up until he found himself waiting outside the rink after practice, heart pounding, not entirely sure why he was there.

“Rozanov?”

The Russian turned, pulling out earbuds. Up close, he was—

Tall. Broader than Shane expected. Sharp cheekbones, pale blue eyes that seemed to look right through him. Blonde hair messy from his helmet.

When Rozanov smiled lazy and confident, like he knew exactly what effect he had, Shane’s carefully organized thoughts scattered.

“Da? You are… Hollander, yes?” His English was accented, careful. “Canada captain.”

“Yeah. I just...” Shane’s brain stalled. Why was he here? “...wanted to introduce myself. Before we…”

Before we what? Play each other? This is stupid. You’re being weird.

“Before I score on you?” Rozanov’s grin widened, teasing.

Shane’s face heated. “Before I beat you.”

It came out stiffer than intended. Shane was never good at this. At banter, flirting (was this flirting?) or quick comebacks.

But Rozanov just laughed. A real laugh, warm and surprised. “We see, Hollander. We see.”

-----

They did see. Canada won silver that year. Shane scored the tying goal in the final but they lost in overtime.

Second place.

To Russia. To Rozanov.

Shane hated losing. Hated it with an intensity that made his teammates uncomfortable sometimes.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Rozanov had looked at him after the game. Not gloating. Almost… respectful? Interested?

Shane didn’t know what to do with that look. Filed it away with all the other things about Rozanov he didn’t know what to do with.

-----

### FLASHBACK: Los Angeles - June 2009 (NHL Draft) ###

First overall: Ilya Rozanov, Boston Raiders.

Shane watched from his seat as Rozanov walked to the stage. Watched him pull on the Raiders jersey, smile for cameras, shake hands.

Montreal’s rivals. Of course.

Second overall: Shane Hollander, Montreal Metros.

Shane smiled for the cameras too. Shook hands with the GM, who said something about being excited to have an Asian-Canadian player representing the Voyageurs. Shane nodded, said the right things.

But second stung. It always would.

Second to Rozanov. That stung more.

-----

That night, Shane’s brain wouldn’t shut off. It did this sometimes—spiraled through statistics, plays he could have made better, variables he should have controlled. Sleep felt impossible.

The hotel gym at 2 AM was empty.

Or should have been.

Rozanov was on the treadmill, running hard, headphones in. He looked up when Shane entered, did a double-take.

Then smiled. Not his media smile. Something smaller, more genuine.

Shane froze. Should he leave? Say something? This was awkward. He’d made it awkward by coming here.

Rozanov pulled out one earbud. “Cannot sleep either?”

“No.”

“Thinking too much about being second?” The teasing tone was back.

“Thinking about how I should have gone first,” Shane said, more honest than he intended.

“Ah. But second to me? Is not so bad.” Rozanov gestured to the treadmill next to him. “Come. Run with me. Work out the—” he made a gesture around his head, “—loud thoughts.”

Shane understood that. The loud thoughts.

He got on the treadmill. Started running.

Rozanov sped up. Shane matched him.

It was stupid. Childish. But Shane couldn’t make himself slow down because Rozanov was still going and losing twice in one day felt unbearable.

His lungs burned. Legs screamed.

Rozanov laughed, actually laughed, and hit the stop button. Nearly stumbled off. “You are crazy, Hollander.”

Shane stopped too, gasping. “You… started it.”

“Did I?” Rozanov was breathing hard, face flushed. “I think you started this. In Regina. With your…” he gestured vaguely, “…hard staring.”

Shane’s face went hot. “I wasn’t! That was scouting.”

“Was staring.” Rozanov’s grin was infuriating.

They ended up on the floor, backs against the wall. Rozanov offered his water bottle. Shane had forgotten his (of course he had, too busy overthinking to remember basics).

“Thank you,” Shane said, taking it.

“You are very serious, you know,” Rozanov observed. “Very… boring.”

“I’m not boring.” It came out defensive and Shane winced internally.

“Little bit boring.” Rozanov’s shoulder pressed against Shane’s. Warm. Solid. “But is okay. I like boring sometimes.”

Shane turned to argue and found Rozanov already looking at him.

Too close. Eyes too pale, too intense.

Shane’s gaze dropped to Rozanov’s mouth without permission.

Panic.

He scrambled up. “I should go. Yes. I’m tired. Goodnight.”

Practically ran to his room to lay in bed with his heart pounding.

That was weird. You made it weird. He probably thinks you’re weird.

But his body was responding to the memory of Rozanov’s shoulder against his, that look, the way he’d said “I like boring sometimes” and Shane’s hand slipped into his boxers almost without thought.

This was not OK. He really shouldn’t.

But he was already thinking about Rozanov’s laugh, those eyes, the water bottle against Shane’s lips where Rozanov’s lips had been.

Shane came with a strangled gasp, Rozanov’s name caught in his throat and then lay there in the dark, mortified.

You’re not...you don’...this doesn’t mean anything.

Except it did.

-----

### FLASHBACK: Toronto - September 2010 (CCM Campaign) ###

The text came from his agent: CCM wants you for an ad campaign. Big deal. You and Rozanov together. Playing up the rivalry angle.

Shane stared at his phone for a full minute, brain cataloging implications.

A full day. With Rozanov. In Toronto.

His rookie season hadn’t started yet. He hadn’t seen Rozanov since the draft. Hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him, which was a problem Shane didn’t know how to solve.

Professional, he told himself. This is professional. You can be normal.

-----

The shoot was fine. Scripted banter for the cameras.

“So Rozanov, how does it feel knowing you’ll be watching Hollander’s back all season?”

“I think you mean Hollander will watch MY back,” Rozanov said smoothly. “In my shadow.”

“In your shadow?” Shane tried for a comeback. “Pretty sure the view from first place isn’t a shadow.”

It sounded awkward even to his own ears. The crew laughed politely anyway.

Rozanov caught his eye afterward, grinning. “So boring, Hollander. Need to work on trash talk.”

“Fuck off,” Shane muttered.

“There! Better already.”

-----

It was in the shower afterward, more precise the gym shower, post-workout for a “authentic sweat” shot, when everything changed.

Shane was rinsing off, trying not to think about the fact that Rozanov was somewhere in this same shower room, when he felt eyes on him.

He turned.

Rozanov was three shower heads down, water streaming over his shoulders, not even pretending not to stare.

Their eyes met.

Shane should look away. This was inappropriate. He should—

Rozanov’s gaze dropped. Slowly. Deliberately. Down Shane’s body, then back up.

Eyebrow raised. A question.

Shane’s brain short-circuited.

He stared back.

Rozanov’s smile was devastating. “So boring,” he said softly. “Come to my room. 2304. One hour.”

Then he turned off his shower and left.

Shane stood there, water going cold, heart hammering.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea.

Fifty-three minutes later, Shane knocked on room 2304.

-----

The door opened. Rozanov stood there in joggers and nothing else, hair still damp.

“Hollander.” His smile was slow, satisfied. “Thought maybe you were too chicken to come.”

“I’m not a chicken.” Shane stated while Rozanov pulled him inside and pushed him against the door.

“We cannot tell anyone,” Rozanov said, suddenly serious. Close enough that Shane could feel his breath. “You understand? No one.”

“Obviously. It’s just one time. Curiosity. To get it out of our system, right?”

Rozanov kissed him.

It wasn’t one time.

-----

### FLASHBACK: The Season (2010-11) ###

They were so fucking careful.

Contact info saved as “Jane” (Shane) and “Lily” (Rozanov), so if anyone saw their phones, they’d think they were texting girls.

Hotel rooms only. Never at home. Never where teammates might see. Quick and desperate hookups when their teams played each other. Sometimes just kissing or hand jobs in bathroom stalls, Rozanov’s hand over Shane’s mouth to keep him quiet.

“You are so loud, Hollander,” Rozanov would tease. “So boring on ice, so loud in bed. Is funny.”

“Shut up,” Shane would gasp, but there was no heat in it.

“Make me.”

And Shane would kiss him, hard, just to stop the smirk.

-----

It was supposed to be just sex. That’s what Rozanov said. What Shane agreed to because he didn’t know how to ask for more, didn’t have the words.

“Is fun, Hollander. We have fun, da? Don’t make it… complicated.”

“I’m not making it complicated.”

“Good. Because we are not…Lovers. I mean, we cannot...”

Rozanov never finished that sentence. And Shane never pushed because pushing meant talking about feelings and Shane had never been good at that.

But sometimes, when they were catching their breath, Rozanov would touch Shane’s face and freckles so gently, it made Shane’s chest ache. Would kiss him slow and sweet like it meant something before seeming to remember himself and pulling away.

“You think too loud,” Rozanov would say, poking Shane’s forehead. “I can see. Always thinking.”

“Can’t help it.”

“Try. Be less boring. Live in moment.”

And Shane would think: I’m in so much trouble.

Because it wasn’t just sex for him anymore. Maybe it never had been.

-----

The media ate up their rivalry. Every game between the Metros and Raiders became an event.

“Hollander vs. Rozanov: Battle for Rookie Supremacy”

“Canada’s Golden Boy Takes On Russia’s Rising Star”

They played into it on camera. Trash talked in interviews. Kept their faces neutral when asked about each other.

Off camera, in hotel rooms, Rozanov would laugh. “Did you see? They think we hate each other.”

“Don’t we?” Shane deadpanned.

“Oh yes. I hate you so much.” Rozanov kissed his neck. “Terrible. Cannot stand you.”

“Asshole.”

“Boring.”

It became their thing. Shane couldn’t banter with anyone else to save his life, but with Rozanov it was easy. Natural.

Even if the “asshole” was said with an affection Shane couldn’t quite hide.

-----

### FLASHBACK: Las Vegas - June 2011 (NHL Awards) ###

Shane won Rookie of the Year.

He gave his speech and thanked his family (his parents in the audience, beaming with pride), his team, his coaches. Kept it short because long speeches made him anxious, made him overthink every word.

Felt Rozanov’s eyes on him from across the room the entire time.

That night, Shane’s phone buzzed.

Lily: Congratulations for boring speech. you deserve it.

Jane: Thanks. You coming in second probably helped my case.

Lily: come to my room. i have champagne.

Jane: I don’t drink.

Lily: i know. come anyway.

-----

“Rookie of the Year,” Rozanov said when Shane arrived, pulling him inside. “So impressive. So serious in your speech.”

“It was fine.”

“Was very boring.” But Rozanov was smiling, soft. “Very you.”

He kissed Shane before Shane could argue.

That night felt different.

Slower. Rozanov took his time, touched Shane like he was memorizing him. Whispered things in Russian Shane didn’t understand, but the tone—

The tone sounded like feelings.

Dangerous.

After, Shane lay in Rozanov’s arms (they never did this, never cuddled, but tonight they did) and thought about saying it. Three words that sat heavy on his tongue.

I love you.

But Shane had never been good at talking about feelings. Never knew the right words or the right time. His brain would catalog all the ways it could go wrong, all the variables he couldn’t control.

So he stayed quiet.

Rozanov’s phone buzzed. He checked it, his face going carefully neutral.

“Is my flight. Tomorrow, early. Going home to Russia for summer.”

“Oh. Yeah. Me too. Back to Ottawa.” Shane tried to keep his voice even. This was normal. Expected. “Training camp starts in September.”

“Da. Was good season.”

“Yeah.” Shane’s throat felt tight. “Really good.”

“We see each other then. In September.” Rozanov’s fingers traced patterns on Shane’s shoulder. Idle. Gentle. “Will be strange not to… not to see you.”

Shane’s heart jumped. “Yeah. Strange.”

Ask him. Ask him what this is. If it’s more than just fun.

But the words stuck.

Rozanov kissed him then gentle and almost sad. “Don’t forget me over summer, Hollander.”

Shane tried for their usual banter. “Hard to forget the guy who went first overall.”

“Your first overall.” Rozanov was smiling. Then, quieter: “You are not so boring, you know. Sometimes.”

“High praise.”

“Is truth.” Rozanov’s thumb brushed Shane’s cheekbone. “Text me? While we are apart?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Shane left at 3 AM, before it could hurt more than it already did.

Before he could do something stupid like stay.

-----

### PRESENT DAY - Bathroom Floor (Summer 2011) ###

Now it’s August. Shane hasn’t seen Rozanov since Vegas.

They’ve texted—casual, careful messages through “Jane” and “Lily.”

Lily: russia is boring. weather is shit. missing vegas.

Jane: Ottawa is fine. Visiting family.

Lily: tell them hello from me. oh wait. you cannot. ;)

Jane: Asshole.

Lily: your favorite asshole

Shane had stared at that message for a long time. Wanted to say yes, my favorite, the only one I want.

Said instead: Unfortunately.

The last message, two days ago:

Lily: miss u

Shane hadn’t answered. Had been feeling too sick, too exhausted, too strange in his own body.

Now he knows why.

He looks at the test again.

Pregnant.

With Ilya Rozanov’s baby.

Rozanov, who said “is just fun.” Who said “don’t make it complicated.” Who goes back to Russia every summer and probably hooks up with other people (Shane’s brain helpfully catalogs all the ways Rozanov is too attractive, too charming, too everything to be faithful to something that isn’t even a real relationship).

Shane’s career. His family. The media. The team.

Everything he’s worked for since he was five years old.

Gone.

Being pregnant would mean being outed. He could never work in anything related to Hockey anymore.

Unless... no one knows.

The thought is terrible. Impossible.

But Shane’s brain is already working through it, organizing variables, calculating probabilities:

• Fake an injury. Career-ending. Happens all the time in hockey.
• Disappear for the pregnancy. His parents would help. They’d be disappointed but supportive.
• Have the baby. Figure out single parenthood.
• The team would move on. The media would forget him eventually.
• And Rozanov…

Rozanov would never have to know. Never have to choose between Shane and his career. Never have to deal with the complications Shane promised not to create.

Never have to know that Shane broke the rules. That it wasn’t just fun for Shane. That Shane fell in love with him and fucked everything up.

Shane pulls out his phone. Opens messages.

Lily: miss u

His thumb hovers over the keyboard.

He could tell him. Right now. I’m pregnant. It’s yours. I need you.

But Shane can already imagine Rozanov’s response. The panic. The anger. We were careful, how did this happen, this cannot be happening.

Or worse: obligation. Rozanov trying to do the right thing, giving up his career by outing himself, resenting Shane forever.

Shane can’t do that to him.

He closes the message thread. Stares at it.

Then, carefully, he deletes it.

Opens his contacts. Scrolls to his agent.

I need to talk to you about a medical situation. It’s serious. Can we meet tomorrow?

The response comes quickly: Of course. Everything okay?

Shane types: Training injury. Going to need surgery. Might be career-ending.

He’s lying. He’s never been good at lying. His face always gives him away, his brain struggles to keep track of false information.

But through text, no one can see his face.

I’m so sorry, Shane. Let’s talk tomorrow and figure this out.

Shane sets his phone down.

Looks at the pregnancy test.

Twenty percent of men can get pregnant. He’d known that, academically. Never thought it applied to him because he wasn’t supposed to be sleeping with men.

Wasn’t supposed to fall in love with Ilya Rozanov.

But he did both those things.

And now he has to disappear.

Chapter 2: Ilya POV: “Radio Silence”

### September 2011 - Training Camp (Boston) ###

Ilya Rozanov checks his phone for the fifteenth time in an hour.

Nothing.

He’s sitting in his stall in the Raiders’ locker room, half-dressed for practice, surrounded by teammates who are laughing about something he’s not paying attention to.

His phone sits on the bench beside him, screen dark. Mocking him.

Lily: heard about your injury. are you okay?

Sent three weeks ago. No response.

Lily: hollander? please answer

Two weeks ago. Nothing.

Lily: miss you

He’d typed it, deleted it, typed it again. Stared at it for ten minutes before finally hitting send.

One week ago. Still nothing.

This morning, desperate and hating himself for it:

Lily: why do you not answer? did i do something wrong?

Read receipts off. He doesn’t even know if Hollander is seeing these.

“Yo, Rozanov!” One of his teammates—Miller—tosses a tape roll at him. “You coming or what? Coach is gonna be pissed if you’re late again.”

“Da, coming.” Ilya shoves his phone in his bag.

He needs to focus. It’s a new season. He went first overall for a reason. He’s a professional.

He can handle being ghosted by a guy he was just fucking around with.

Except it wasn’t just fucking around. Not for Ilya. But Hollander doesn’t need to know that.

-----

### FLASHBACK - Vegas, June 2011 ###

Shane was asleep.

They’d had sex. Slow, intense and the kind that made Ilya’s chest feel too tight, and afterward, Shane had curled into Ilya’s side like it was natural. Like they did this all the time.

They didn’t. They never stayed like this. Never cuddled. It was too dangerous, too much like something real.

But Shane had won Rookie of the Year and Ilya had wanted to give him something, even if it was just this: a night where they could pretend.

Shane’s breathing had evened out, face relaxed in sleep. He looked younger like this. Less serious. The permanent furrow between his brows finally smoothed.

Beautiful.

Ilya had traced his fingers along Shane’s shoulder, careful not to wake him.

Ya tebya lyublyu.

The words slipped out in Russian, barely a whisper.

I love you.

Shane didn’t stir. Didn’t hear.

Ilya was glad. Because saying it out loud, even in Russian, even when Shane was asleep, made it too real.

Made it hurt.

----

### PRESENT - Locker Room ###

“Rozanov, seriously, let’s go!”

Ilya grabs his helmet and follows his team onto the ice.

He tries not to think about how Hollander should be in Montreal right now, doing the same thing.

Tries not to wonder if Hollander is thinking about him at all.

-----

The news breaks during their cool-down.

Someone’s phone pings. Then another. Then the entire locker room is buzzing.

“Holy shit, did you see? Hollander’s done.”

Ilya’s head snaps up. “What?”

Miller holds up his phone. “Shane Hollander. Just announced his retirement. Injury’s too severe. He’s not coming back.”

The room erupts in conversation.

“No way, he’s only twenty!”

“What happened?”

“They’re saying it happened over summer, some kind of training accident.”

Ilya’s hands have gone numb. He reaches for his own phone, pulls up the news.

BREAKING: Shane Hollander Retires from NHL Due to Career-Ending Injury

Montreal Metros’ star forward Shane Hollander, 20, announced today that he will not be returning to professional hockey. The 2011 Rookie of the Year sustained an injury during off-season training that medical staff have deemed incompatible with NHL-level play.

“This is not the outcome any of us hoped for,” said Metros GM Martin Bouchard. “Shane is an exceptional talent and an exceptional person. We support his decision and wish him all the best.”

Hollander, who was drafted second overall in 2009 and led all rookies in goals last season, was expected to be a cornerstone player for the Metros franchise…

Ilya stops reading.

Shane’s career. Over.

Hockey was everything to Hollander. Ilya knew that. Saw it in the way Shane played—like every shift mattered, like losing physically hurt him.

And now it’s just… gone.

No wonder he hasn’t been answering.

Ilya’s fingers move before he can think better of it.

Lily: i am so sorry. i know what hockey means to you. if you need anything…

He hits send.

Stares at his phone.

Nothing.

-----

Ilya sits alone in his too-big apartment, drink in hand (vodka, because he’s a cliché), and tries not to spiral.

Hollander is gone. Really gone.

Not just ghosting. Not just avoiding. Actually gone from the league.

From Ilya’s life.

Maybe it’s better this way.

(It’s not. It’s fucking terrible.)

His phone rings. Not Hollander.

Ilya looks at the screen: Alexei

His fucking brother.

Ilya considers not answering. He’s tired, he’s sad, he doesn’t want to deal with him.

But he answers anyway. “Da?”

“Little brother!” Alexei’s Russian voice is too loud, too cheerful. “How is America? How is the big fancy NHL career?”

“It’s fine.”

“Just fine? You are the star player! You should be celebrating!” A pause. “You sound sad. Girl troubles?”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. “Something like that.”

“Ah. Too many people to fuck, not enough time?” Alexei laughs. “Must be hard being so popular.”

Ilya doesn’t correct him. Lets him think it’s about getting off.

“Actually, Ilyusha, I am calling because I need small favor—”

Here it comes.

“—just few thousand dollars. American. I have a big business opportunity but I need some start capital.”

“No.”

“Ilya, come on. You make millions! What is few thousand to you?”

“I said no, Alexei.”

The warmth drops from his brother’s voice. “That is how you talk to family? Maybe I should tell Papa about your… hobbies. About the men I see you with in photos online. That Asian guy who is always too close. What is his name...”

“There are no photos.” Ilya’s grip on his phone tightens. “And even if there were, it would not matter.”

“No? Papa would be so proud to know his son is a faggot.” The slur hits like a slap. “Maybe I’ll send him some articles. The internet is very helpful these days...”

“How much do you want?”

Ilya hates himself as he says it.

Alexei names a number. Ilya transfers it without another word and hangs up.

After he sits in the dark of his apartment.

His father’s voice echoes in his head, years old but never fading: We do not have faggots in our family. Understand? Is unnatural. Disgusting.

Ilya had been fourteen. Had just realized why he couldn’t stop staring at the boys’ hockey captain the same way his friends stared at girls.

Had never told his father. Never would.

But Alexei knew. Had figured it out years ago. And now Ilya pays for his silence.

What would he have to offer Hollander anyway? A life of hiding? Of paying people off? Of being terrified every time they were in public together?

No wonder Hollander stopped answering.

Smart, boring, serious Hollander probably realized what Ilya was too stupid to admit: there was no future here. Just sex, secrets and eventually getting caught.

Better to end it clean.

“Was just fun, right? Don’t make it complicated.”

Ilya had said that. Meant it, even, at the time.

(He hadn’t meant it at all.)

His phone buzzes with another news alert: Shane Hollander’s Promising Career Cut Short - What Could Have Been

Ilya turns off his phone. Gets his jacket.

Fuck this. Fuck all of it.

-----

The bar is loud, crowded, exactly what Ilya needs.

He orders a drink. Then another.

Some woman approaches him—blonde, attractive, clearly interested. Not Hollander. Could never be Hollander.

“You’re Ilya Rozanov, right? From the Raiders?”

“Da.”

“I’m a huge fan. Can I buy you a drink?”

Ilya looks at her. Studies the easy smile, the obvious attraction.

Hollander is gone. Hollander never answered. Hollander made his choice.

Ilya can make his too.

“Sure,” he says. “Why not?”

-----

### TIME SKIP – FOUR YEARS LATER (2015) ###

News headlines appear in quick succession:

“ROZANOV LEADS RAIDERS TO EASTERN CONFERENCE FINALS” (2012)

“NHL’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR? ILYA ROZANOV’S DATING LIFE” - photos of Ilya with different girls at clubs, restaurants, events (2012-2013)

“ROZANOV SCORES HAT TRICK IN PLAYOFF VICTORY” (2013)

“FIRST OVERALL PICK LIVING UP TO HYPE - ROZANOV’S DOMINANCE CONTINUES” (2014)

Ilya becomes exactly what the media expects: the talented, cocky playboy. The Russian star who parties as hard as he plays.

He sleeps with women whose names he doesn’t remember. Goes to clubs. Smiles for cameras.

He wins games. Scores goals. Becomes one of the league’s top players.

People call him a star. A legend in the making.

He deletes Shane Hollander’s contact from his phone after year one. (He has the number memorized anyway.)

He doesn’t think about Vegas. About hotel rooms. About someone who called him “asshole” like it was an endearment.

(He thinks about it every day.)

He learns to be what everyone expects: confident, untouchable, alone.

He’s good at it.

He hates it.

-----

### PRESENT DAY - JUNE 2015 ###

Ilya sits in his agent’s office in Boston.

“Ottawa,” his agent says, sliding a folder across the desk. “The Centaurs are offering eight years, seventy-two million.”

Ilya stares at the contract.

“They’re an up-and-coming team. You just won the Cup with Boston, you’re at the peak of your value. Ottawa wants to build around you. Make you the star, not just one of many.” His agent leans back. “It’s a hell of an offer, Ilya. More money, more spotlight, a real chance to be the face of a franchise.”

Ottawa.

The word echoes in Ilya’s head.

Hollander was from Ottawa. Had mentioned it once or twice. Had family there, grew up there.

But that was four years ago. Hollander is probably… somewhere else by now. Doing something else. Living a life that has nothing to do with hockey.

Nothing to do with Ilya.

“What do you think?” his agent prompts.

Ilya picks up the contract. Skims the numbers without really seeing them.

Ottawa. Where Hollander is from.

Not that it matters.

It doesn’t matter.

What are the odds he’d even run into Hollander? Ottawa is a big city. Hollander isn’t in hockey anymore. Their paths wouldn’t cross.

“Is good offer,” Ilya says slowly.

“It’s a great offer. You’ve got the Cup now. You can go anywhere, do anything. Ottawa’s hungry for a star like you.”

Ilya thinks about Boston. About his teammates, his apartment, the comfortable routine.

Then he thinks about Hollander’s voice: I’m from Ottawa originally. Close to family, you know?

Thinks about those unanswered messages. Three years of silence.

Thinks about how it would feel to maybe, just maybe, completely by accident, see him again. Just once. Just to know he’s okay.

Not that Ilya would seek him out.

Not that this decision has anything to do with Hollander.

Obviously not.

“Okay,” Ilya says. “I sign.”

His agent blinks. “Really? Just like that? You don’t want to think about it, talk to anyone?”

“Is good deal. I take it.”

His agent looks surprised but pleased. “Alright then. I’ll let Ottawa know. They’re going to be thrilled.”

Ilya signs his name on the contract.

Tries not to think about the fact that he’s moving to Hollander’s hometown.

Tries not to calculate the odds of running into him.

They are low. Very low. Ottawa has almost a million people. Hollander probably doesn’t even go to hockey games anymore.

Tries not to hope.

“Welcome to the Ottawa Centaurs,” his agent says, shaking his hand.

Ilya nods.

This has nothing to do with Hollander, he tells himself firmly.

Absolutely nothing.

He’s a terrible liar.

Chapter 3: Shane POV: “New Start”

### August 2015 - Shane’s Apartment (Ottawa) ###

“Daddy, look! I made a tower!”

Shane looks up from his laptop—budget spreadsheets that make his head hurt—to see Lily standing proudly beside a precarious stack of blocks in the living room of their small apartment.

“That’s amazing, sweetheart,” he says and means it.

She’s three years old. Three years, four months, and five days, to be exact. Shane’s brain catalogs these things automatically.

She has his dark hair but it falls in soft waves he never had, his serious expression when she’s concentrating, his freckles and eyes that are definitely not his.

Shane looks away from her eyes.

“Can I make it taller?” Lily asks, already reaching for another block.

“Careful, it’s going to—”

The tower collapses. Lily giggles, delighted rather than disappointed.

Shane’s chest aches with how much he loves her.

“Again?” she asks, looking up at him with those pale, blue eyes that are nothing like Shane’s.

“Sure, Lily. Let’s build it again.”

-----

### FLASHBACK - Fall 2011 (The Pregnancy) ###

Telling his parents was the hardest thing Shane had ever done.

He’d driven to their house in Ottawa, rehearsed the words seventeen different times and still barely managed to get them out.

“I’m pregnant.”

His mother had gone very still. His father had set down his coffee cup carefully.

“Pregnant,” his mother repeated. “You’re… Shane, sweetheart, are you sure?”

“I’ve been to three different doctors. They’re all sure.”

“I know we never tested you, but we never assumed you would be...”

“I didn’t know either.” Shane’s hands twisted together. “I never thought… I didn’t think it mattered because I wasn’t—” He couldn’t finish.

His father spoke first. “Who’s the father?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Shane, you know you can trust us.”

“I can’t. He doesn’t know. He’s not going to know.”

His mother reached across the table, took Shane’s hand. “Sweetheart, if this is about being… if you’re worried we’ll judge you for being with a man, we won’t.”

“I’m not worried about that.” He was. A little. But they were handling it better than he’d expected. “It’s complicated. His career, his life—he can’t know. Please don’t ask me to explain.”

The silence stretched.

Then his mother said: “What do you need from us?”

Shane had nearly cried from relief.

-----

They helped him create the cover story: Shane had gotten a woman pregnant during a brief relationship over the summer. She’d decided she didn’t want to be involved. Shane was going to raise the baby alone.

It was close enough to the truth to be believable.

The fake injury was easier. Shane actually did have a minor knee issue—nothing career-ending, but enough that with the right doctor’s notes (and some creative exaggeration), it looked devastating.

Torn ACL, complications, extensive damage that makes NHL-level play impossible.

The Metros were disappointed but supportive. The media ran stories about his promising career cut short. His teammates sent messages he couldn’t bring himself to answer.

And Shane disappeared into his parents’ house to hide a pregnancy the world couldn’t know about.

-----

### FLASHBACK - April 2012 (Lily’s Birth) ###

Shane had never been so terrified in his life.

Labor was...he couldn’t find words for it. His brain tried to catalog the pain, the stages, the medical terminology, but it all dissolved into just enduring.

His mother held one hand. His father held the other.

Twenty-three hours later, Lily was born.

Lillian Jane Hollander.

Lily and Jane for the contact names they’d used. For the secret he’d kept. For the person he’d...Shane didn’t let himself finish that thought.

The nurse placed her in his arms. So small. So perfect.

“She has your nose,” his mother said softly.

But when Lily opened her eyes—pale, startlingly pale—Shane’s breath caught.

Not his eyes.

His.

“She’s beautiful,” Shane whispered.

And promised himself right then: he’d give her everything. Be enough for both parents. Make sure she never felt the absence of someone who didn’t even know she existed.

-----

### PRESENT DAY - Shane’s Apartment ###

Lily crashes her tower again, laughing.

Shane saves his budget spreadsheet of depressing numbers, but the coaching job starts next month so that will help and joins her on the floor.

“Let’s make it really tall this time,” he says.

She nods seriously, handing him blocks with careful deliberation.

Sometimes she asks about having two parents. Other kids at daycare have moms and dads, or two moms, or two dads. Lily has just Shane.

“Do I have another dad?” she’d asked last week.

Shane’s heart had stopped. “What made you ask that?”

“Emma has two dads. I only have one and no mommy. Is that okay?”

“You have me,” Shane had said carefully. “And I love you enough for two people. Is that okay?”

She’d thought about it with her serious little face (so much like Shane’s, people always said).

“Okay. I love you too.”

But it had broken something in Shane. Because Lily did have another father. Someone who would probably love her fiercely if he knew she existed.

Someone Shane had decided didn’t get to know.

-----

### TWO WEEKS LATER - Shane’s Apartment ###

Shane is making dinner (pasta, because it’s cheap and Lily actually eats it) when his phone buzzes.

Email from Ottawa  management.

Welcome to the team! Excited to have you join us as Assistant Coach for the 2014-15 season. Attached is the roster for this year, including our major off-season acquisition…

Shane opens the attachment while stirring pasta.

Scans the roster list.

Stops.

Rozanov, Ilya - Center - #81

The spoon slips from Shane’s hand, clattering into the pot.

No.

No, this can’t be real.

He reads it again.

Ilya Rozanov. Signed to Ottawa Centaurs. Eight-year contract.

Shane’s vision tunnels.

Ilya. Here. In Ottawa.

Shane is going to be his coach.

They’re going to see each other. Every day. At practice, at games, at team meetings—

“Daddy? You okay?”

Lily is tugging on his pant leg, looking worried.

Shane realizes he’s just standing there, frozen, staring at his phone.

“I’m fine, sweetheart.” His voice sounds strange. “Just… work stuff.”

He finishes making dinner on autopilot.

Ilya Rozanov is coming to Ottawa.

Shane is going to have to see him. Talk to him. Pretend they’re strangers.

While hiding their three-year-old daughter.

Fuck.

-----

Shane had followed Ilya’s career.

He told himself he shouldn’t. Told himself it was masochistic and pointless and only made things harder.

Did it anyway.

“Rozanov Leads Raiders to Conference Finals”

“First Overall Pick Proving His Worth”

“Rozanov’s Nightlife: NHL’s Most Eligible Bachelor”

That last one had come with photos. Ilya at clubs, restaurants, events. Always with someone different. Beautiful women, movie stars and singers.

Always smiling that confident smile Shane remembered.

Shane had stared at those photos longer than he should have. Cataloged every detail: Ilya looked happy. Successful. Unburdened.

Better off without Shane.

It was the right choice. Shane knew it was the right choice.

So why did it feel so wrong?

-----

### PRESENT DAY - First Day of Training Camp for the 2015-2016 Season ###

Shane drops Lily off at his parents’ house. They’ve been saints about childcare, but Shane knows it’s hard on them, knows he’s asking too much. Hopefully that will change with this new job he has.

“Be good for Grandma and Grandpa, okay?”

“Okay!” Lily hugs him tight. “Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, Lil.”

He drives to the arena with his stomach in knots.

The plan: be professional. Be Coach Hollander, not Shane-who-used-to-sleep-with-Rozanov. Keep his head down. Do his job.

Don’t look at Ilya more than necessary.

Don’t think about hotel rooms and “asshole” said fondly and “miss u” left unanswered.

You can do this. It’s just a job. He probably barely remembers you.

Shane knows that’s not true. But he tells himself anyway.

-----

The coaching staff gathers in the conference room an hour before the players arrive.

Head Coach Morrison goes through the schedule. Training expectations. Season goals.

Shane tries to focus. Takes notes. Nods at appropriate times.

His brain is screaming.

“Alright,” Morrison says. “Players should be arriving now. Let’s go meet the team.”

They file into the locker room.

Most of the players are already there. Some Shane recognizes from watching games, others are new. They look up as the coaches enter.

Shane positions himself slightly behind Morrison. Tries to be invisible.

Then the door opens.

And Ilya Rozanov walks in.

He looks—

Shane’s brain short-circuits.

Taller than Shane remembered? No, same height. Broader maybe. Four years of professional hockey have added muscle. His hair is shorter. Face sharper, more mature.

But the eyes are the same. Pale and intense.

Those blue eyes scan the room. Taking in the players first, then the coaches and finally land on Shane.

Ilya freezes mid-step.

Shane watches in slow motion as shock crosses Ilya’s face. Raw, unguarded shock.

Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. Replaced by something cold. Distant.

Ilya’s jaw tightens. He looks away.

Walks to his locker like Shane isn’t there.

Shane can’t breathe.

Morrison is still talking. Introducing coaches. Shane hears his own name, “Assistant Coach Shane Hollander, many of you probably remember him from his playing days” and manages to nod.

Doesn’t look at Ilya.

Can’t look at Ilya.

The meeting continues. Logistics. Practice schedule. Team expectations.

Shane doesn’t hear any of it.

He’s acutely aware of Ilya across the room. Can feel the weight of not looking at each other. The deliberate distance.

Finally, Morrison wraps up. “Alright, gentlemen. Hit the ice in twenty. Let’s have a great season.”

Players disperse to get ready.

Shane escapes to the coaches’ office.

Sits down heavily in a chair.

His hands are shaking.

Four years. Four years and that’s all it took. One look and I’m right back to—

He can’t finish the thought.

His phone buzzes. Text from his mom: Lily is fine. Asking when you’ll be home. Everything okay? How is the first day?

Shane types back: Everything’s fine. Tell her I’ll be home for dinner.

He’s lying.

Nothing is fine.

Ilya Rozanov is here and Shane has to coach him while hiding the fact that they have a daughter together.

This is going to be a disaster, how could he ever have thought that it wouldn’t be?

-----

Shane gets home late. Practice ran long and he’d stayed in the office, reviewing footage, avoiding the locker room until he was sure everyone was gone.

Lily is already in her pajamas when he picks her up from his parents’ house.

“Did you have a fun day, Dad?” she asks in the car, playing with her stuffed rabbit.

Shane grips the steering wheel. “Yeah, sweetheart. It was… good.”

“Did you play hockey?”

“I helped teach people how to play hockey.”

“That’s cool!” She kicks her feet happily. “Was it fun?”

Shane thinks about Ilya’s face. The shock. The coldness after.

Thinks about four years of silence exploding into daily proximity.

“Yeah,” he lies. “It was fun.”

At home, he tucks Lily into bed. Reads her a story (one about a bear finding his family—the irony isn’t lost on Shane).

“Love you, Daddy,” she mumbles, already half-asleep.

“Love you too, Lily.”

He watches her sleep for a moment. Her face so peaceful. Those eyes closed.

What am I going to do?

Ilya is here. In Ottawa. On Shane’s team.

And Shane has no idea how to survive this.

Chapter 4: Ilya POV: “Collision”

### Ilya’s New House, Ottawa ###

Ilya stands in the middle of his too-big, too-empty living room and wants to break something.

The house is ridiculous. Five bedrooms. Gourmet kitchen. Pool. His realtor had shown him three smaller places but Ilya had pointed at the biggest one and said “that one” because apparently he makes excellent life choices.

Like moving to Ottawa.

Like signing an eight-year contract.

Like thinking he’d maybe run into Shane fucking Hollander.

Assistant Coach Shane Hollander.

Ilya drops onto the leather couch (also too big, also ridiculous) and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. This was the definition of “be careful what you wish for.”

Hollander looked...good. He looked so fucking good.

Older. More mature. The perpetual furrow between his brows a little deeper. But still… Hollander. Still serious and awkward and beautiful in that understated way that had always made Ilya’s chest tight.

And Hollander had looked at Ilya like—

Nothing. Like Ilya was a stranger.

No. Worse. Like Ilya was just another player on the roster. Professional distance. Coach face.

Four years of silence and that’s what Ilya gets. Polite. Professional. Nothing.

“Fuck him,” Ilya says out loud to his empty house.

He pulls out his phone. Opens Instagram. Scrolls through his feed without really seeing it.

His last post: photo from the Cup win with Boston. Comments full of congratulations, fire emojis, people excited about his move to Ottawa.

He types a message to one of his teammates from Boston, then deletes it.

Types a message to the woman he’d gone out with last month, then deletes that too.

His thumb hovers over his contacts.

He deleted Hollander’s number three years ago. But he still has it memorized.

What would he even say? “Hey, saw you today. You look good. Why did you ghost me for four years? Why didn’t you tell me you were now a coach in Ottawa? Why do I still love you?”

Ilya throws his phone across the room. It lands on the other couch (he has two couches, because again, excellent choices).

He goes to bed at 9 PM in a bedroom that echoes.

Doesn’t sleep.

-----

### NEXT DAY - Ottawa Centaurs Practice Facility ###

Ilya arrives early. Not because he’s eager. Because he couldn’t stay in that house anymore.

The facility is quiet. A few players trickle in, nod at him. Ilya nods back.

He’s putting on his skates when he sees Hollander walk past the locker room toward the coaches’ office.

Hollander still doesn’t look at him.

Something in Ilya’s chest twists.

No. Fuck this.

He finishes lacing his skates, then stands. Follows Hollander’s path with stomping feet due to the skates.

He finds him in the video room, setting up footage.

“Hollander.”

Shane’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t turn around. “Rozanov. Need something?”

“Yes. Need to talk.”

“We’re talking.” Shane clicks through video files. Still not looking at him.

“Private talk.”

“I’m busy.”

“Hollander!”

“I said I’m busy, Rozanov. If you have questions about practice structure or—”

“Four years.” Ilya’s voice comes out harder than intended. “Four fucking years, no word and now you act like we are strangers?”

Shane finally turns. His face is carefully blank. “We are working together. We should keep it professional.”

“Professional.” Ilya laughs, sharp. “Da, okay. Very professional. Is that why you could not answer my messages? Very busy being professional?”

“I don’t want to do this here.”

“Where then? When? You will just avoid me forever, make it awkward for whole team?”

Shane’s jaw tightens. “Fine. Conference room. Five minutes.”

-----

The door closes behind them.

They stand on opposite sides of the table. Like it’s a negotiation. A business meeting.

Ilya hates it.

“So,” Shane says. “What do you want to talk about?”

“You ignored me. For four years.”

“You noticed.” Shane’s tone is flat.

“Of course I fucking noticed!” Ilya slams his hand on the table. “I sent messages. I asked if you are okay. After your injury, after...nothing. A ghost.”

“What did you want me to say?”

“Anything! ‘I am fine.’ ‘Leave me alone.’ Anything is better than nothing!”

Shane crosses his arms. “It was complicated.”

“Complicated.” Ilya laughs bitterly. “Right. Because was just fun, yes? Just casual. No big deal. Easy to forget.”

Something flashes in Shane’s eyes. “You’re the one who said it was just fun. You made that very clear.”

“And you believed me?”

“Was I not supposed to?”

Ilya opens his mouth. Closes it.

Because what can he say? I was lying. I was terrified. I was falling in love with you and didn’t know how to say it.

Instead: “You could have told me about injury. I would have—I wanted to be there.”

“Right.” Shane’s voice goes cold. “You wanted to be there. Between which woman? I saw the photos, Rozanov. You seemed very… comforted.”

Ilya’s stomach drops. “What?”

“The tabloids. Your dating life. You moved on pretty quickly for someone who ‘wanted to be there.’”

“That was....those were not...” Ilya struggles for words. “Was nothing. Meant nothing.”

“Sure looked like something.”

“And what did you expect me to do? Sit around and wait for someone who forgot he even has a phone?”

“I expect you did exactly what you wanted. Like always.”

Shane’s words sting.

Ilya takes a step closer. “You have no idea what I wanted.”

“Then tell me.” Shane’s hands grip the edge of the table. “Tell me what you wanted four years ago. What this was.”

You. I wanted you. Only you.

But the words stick in Ilya’s throat because Shane is looking at him with anger, not affection. Because four years is too long. Because they’re in a conference room and Shane is his coach and nothing about this is fixable.

“Forget it,” Ilya says. “You are right. Was just fun. Nothing serious.”

He sees Shane flinch. Tiny, barely there. But Ilya sees it.

“Good,” Shane says quietly. “Then we agree. We keep this professional. You’re a player, I’m a coach. That’s all.”

“Da. That is all.”

Ilya turns to leave and then walks out muttering in Russian: “Kakaya glupaya ideya, Ilya. O chem ty tolko dumal?” (What a stupid idea, Ilya. What were you thinking?)

He should have stayed in Boston.

-----

Practice is professional. Painfully so.

Head Coach Morrison runs drills. Shane assists, correcting form, calling out positioning.

Ilya tries to focus on hockey.

And fails.

He’s acutely aware of every time Shane is near him. Every correction. Every brief moment their eyes meet before both look away.

“Rozanov!” Shane’s voice cuts across the ice. “Your stance is too wide on that shot. Narrow it.”

Ilya grits his teeth. Adjusts.

Takes the shot again.

“Better. Again.”

Ilya wants to argue. Wants to snap back with something sharp.

But Shane is right. The shot is better.

So he does it again.

“Good.” Shane skates past, close enough that Ilya can smell his shampoo (same as years ago, cedar and something clean).

Too close.

Ilya turns and they’re face to face, barely a foot apart.

Shane’s eyes widen. Ilya can see his pulse jumping in his throat.

For half a second, neither moves.

Then Shane backs up so fast he nearly trips. “Watch your spacing,” he says roughly, and skates away.

Ilya stands there, breathing hard.

Professional. Right.

-----

Ilya is unlacing his skates when one of the older players—Davies, veteran defenseman—drops onto the bench beside him.

“Hell of a practice, Rozanov. You’re gonna be good for this team.”

“Spasibo. Thank you.”

“Hollander’s tough but fair. Good coach.” Davies pulls off his jersey. “Shame what happened to him. Guy was gonna be a star.”

Ilya’s hands still on his laces. “Da. Was very talented.”

“You guys were rookies the same year, right? 2010?”

“Yes.”

“Must be weird, having him as a coach now. You know him from back then?”

Ilya keeps his voice carefully neutral. “We played against each other. Rivalry thing for media.”

“Right, right. Montreal-Boston. That was a big deal.” Davies shakes his head. “Still, would’ve been something to play him in his prime. That injury really fucked him.”

I played against him, Ilya thinks. And I also fucked him...

“What kind of injury was it?” Ilya asks, trying to sound casual. “I never heard details.”

“Knee, I think? ACL maybe? Something career-ending.” Davies shrugs. “Guy doesn’t talk about it much. Pretty private.”

Private. Yes. Hollander was always private.

Private enough to disappear without a word.

“Anyway,” Davies stands. “Welcome to Ottawa. You’re gonna love it here.”

Ilya nods.

Doubts it.

-----

A little later Ilya is heading out, gym bag over his shoulder, when he hears a crash from the equipment room.

He looks over.

Shane is there, surrounded by scattered hockey sticks. He’d clearly been trying to organize them and knocked over the entire rack.

Shane’s face is flushed with frustration. He’s muttering to himself, starting to pick them up with jerky, agitated movements.

Ilya should keep walking.

Should maintain professional distance like Shane wanted.

Instead, his mouth opens: “I don’t think that is right place for those.”

Shane’s head snaps up. His eyes meet Ilya’s.

The look could melt steel.

“Really helpful, Rozanov. Thank you so much for your input.”

The sarcasm is sharp enough to cut.

Ilya bites back a smile. “Is truth. They go in corner rack, not wall rack.”

“I know where they go.”

“Then why you put them in wrong place?”

“I didn’t. They fell—” Shane stops. Takes a breath. “Are you seriously going to stand there and critique my equipment organization?”

“Someone has to. Is mess.”

“It’s a mess because I dropped them, not because I don’t know where they—you know what, never mind. Don’t you have somewhere to be? Someone to charm with your helpful observations?”

There it is. That bite. That frustration.

That Shane under the coach facade.

Ilya’s chest feels suddenly lighter.

“So touchy, Hollander,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “Still so boring and grumpy. Is impressive combination.”

“Fuck off.”

“There! Much better. I was worried you forget how to talk to me.”

Shane glares at him. Picks up another stick. “Professional, remember? That’s what we agreed.”

“Da, da. Very professional.” Ilya watches Shane aggressively shove sticks into the rack. “You need help?”

“No.”

“You sure? Because looks like you are losing fight with equipment.”

“Rozanov—”

“Is just an offer. As teammate.”

“You’re not my teammate. I’m your coach.”

“Then is offer as… what is word… colleague?”

Shane slams the last stick into place. Turns to face Ilya fully. “What do you want?”

You, Ilya thinks. Still. Always.

“Nothing,” he says instead. “Just making conversation.”

“Well, don’t.”

Shane pushes past him into the hallway.

Ilya watches him go.

Thinks about professional distance.

About keeping things simple.

About all his very good intentions from thirty seconds ago.

“So much for that, Ilya,” he mutters to himself.

This is going to be a very long season.

Chapter 5: Shane POV: “Lost”

### Shane’s Apartment ###

Shane’s phone rings at 6:47 AM.

He answers before the second ring, already half-awake. Years of being a parent have rewired his brain for early morning crisis calls.

“Hello?”

“Shane, honey, I’m so sorry.” His mom sounds genuinely distressed. “Jennifer’s husband just called us, she has the flu. She can’t watch Lily today.”

Shane sits up, careful not to wake Lily in the next room. His brain immediately starts cataloging options:

• Backup babysitter: Out of town this week
• Daycare: Doesn’t open until 9 AM, practice starts at 8
• His parents: Already on their way to the airport for their first vacation in three years

“Mom, it’s okay. You and Dad go. You deserve this trip.”

“But what will you do?”

“I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

He can hear the worry in her voice. “Are you sure? We could delay—”

“No. Absolutely not. Go. Have fun. I’ve got this.”

After he hangs up, Shane sits in the dark of his bedroom and runs through scenarios.

There’s really only one option.

He has to bring Lily to the arena.

-----

“We’re going on an adventure today, Lily,” Shane says, helping her into her favorite purple shirt (there’s a unicorn on it; she’s very specific about these things).

“Adventure?” Her eyes light up.

“Yeah. You get to come to Dad’s work.”

“The hockey place?”

“The hockey place.” Shane kneels down to her level. “But here’s the thing: you have to be very, very quiet. And stay exactly where I put you. Okay?”

Lily nods solemnly. “Like a mouse?”

“Exactly like a mouse.”

“Mouses are quiet,” she informs him. “They go squeak but very small squeak.”

“Mice. Several mouses are called mice. Small squeaks only.”

Shane packs her bag with the precision of someone who’s done this too many times: coloring books, crayons, her CD player with the Frozen soundtrack (she’ll listen to it seventeen times and never get bored), snacks (goldfish crackers, apple slices, juice box), and her stuffed rabbit for comfort.

This is fine. This will be fine.

The players won’t even see her. She’ll be in the administrative office upstairs, far from the locker room and ice.

Far from Ilya.

-----

### 7:52 AM - Ottawa Centaurs Practice Facility ###

Shane parks and takes a deep breath before unbuckling Lily.

“Remember. Quiet like a mouse.”

“Squeak,” Lily whispers.

Shane carries her bag and holds her hand as they walk through the back entrance. A few early staff members wave. Shane nods back, moving quickly toward the administrative wing.

He needs to talk to Head Coach Morrison first.

-----

Morrison is reviewing practice plans when Shane knocks.

“Hollander. Early. I like it.” He looks up, sees Lily. “And who’s this?”

“This is Lily. My daughter.” Shane’s grip on her hand tightens. “I’m really sorry, Coach. Babysitter fell through, my parents are out of town. I can work from the office today if you need me to, or I can—”

Morrison waves him off. “Relax, Shane. We knew you had a kid when we hired you.”

“You did?”

“We did background checks. It’s not a secret and absolutely no problem.” Morrison smiles at Lily. “Hi, Lily. I’m Coach Morrison.”

Lily hides behind Shane’s leg. She’s shy with new people (another thing she got from Shane).

“Hi,” she whispers.

“She’ll be quiet,” Shane promises. “I’ll set her up in the admin office. Beth said she’d keep an eye on her if I’m needed on the ice.”

“Sounds good. And Hollander?” Morrison’s expression is kind. “Don’t stress. We’re a family organization. This stuff happens.”

Shane feels something in his chest unclench. “Thank you, sir.”

But as he leaves the office, a different anxiety creeps in.

The coaches know. Morrison knows. Beth knows.

But the players don’t.

Especially Ilya.

Ilya, who can’t find out about Lily. Who can never find out about Lily.

Shane just needs to keep her hidden for one day. Just today. Tomorrow he’ll figure out a better solution.

One day. You can manage one day.

-----

Beth is the team’s administrative assistant and possibly the kindest person Shane has ever met. She immediately clears a corner of the office.

“Oh, she’s precious! Hi, sweetheart!”

Lily peeks out from behind Shane.

“This is Ms. Beth,” Shane says. “She’s going to make sure you’re okay while Dad is working.”

“I have goldfish crackers,” Beth stage-whispers to Lily.

Lily’s eyes widen. She loves goldfish crackers.

Shane sets up her space: coloring books spread on a small table, CD player with headphones (so she won’t disturb Beth’s work), snacks within reach, stuffed rabbit positioned just right.

“Okay, Lil. Dad has to go downstairs to the ice. You’re going to stay right here with Ms. Beth. Color some pictures, listen to Elsa. I’ll be back in two hours. Can you do that?”

Lily nods, already reaching for the crayons. “I can draw you a picture!”

“I’d love that.” Shane kisses the top of her head. “Be good.”

“I will!”

Shane looks at Beth. “If she needs anything, call me.”

“I’ve got her. We’ll be fine.” Beth winks. “Go coach some hockey.”

Shane hesitates.

Then forces himself to leave.

-----

Practice starts normally.

Morrison runs the main drills. Shane assists, correcting form, calling out plays.

Ilya is there. Of course Ilya is there. It’s his job.

They’ve settled into a tense routine over the past two weeks: professional distance with occasional moments where that distance cracks. Usually when Ilya says something deliberately annoying and Shane can’t help but respond.

Today, Shane is too distracted to engage.

He keeps thinking about Lily upstairs. Is she okay? Is she staying quiet? What if she wanders off?

She won’t wander off. Beth is watching her. She’s fine.

“Hollander!”

Shane’s head snaps up. Morrison is looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said take the second line through breakout drills. You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just… didn’t sleep well.”

Shane skates over to the second line. Runs them through the drill.

Tries to focus.

Fails.

-----

Shane checks his phone during the break.

No messages from Beth. That’s good. That means everything is fine.

He’s putting his phone away when he notices Ilya watching him from across the ice.

Their eyes meet.

Ilya looks away first.

Shane’s chest aches.

A few more weeks and it’ll get easier, he tells himself. It has to.

-----

Shane is demonstrating a defensive positioning drill when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

At first he doesn’t feel it, because he’s in the middle of practice shoots.

Until it buzzes again. And again.

“Sorry, Coach.” Shane skates to the bench, pulls out his phone.

Three missed calls from Beth.

Two text messages:

Beth: Shane, couldn’t reach you. I had to run to the printer room. Lily is in the office. Back in 5 min.

Beth: Shane call me

Shane’s blood goes cold.

He calls Beth.

She answers immediately. “Shane, I’m so sorry, I was only gone for three minutes, I swear, but when I came back...”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. I’ve checked the office, the hallway, the bathrooms. Shane, I can’t find her.”

His world tilts.

“I’m coming up.”

Shane doesn’t remember leaving the ice. Doesn’t remember telling Morrison there’s an emergency.

Just runs.

Beth is in the hallway, face pale. “I’m so sorry, I’m so—”

“Show me where you last saw her.”

They check the office again. Lily’s coloring books are there. Her CD player.

But no Lily.

Shane’s brain is screaming.

She’s three years old. She’s in a huge facility. She could be anywhere. She could be scared. She could get hurt...

“I’ll check downstairs,” Beth says. “The cafe, the—”

“I’ll check the arena level.” Shane’s voice doesn’t sound like his own. “Call security. Now.”

He takes the stairs two at a time.

The arena is huge. Multiple levels, locker rooms, training facilities, storage areas.

A three-year-old could get lost. Could get hurt.

Could wander into the player areas where— Shane’s stomach drops.

No. Please no. Not there. Anywhere but there.

He bursts through the door to the main level.

“Lily!” he calls. “Lily, where are you?”

No answer.

He checks the stands. The equipment rooms. The hallways.

Nothing.

His phone rings. Beth.

“Did you find her?”

“No. Security is checking cameras. Shane, I’m so sorry.”

“Keep looking.”

He hangs up. Stands in the empty hallway. And for the first time in three years, Shane feels the same panic he felt staring at that pregnancy test.

I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her. Please, I can’t.

“LILY!” His voice echoes off the concrete.

Silence.

Shane runs.

Chapter 6: Ilya POV: “Lily”

Ilya is the last one off the ice.

He likes it this way. The quiet after everyone else has left, just the sound of his skates on ice, the echo of the empty arena.

He’s running through a few extra shots when he notices the commotion upstairs.

Morrison had called practice early after Hollander just… disappeared. Left the ice mid-drill, didn’t even take off his skates, just ran.

Ilya had watched him go, confused.

What kind of incident makes Hollander run like that? Hopefully nothing too bad.

Hollander had been distracted all practice. Checking his phone. Looking toward the exits. Not like him at all. Hollander was usually intensely focused, almost annoyingly so.

Something was wrong.

Ilya finishes his shots and skates toward the bench. He should shower, go home, stop thinking about Hollander’s panicked face.

Should mind his own business.

But something nags at him.

What if Hollander needs help?

Ilya shakes his head. “Not your problem,” he mutters in Russian.

He’s unlacing his skates when he hears it.

A small voice. Young. Uncertain.

“Hello?”

Ilya looks up.

A little girl stands near the boards, tiny hands gripping the edge, looking out at the ice like it’s the ocean.

She can’t be more than three to four years old. Dark hair in two little ponytails. Purple shirt with a unicorn. Pink sneakers that light up when she walks.

Completely alone.

Ilya’s brain stutters. Why is there a child here? Where are her parents?

He watches as she carefully tries to climb onto the ice.

“Hey!” Ilya shouts and immediately stops unlacing his skates and moves to her. “Stop! Is dangerous!”

The little girl freezes, looks at him with wide eyes.

Pale, blue eyes.

Startlingly pale.

Ilya approaches slowly, kneels down so he’s at her level.

“Hey, малышка,” he says softly. “What are you doing here? Where is your mama?”

The girl tilts her head, not scared at all. “Don’t have a mama. Just Dad.”

“Your dad? Where is he?”

“Working.” She points vaguely toward the ceiling. “He does hockey.”

Works here. Someone who works here has a daughter.

“What is your name?” Ilya asks.

The girl beams. “I’m Lily!”

Something in Ilya’s chest jolts.

Lily.

Lily.

His codename. The name he used with…

No. Just a name. Common name. Lots of people were named Lily.

“Lily,” Ilya repeats. “That is… very pretty name.”

“Thank you!” She climbs up onto the boards, fearless. “What’s your name?”

“Ilya.”

“That’s pretty too!” She grins at him. “Are you a hockey player?”

“Da. Yes.”

“That’s so cool! Dad used to be a hockey player but then he got hurt. Now he teaches hockey.”

Ilya’s heart stops.

Dad works here. Dad used to play hockey. Dad got hurt.

“Your dad sounds very smart,” Ilya manages.

“He is! He’s the smartest!” Lily swings her legs, still perched on the boards. “He reads me stories every night. And he makes the best pancakes. And he—” She stops, looks at the ice. “Can you help me go on the ice? I wanna try.”

“Nyet—no. Is too dangerous. Ice is slippery, you could fall.”

“Please?” Lily looks at him with those pale, blue eyes. “Just a little bit? Then we can find my Dad. He’s probably looking for me.”

He’s probably looking for me.

This little girl wandered off. Is lost. Her father is somewhere in this building, probably terrified.

“Is not safe without skates,” Ilya tries.

“Please, Mr. Ilya? I’ll hold your hand. I won’t let go. Promise.”

She looks so hopeful. So trusting.

And Ilya has always been weak when it comes to children. He loves kids—their honesty, their joy, the way they see the world.

“Okay,” he sighs. “But just for one minute. Then we find your dad, da?”

“Yay!” Lily claps her hands.

Ilya carefully helps her onto the ice. She’s wearing sneakers, which is completely inappropriate, but she grips his hand tightly.

“See? I’m doing it!” She takes a tiny sliding step.

“Very good. You are natural.” Ilya keeps his hand firm around hers. “Maybe you will be hockey player like your dad.”

“Maybe!” She slides another step, wobbles. Ilya catches her. “Whoops!”

She giggles, a pure, delighted sound, and Ilya can’t help but smile.

This child is precious. Sweet. Trusting.

He feels fiercely protective of her already, of this little girl he just met.

“Okay, малышка. Time to find your dad now. He is probably very worried.”

“Okay.” Lily doesn’t let go of his hand. “Will you come with me?”

“Da. I will make sure you are safe.”

He helps her off the ice, lifts her easily (she weighs nothing, is so small) and carries her toward the tunnel.

“You’re strong!” Lily says, impressed.

“Hockey player strong.” Ilya tries to smile. “Where did you last see your dad?”

“Upstairs. With the nice lady. But I got bored!”

“LILY!”

The shout echoes through the arena.

Ilya turns.

Shane Hollander stands at the tunnel entrance, face white, eyes wild.

He looks like he’s been running. Like he’s been searching everywhere. Like he’s been terrified.

Their eyes meet and then Shane sees Lily in Ilya’s arms.

Stops. Freezes. For half a second, something like horror crosses his face.

Then he’s moving again, running toward them.

“LILY!”

“Dad!” Lily waves from Ilya’s arms. “I found a hockey player! His name is Ilya and he—”

Shane reaches them, practically rips Lily out of Ilya’s arms.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Baby, you can’t wander off like that, you scared me so much!” He’s checking her over, hands shaking.

“I’m okay, Dad. The nice man—”

“Thank you,” Shane says to Ilya, voice clipped. Cold. “For finding her.”

Ilya stares at him. “She was alone. Walking toward ice. Is dangerous.”

“I know.” Shane won’t look at him. Just holds Lily tight. “I know. Thank you.”

A long pause.

“You have daughter,” Ilya says. It’s not a question.

“Yes.” Still not looking at him.

“You never said.”

“Why would I?” Shane’s voice is defensive now. “It’s not your business.”

Ilya feels something sharp in his chest. “Right. Not my business.”

Lily looks between them, confused. “Dad, do you know Mr. Ilya?”

“We work together,” Shane says shortly. “Say goodbye, Lily. We need to go.”

“But—”

“Now, Lily.”

The little girl’s face falls. “Okay.”

She waves at Ilya over Shane’s shoulder. “Bye, Mr. Ilya! Thank you for the ice skating!”

“Bye, малышка.” Ilya’s throat is tight.

Shane is already walking away.

Ilya calls after him: “Hollander.”

Shane stops but doesn’t turn.

“Where is her mother?” Ilya can’t stop himself from asking.

Shane’s shoulders tense. “There is no mother.”

“But—”

“There. Is. No. Mother.” Each word is bitten off. “It’s none of your business, Rozanov. Stay away from my daughter.”

Then he’s gone, carrying Lily down the tunnel, disappearing around the corner and Ilya stands alone in the empty arena.

-----

Ilya’s mind is racing.

Hollander has a daughter.

A daughter named Lily.

Three years old, maybe a little older.

There is no mother.

Ilya leans against the boards, trying to process.

Hollander has a child. A child he never mentioned. Never told Ilya about.

Because why would he? They were just fucking around. Just casual. Nothing serious.

Except…the timeline.

Ilya pulls out his phone with shaking hands. Opens the calculator app. Does the math he doesn’t want to do.

Four years ago: Summer 2011. Vegas. The last time they were together.

Lily appears to be about three years old.

Which means…

Which means Hollander got someone pregnant right around the time he and Ilya were…

The thought hits like a punch to the gut.

He was sleeping with someone else.

While they were together. While Ilya was falling in love with him. While they were in hotel rooms and Ilya was whispering things in Russian he hoped Hollander couldn’t understand.

Hollander was with someone else.

Got someone pregnant.

“I saw the photos, Rozanov. You seemed very comforted.”

Hollander had thrown that at him. About the women Ilya had been seen with after Hollander disappeared.

But Hollander…Hollander was the one who did that.

Ilya feels sick.

It wasn’t just casual for Ilya. It was never just casual.

But for Hollander? Obviously it was. Obviously Ilya meant so little that Hollander was fucking other people the whole time.

“Blyat,” Ilya hisses. “Fuck.”

He was so stupid. So fucking stupid.

Thinking Hollander might have felt the same. Thinking Vegas meant something. Thinking, that maybe they could be…

But there’s a child. Evidence that Ilya was nothing. Just one of many.

“There is no mother.”

So whoever she was, she’s gone now. Left Hollander with a kid.

And Hollander is raising her alone.

Ilya should feel vindicated. Should feel like this proves he was right to keep it casual, right not to invest too much.

Instead he just feels… hollow.

And angry.

So fucking angry.

But then he thinks about Lily.

Sweet Lily with her unicorn shirt and her trust and her giggle.

“I’m Lily!”

She’d been so happy. So innocent.

And it’s not her fault. Not her fault that her father, that Hollander…

Ilya can’t be angry at her. Won’t be.

Children are pure. Blameless.

And Lily is… she’s precious.

The way she’d held his hand on the ice. The way she’d trusted him completely.

“You’re strong!”

Ilya closes his eyes.

He loves kids. Always has. His friends back in Russia used to joke that he’d be a great father someday.

But Ilya never thought he’d get that. Not with his career, his secrets, his inability to actually commit to anyone who wasn’t Shane Hollander.

And now Hollander has a child.

A child Ilya can’t be part of.

“Stay away from my daughter.”

Clear. Direct. No room for interpretation.

Hollander doesn’t want Ilya near her.

Maybe because he knows Ilya will figure out the timeline. Will realize what it means.

Or maybe just because Ilya is nobody to him. Just a guy Hollander used to get fucked. Not important enough to be around his kid.

-----

Ilya sits in front of his locker, still in his practice gear, staring at nothing.

His brain won’t stop spiraling.

Who was she? The mother? Did Hollander love her? Was it serious?

Is that why he disappeared? Because he got her pregnant and had to—

No, she’s gone. “There is no mother.” So what happened?

Did she leave him? Did she die? Did she…Ilya shakes his head violently. Not his business. Hollander made that very clear.

But the questions won’t stop.

And underneath the anger, underneath the betrayal, there’s something else:

That little girl’s face. Her smile. Her absolute trust.

“Thank you, Mr. Ilya!”

Davies walks by, stops. “Rozanov? You good, man? You look like shit.”

“Am fine.” The lie is automatic.

“You sure? You’ve been sitting there for 15 min.”

“I said I am fine.” Harsher than intended.

Davies holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”

He leaves.

Ilya stands abruptly. Grabs his bag. He needs to get out of here.

Needs to stop thinking about Hollander and whoever he was sleeping with four years ago.

Needs to stop seeing Lily’s pale blue eyes and wonder if maybe…No.

Don’t go there.

It’s just a coincidence. Lots of people have light eyes. Doesn’t mean anything.

Lily is Hollander’s daughter with some woman who’s not in the picture anymore.

That’s all.

That’s all it can be.

Because the alternative, that Hollander was pregnant, that Lily might be—No.

Hollander would have said something. Would have told him. He wouldn’t be that cruel.

So Ilya leaves the arena, goes home to his too-big empty house and sits in the dark.

Thinks about Shane Hollander with someone else and about a little girl named Lily who will never be Ilya’s to know.

About how much that hurts. Even though it shouldn’t. Even though it was just casual. Even though Ilya has no right to feel betrayed.

But I do, he thinks. I do feel betrayed.

Because he loved Hollander.

And Hollander was with someone else.

And now he has a child.

And Ilya is alone.

Chapter 7: Shane POV: “The Lie”

### SHANE’S APARTMENT – The same evening ###

Shane’s hands are still shaking when he unlocks the apartment door.

Lily is quiet in his arms. She fell asleep in the car, exhausted from her adventure. He carries her to her bedroom, tucks her into bed still in her clothes. He’ll deal with pajamas and teeth-brushing tomorrow.

Right now he just needs her safe. In her bed. Where he can see her.

He sits on the floor beside her, back against the wall and watches her sleep.

Ilya found her.

Of all the people in that building, the coaches, staff, players, security, everyone – Ilya found her.

Ilya held her. Talked to her. Took her back to Shane.

Shane’s two worlds, so carefully kept separate, collided in the worst possible way.

He closes his eyes, replays the moment he saw them together.

Lily in Ilya’s arms, smiling. Trusting.

Ilya looking at her with something soft in his expression. Something gentle.

And those eyes. Lily’s pale blue eyes looking back at Ilya’s pale blue eyes.

Did he notice? Did he see it?

Shane’s brain catalogs probabilities, possible outcomes, ways this could go wrong.

All of them are bad.

-----

Lily wakes up chattering.

“Dad! Dad, I had the best dream! I was skating and there were penguins and—oh! It wasn’t a dream! Mr. Ilya helped me on the ice!”

Shane is making breakfast (eggs, toast, trying to act normal). “Yeah, sweetheart. He did.”

“He was so nice!” Lily climbs onto her chair at the kitchen table, kicking her feet. “He called me малышка. What does that mean?”

Shane’s chest tightens. “It’s Russian. I don’t know what it means. But I’m sure it was a nice nickname.”

“That’s so cool! Is Mr. Ilya your friend?”

Shane flips an egg with more force than necessary. “He’s someone from work.”

“I like him. Do you like him?”

More than I should. Less than I did. I don’t know anymore.

“He’s… fine. He’s a good hockey player.”

“Can he teach me to skate? Please? He said I am good!” Lily’s eyes are bright with excitement. “I want to learn! I could be a hockey player!”

Shane sets her plate down carefully. “We’ll see, Lily.”

“But—”

“We’ll see.”

Lily pouts but starts eating her eggs.

Shane sits across from her, coffee in hand, watching her.

I like him, she’d said

Of course she does.

Of course she’d like Ilya. Everyone likes Ilya. He is charming, charismatic, good with people in a way Shane has never been.

And Lily—Lily has half of her DNA of Ilya. Maybe she recognizes something. Some connection she can’t name.

He’s your father, Shane thinks, watching her. He’s your father and you’ll never know.

The thought sits heavy in his chest.

For four years Shane has been certain he made the right choice. Protecting Ilya’s career. Protecting Lily from a father who might resent her existence. Protecting himself from Ilya’s rejection.

But now—

Now Lily is asking about him. Wanting to see him again.

Now Shane has to work with Ilya every day, see him, talk to him, pretend.

Now he’s not sure of anything anymore.

-----

### OTTAWA CENTAURS PRACTICE FACILITY - After Practice ###

Shane is reviewing footage in the coaches’ office when there’s a knock.

He knows who it is before he looks up.

Ilya stands in the doorway, still in his practice gear, face unreadable.

“We need to talk.”

Shane’s stomach drops. “No, we don’t.”

“Hollander!”

“I’m busy, Rozanov. If this is about practice structure or anything...”

“Is about your daughter.”

The words hang in the air.

Shane slowly closes his laptop. “What about her?”

Ilya steps inside, closes the door. “Can I sit?”

“No.”

Ilya sits anyway.

They stare at each other across the desk.

“She is three years old, da?” Ilya’s voice is carefully controlled.

“Three and a half.”

“And there is no mother.”

“I already told you that.”

“But there was. At some point. Someone who—” Ilya’s jaw tightens. “When we were together. In 2011. You were with someone else?”

Shane’s brain goes into overdrive.

He thinks I “cheated”. He thinks I was sleeping with someone else.

Shane could tell him the truth right now. Could explain about the pregnancy, about being terrified, about everything.

But then what?

Ilya would know Lily is his. Would have rights. Could take her away or—worse—could reject her. He would most certainly be furious that Shane kept this secret.

So basically, he could ruin everything.

Or, a small voice in Shane’s head whispers, he could want to be her father. Could want to be part of her life.

But that voice is drowned out by fear.

Shane has spent three years building a life for Lily. Protecting her. Keeping her safe.

He can’t risk that now.

So he lies.

“Yes.” The word tastes like ash. “It happened.”

He watches Ilya’s face carefully. Sees the flash of pain before Ilya masks it.

“I see.” Ilya’s voice is flat. “So when we were in Vegas—”

“It was just fun.” Shane forces himself to hold Ilya’s gaze. “So yeah, there was someone else. It… happened.”

The silence is deafening.

Ilya nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“What you want me to say?” Ilya’s accent gets thicker when he’s emotional. Shane knows this. Hates that he still knows this. “You had your life. I had mine. Was casual, da? So… okay.”

But his voice sounds hollow.

Shane should feel relieved. Should feel like the crisis is averted.

Instead he feels sick.

“She seems like good kid,” Ilya says quietly, looking at his hands. “Your daughter.”

Shane’s throat is tight. “She is.”

“What is her name? Full name?”

“Lillian. Lillian Jane Hollander.” Shane confesses. He doesn’t know why, maybe he hopes that somehow Ilya will connect the dots and figure it out on his own. Or maybe he just cannot bear to tell another lie.

Bur Ilya doesn’t react. Just nods.

“Is pretty name.”

“Thank you.”

More silence.

Ilya stands. “I should go.”

“Rozanov—”

“Is fine, Hollander.” Ilya won’t look at him. “We keep things professional. Like you wanted. I will… I will stay away from her. Like you said.”

He walks to the door.

Stops with his hand on the handle.

“For your information,” he says, voice rough, “I was not with anyone else. After Vegas. I…” He stops. Shakes his head. “Nevermind. Does not matter now.”

Then he’s gone.

Shane sits alone in the office.

I was not with anyone else.

But Shane had seen the pictures. The tabloids. Ilya with women, with men, at clubs and restaurants.

After Vegas.

Shane’s hands curl into fists.

He thinks about Ilya’s messages. The ones Shane never answered.

are you okay?

hollander? please answer

miss you

why you not answer?

And then months later the photos started appearing. Ilya at events. Ilya with other people. Moving on.

Because Shane disappeared.

Because Shane ghosted him.

And Ilya thinks Shane was with someone else the whole time they were together.

Thinks Shane betrayed him.

And Shane just… let him think it.

Confirmed it.

Lied right to his face when Shane hadn’t been with anyone else. Ever.

-----

### SHANE’S APARTMENT - Same Night ###

Shane is cleaning up after dinner when the anger hits.

White-hot, overwhelming rage.

He grips the edge of the sink, breathing hard.

“I was not with anyone else. After Vegas.”

After.

But Ilya was with plenty of people before that, wasn’t he? Photos don’t lie. Tabloids don’t lie.

Ilya with beautiful women hanging off his arm. Ilya at clubs, laughing, charming everyone.

Ilya who said “is just fun, don’t make it complicated.”

Ilya who made it very clear that what they had was casual. Meaningless.

And now—NOW—he has the audacity to act hurt? To act like Shane betrayed him?

Shane scrubs a plate so hard it nearly cracks.

Ilya doesn’t get to be hurt.

Ilya doesn’t get to look at Shane like Shane is the one who did something wrong.

Shane gave up everything for Lily. His career, his dreams, his entire future.

And he did it alone because Ilya made it very clear he didn’t want complicated.

You don’t deserve her, Shane thinks viciously. You don’t deserve to know her. I made the right choice.

The anger feels good. Feels righteous.

Better than the guilt that’s been gnawing at him since Lily asked if Mr. Ilya was his friend.

Better than the doubt that’s been creeping in.

Shane finishes the dishes and then goes to check on Lily.

She’s asleep, rabbit clutched to her chest, peaceful and perfect.

Shane watches her for a long time.

Thinks about Ilya saying “She seems like good kid.”

Thinks about Ilya’s face when Shane confirmed there was someone else.

Thinks about all the ways this is fucked up and complicated and wrong.

But mostly he thinks: She’s mine. She’s MY daughter. And I’m protecting her.

From what, exactly?

From Ilya’s rejection?

From Ilya’s career complications?

Or from Ilya himself?

Shane doesn’t have an answer, so he goes to his own room and lies in bed.

He tells himself, over and over, that he made the right choice.

That Lily is better off not knowing.

That Ilya is better off not knowing.

That this is fine.

Everything is fine

(It’s not fine.)

(Nothing about this is fine.)

But Shane is very, very good at lying to himself.

Almost as good as he is at lying to Ilya.

Chapter 8: Ilya POV: “Family Day”

### ONE WEEK LATER - Ilya’s House ###

Ilya stares at the invitation email on his phone.

OTTAWA CENTAURS FAMILY DAY 2015

Sunday, October 11th, 2-6pm

Bring your family! Food, games, activities for kids. Let’s build team chemistry off the ice!

Family.

Ilya sets his phone down and looks around his empty living room.

Who would he bring?

His father is in Russia, sick with something the doctors can’t quite fix or won’t, because Russian healthcare is shit and his father is too stubborn to accept Ilya’s money for private treatment.

His mother died when Ilya was twelve.

His brother Alexei only calls when he needs money, only texts to remind Ilya what a faggot he is, only exists in Ilya’s life as a threat.

No wife. No girlfriend.  And definitely no boyfriend.

Just Ilya. Alone in a house too big for one person.

He could skip it. Lots of single guys on the team skip these things.

But something nags at him.

Hollander will be there. As a coach, he has to be.

And if Hollander is there…

Lily will be there.

Ilya has been thinking about her all week. Can’t stop thinking about her.

That little girl with her unicorn shirt and her complete trust. The way she’d held his hand on the ice. Her giggle.

“I’m Lily!”

It’s stupid. He met her for ten minutes. She’s Hollander’s daughter. The daughter Hollander had with someone else while lying to Ilya about it.

Ilya should stay away. Should respect Hollander’s clear boundary.

“Stay away from my daughter.”

But Ilya can’t stop thinking about her. He’s weak and apparently sucks at making reasonable decisions.

So Sunday afternoon, he drives to the arena.

-----

The main arena floor has been transformed.

Tables with food. Inflatable games for kids. A face-painting station. Music playing over the speakers.

Families everywhere. Players with wives, girlfriends, kids, parents. Happy. Together.

Ilya walks in alone and immediately feels out of place.

Davies waves him over. “Rozanov! Glad you made it! Come meet my wife and kids.”

Ilya pastes on a smile. Shakes hands with Davies’ wife (Sarah, very nice, very polite). Meets his three kids (two boys and a girl, all loud and energetic).

“You got any family coming?” Sarah asks.

“No. They are in Russia.”

“Oh, that must be hard. Being so far away.”

“Da. Is… difficult sometimes.”

He excuses himself to grab food he doesn’t want.

His eyes scan the room automatically.

Looking for...there they are.

Shane stands near the kids’ activity area, talking to an older couple. Asian man and woman, both probably in their sixties. They’re smiling at something Shane said.

And between them is Lily.

She’s wearing a pink dress today, hair in braids, holding hands with the older asian woman who is probably Shane’s mother, Ilya realizes. She’s pointing at something across the room, excited about something.

Ilya’s chest does something complicated.

Shane looks tired. Still tense. But when he looks at Lily, his whole face softens.

Ilya watches as Shane kneels down to Lily’s level, listens to whatever she’s saying, then laughs, actually laughs, and ruffles her hair.

He’s a good father, Ilya thinks. Whatever else is true, he loves her.

Ilya should look away. Should go talk to his teammates. Should not stand here watching Hollander’s family like a creep.

But then Lily turns and her eyes sweep the room and land on Ilya.

Her entire face lights up.

“MR. ILYA!”

She yanks her hand free from Shane’s mother and runs.

Full sprint across the arena floor, braids flying, pink dress fluttering.

Straight to Ilya.

“Lily!” Shane starts, but she’s already gone.

Ilya barely has time to set down his plate before she crashes into his legs, hugging him.

“You came! You came to the party!”

Ilya’s hands hover uncertainly before he gently pats her head. “Da. I came.”

“I missed you!” She looks up at him with those pale eyes. “Did you miss me?”

Something in Ilya’s chest cracks.

“Yes,” he admits. “I did.”

Lily beams. She grabs his hand. “Come on! I want to show you something!”

Ilya looks up.

Shane is walking toward them, face carefully neutral. His parents follow, curious.

“Lily, sweetheart, Mr. Rozanov is probably busy...” Shane tries.

“But I made him a picture!” Lily tugs on Ilya’s hand insistently. “Please, Mr. Ilya? It’s really good!”

Ilya looks at Shane.

Shane’s jaw is tight. But there are too many people around. Too many teammates watching. He can’t make a scene.

“Five minutes,” Shane says shortly. “Then you come back to Grandma and Grandpa, okay?”

“Okay!” Lily is already pulling Ilya toward one of the activity tables.

-----

Lily drags Ilya to a table covered in crayons and paper. She rifles through a stack of drawings.

“Here! This one!”

She holds up a piece of paper.

It’s a child’s drawing. Stick figures, bright colors. The kind of art that only makes sense if you’re three and a half.

But Ilya can see it: a figure in what might be a hockey uniform, holding what might be a hockey stick. Dark scribbles for hair. Two dots for eyes.

“That’s you!” Lily announces proudly. “See? You’re playing hockey!”

Ilya takes the drawing carefully. “For me?”

“Uh-huh! I made it special. Do you like it?”

Ilya’s throat is tight. “I love it.”

“Really?” Lily bounces on her toes. “You can keep it! To remember me!”

As if I could forget you, Ilya thinks.

He crouches down to her level. “Is beautiful, Lily. You are very talented artist.”

“Thank you!” She throws her arms around his neck.

Ilya freezes.

Then, slowly, he hugs her back.

She’s so small. So trusting. She smells like strawberry shampoo and crayons.

And Ilya feels something he hasn’t felt in years: the ache of wanting something he can’t have:

Family.

This.

-----

When Lily pulls back, she grabs a blank piece of paper. “Now you have to draw! Draw me something!”

“I am not good artist.”

“Please?” Those eyes. Impossible to say no to.

“Okay, okay.”

Ilya picks up a crayon. Starts drawing a very bad hockey stick.

Lily giggles. “That’s wonky!”

“Is Russian hockey stick. Is supposed to be wonky.”

She laughs harder.

Ilya finds himself smiling. Really smiling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shane’s parents watching. Shane’s mother says something to Shane’s father. They both look… thoughtful.

Shane appears at the table. “Lily, come on. You’ve bothered Mr. Rozanov enough.”

“He’s not bothered! Are you bothered, Mr. Ilya?”

“Not bothered,” Ilya confirms.

“See?” Lily grabs another piece of paper. “Dad, you should draw too! We can all draw together!”

Shane looks trapped. “Lily, I don’t—”

“Please, Dad? Please please please?”

Shane’s mother appears beside them. “Oh, let the girl have her fun, Shane. When’s the last time you just sat and colored?”

“Mom!”

“Sit.” She’s smiling but it’s not a request.

Shane sits.

Stiff. Uncomfortable. Deliberately not looking at Ilya.

Lily hands him crayons. “Draw me a flower!”

“A flower?”

“Yeah! A pretty one!”

Ilya watches as Shane—serious, intense Shane—picks up a purple crayon and starts drawing what might charitably be called a flower.

Lily supervises. “No, Dad, the petals go like this...”

“I’m doing my best, honey.”

“It’s pretty! But maybe more yellow?”

Shane adds yellow. The flower looks worse. Ilya bites back a smile.

Lily turns to Ilya. “What are you drawing, Mr. Ilya?”

“Is… bear. Russian bear.”

“It looks like a potato!”

“Is very round bear.”

Lily dissolves into giggles.

Even Shane’s mouth twitches.

For a moment, just a moment, it feels almost… normal.

Like they’re just two people coloring with a kid. Nothing complicated. Nothing painful.

Lily chatters between them. “When I grow up I’m gonna be a hockey player like Dad and Mr. Ilya! And I’m gonna draw pictures AND play hockey! I can do both!”

“You can do anything you want, малышка,” Ilya says softly.

“What does that mean? Mal… maly…”

“Малышка. Means little one. Is… nickname. Like sweetheart.”

“Oh! I like that!” Lily tests the word. “Mal-eesh-ka. Did I say it right?”

“Perfect.”

She beams.

Shane is very quiet.

-----

Lily’s grandparents eventually coax her away to get food.

She hugs Ilya again before she goes. “Bye, Mr. Ilya! See you soon!”

“Bye, Lily.”

Shane stands. “I should also go.”

“Hollander.” Ilya stands too. Keeps his voice low. “Can I… can I ask something?”

Shane’s shoulders tense. “What?”

“Why you name her Lily?”

Shane’s face goes carefully blank. “It’s just a name.”

“Is it?”

A long pause.

“It’s a family name,” Shane lies. Ilya can tell it’s a lie. “From my dad’s side.”

“I see.”

They stand there.

Ilya wants to say: She is wonderful. You are lucky to have her.

Wants to say: I am sorry. For whatever happened between us. For not being enough.

Wants to say: Can I be part of this? Please? Even just a little?

Instead he says: “Thank you. For letting me spend time with her today.”

Shane nods stiffly. “She likes you. I can’t… she asked about you all week. I couldn’t say no without explaining why.”

“And you do not want to explain why.”

“No. I don’t.”

Ilya nods. Accepts this.

“She is special,” he says quietly. “You are good father, Hollander. I can see that.”

Something flickers across Shane’s face. Guilt? Pain? It’s gone too quickly to tell.

“I should go,” Shane says.

“Da. Of course.”

Shane walks away.

Ilya watches him rejoin his family. Watches Lily grab his hand, pull him toward the face-painting station. Watches Shane’s mother say something that makes Shane actually smile.

They look… happy. Complete.

And Ilya is on the outside looking in.

Like always.

-----

A little later Ilya sits in his car, Lily’s drawing on the passenger seat.

A stick figure with a hockey stick.

“That’s you!”

He traces the crayon lines with one finger.

He barely knows this child.

She’s not his. She’s the product of Hollander’s betrayal, proof that Ilya never mattered as much as he thought.

But...

But she’s also sweet and funny and trusting. She calls him Mr. Ilya like it’s the best name in the world. She makes terrible drawings and gives the best hugs.

And she’s Hollander’s.

And Ilya is still—despite everything, despite the lies and the hurt and the years—deeply in love with Shane Hollander.

Which means he’s falling for Shane’s daughter too.

This is such a bad idea, Ilya thinks.

But he can’t help it.

Doesn’t want to help it.

He wants to be part of this. Part of them.

Even if it’s just at team events. Even if it’s just coloring pictures and being called “Mr. Ilya.”

Even if it hurts.

Because being around them, even in this limited, painful way, is better than being alone.

Ilya starts his car and looks at the drawing one more time.

And decides: fuck it.

He doesn’t care if Hollander betrayed him. Doesn’t care about the complications.

He wants this.

Wants Lily’s smiles and terrible drawings.

Wants Shane’s rare soft moments.

Wants to be wanted, even if it’s just by a three-year-old who doesn’t know any better.

He’ll take what he can get.

Even if it breaks his heart.

Chapter 9: Shane POV: “The Gift”

### SHANE’S APARTMENT – A few days later ###

Shane sits at his kitchen table, laptop open, spreadsheet glowing in the dark.

Numbers. Always numbers. Never enough numbers.

Income: Assistant Coach salary (decent, but not NHL player decent)

Expenses:

- Rent: $1,800

- Childcare: $1,200 (and that’s with his parents helping three days a week)

- Groceries: $600

- Utilities: $200

- Student loans from coaching certification courses: $550/month for the next three years

- Medical bills from pregnancy (still paying off): $275/month

- Car payment: $320

- Insurance: $180

The math doesn’t work.

It never quite works.

Shane closes his eyes, does the calculation in his head for the hundredth time.

If he’s careful—very careful—he can afford Lily’s new shoes next month. The jacket the month after that.

Her current winter shoes are getting tight. He’s noticed her limping slightly. And winter is coming. Ottawa winters are brutal.

But he can make it work. He always makes it work.

His phone buzzes.

Mom: Shane, we want to help with Lily’s winter clothes. Let us know so we will get her an early Christmas present.

Shane types back: You already help so much. I’ve got it covered.

Mom: Sweetheart, there’s no shame in accepting help.

Shane: I know. But I need to do this myself. Thank you though. Love you.

He sets his phone down.

His parents have already given him so much. Too much. They’re not poor but also not wealthy either—his dad worked in IT, his mom was a teacher, both retired now on fixed incomes. They gave up so much for his failed hockey career already. They give him money every month “for Lily’s activities” and pretend Shane doesn’t know it’s because they worry.

Shane has to prove he can do this. That he made the right choice leaving hockey. That he can provide for his daughter on his own.

Even if the numbers don’t quite add up.

-----

### THREE DAYS LATER ###

Shane’s babysitter cancels again. Third time this month.

He’s going to have to find someone more reliable. Which costs more money. Which he doesn’t have.

So once again, Lily comes to work.

Beth sets her up in the administrative office with her usual setup: coloring books, snacks and an ipad because Shane can’t risk a repeat of the last time she got bored.

“I’ll keep a better eye on her this time,” Beth promises, still guilty about the wandering incident.

“Thank you. I’m working on finding consistent care, I swear.”

“Shane, it’s fine. She’s a sweetheart. No trouble at all.”

Practice runs long. By the time Shane gets back upstairs, it’s past 6 PM.

Lily is waiting by the glass doors that overlook the ice, nose pressed against the glass, watching the last few players finish up.

Shane’s heart sinks. She’s bored. Of course she is. She’s been here for hours.

“Hey, Lil. Ready to go home?”

She turns, but her face isn’t tired. It’s excited.

“Dad! Can I go on the ice? Just for a minute? Mr. Ilya said he could teach me ice skating.”

Shane’s stomach drops. “Mr. Ilya?”

“He came up to say hi! He’s so nice, Dad. Can he take me on the ice? Please?”

Shane looks through the glass.

Ilya is still down there, doing post-practice drills. Alone on the ice like he always is—perfectionist, always pushing.

“Lily, we talked about this. Mr. Rozanov is busy.”

“But he said he doesn’t mind! He said he would!”

“No.”

Lily’s face falls. “But Daddy...”

“I said no, Lily.”

Her eyes get shiny. She’s tired. Shane is tired. This is not the time.

“Please? He’s really nice and he said he would. And I want to!”

Shane closes his eyes. Counts to five.

She just wants to skate. She’s three. She doesn’t understand why this is complicated.

“Fine. Five minutes. But I’m coming with you.”

“Yay!” Lily’s whole face lights up.

-----

Shane helps Lily onto the ice (she’s wearing her winter shoes and no skates, which is completely inappropriate, but it’s just for a few minutes).

Ilya skates over. “Hollander. Lily. Hi.”

“Mr. Ilya!” Lily reaches for him immediately.

Ilya takes her hand. Looks at Shane. “Is okay?”

“Five minutes,” Shane says tightly.

“Da. Five minutes.”

Shane watches as Ilya carefully guides Lily across the ice in front of him. She’s giggling, holding both of his hands with complete trust, sliding her feet like Ilya showed her last time.

“See, Dad? I’m doing it!”

“I see, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”

Ilya is patient with her. Gentle. Catches her every time she wobbles. Talks to her in that soft voice he probably doesn’t even realize he’s using.

He would be a good father, Shane thinks and immediately hates himself for thinking it.

After five minutes that turn into ten (because Lily begs and Shane is weak), they get off the ice.

Lily is chattering happily. “That was so fun! Mr. Ilya, you’re the best teacher! Can we do it again tomorrow?”

“If your dad says is okay.”

Lily looks at Shane with those big pleading eyes.

“We’ll see,” Shane says, which is his standard non-answer.

Lily yawns. The excitement is wearing off, exhaustion setting in.

“Someone is tired,” Ilya observes.

“Long day,” Shane says. “We should go.”

He picks Lily up. She immediately rests her head on his shoulder, already half-asleep.

They walk toward the tunnel, Ilya following.

“Dad,” Lily mumbles against his shoulder. “My feet hurt – the shoe hurts me.”

Shane’s jaw tightens. “I know, baby. We’ll get new ones soon.”

“When?”

“Next month.”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s ten more sleeps. Can you wait ten more sleeps?”

“Okay.” Another yawn. “And the jacket? The pink one we saw?”

Shane’s chest aches. “Maybe the month after. We’ll see.”

Lily doesn’t answer. Already asleep.

Shane doesn’t realize Ilya heard everything until he speaks.

“She needs shoes?” Ilya’s voice is quiet. “And jacket?”

Shane doesn’t look at him. Keeps walking. “It’s fine. We’re handling it.”

“Hollander.”

“We’re fine, Rozanov.”

They reach the parking lot. Shane’s car is on one side, Ilya’s on the other.

“If you need money—” Ilya starts.

“No.”

“I can help. Is not problem for me, I have money.”

“I said no.” Shane finally looks at him. “Stay out of it.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. “Is about her, not about you. She needs shoes. Needs warm jacket. Winter is coming.”

“I’m aware. And I’ll handle it.”

“Your pride is more important than her?”

The words hit like a slap.

Shane’s voice goes cold. “Don’t! Don’t you dare. You don’t get to question how I take care of my daughter.”

“I am not questioning. I am offering help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Why not?”

Because I can’t owe you anything. Because you’d have leverage. Because if you help, you get to have opinions and I can’t risk that.

“Because it’s none of your business,” Shane says instead.

Ilya looks at Lily, asleep on Shane’s shoulder. His expression softens.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, Hollander. I will not say anymore.”

Shane nods. Puts Lily in her car seat.

Drives home.

Tries not to feel guilty.

Fails.

-----

### TWO DAYS LATER - Shane’s Apartment ###

Shane is making lunch when there’s a knock at the door.

He’s not expecting anyone.

Opens it to find a delivery person with a large box.

“Lily Hollander?”

“No, but her father?”

“Delivery for her. Sign here.”

Shane signs, confused. Takes the box inside.

It’s actually addressed to Lily.

Shane’s stomach sinks.

He opens it.

Inside is a winter jacket in pink (Lily’s favorite color). Size 4T (exactly her size). High quality, the kind Shane looked at online but couldn’t justify buying.

Shoes. Kids’ sneakers with light-up soles (because of course) and some snow boots, in various sizes.

A stuffed animal. Some kind of cartoon character Lily loves.

And a card.

Shane opens it with shaking hands.

For Lily. - I.R.

That’s all. No explanation. No guilt trip. Just: For Lily.

Shane stares at the box.

At the jacket that probably cost $250.

At the shoes that are exactly what Lily needs.

At proof that Ilya listened. That he cared enough to do this despite Shane telling him to stay out of it

Shane should be grateful.

Instead, he’s furious.

-----

Shane pulls up the team directory on his laptop. Finds Ilya’s contact information.

This is a violation. Staff aren’t supposed to use player personal numbers for non-team business.

But Shane doesn’t care. He calls.

Ilya answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“What the fuck, Rozanov.”

A pause. “Hollander?”

“You can’t just send my daughter gifts! You can’t just...who gave you my address?”

“Is in team directory. For emergencies.”

“This isn’t an emergency!”

“She needed shoes. Needed jacket.” Ilya’s voice is maddeningly calm. “I helped.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“No. But Lily needs them.”

“She’s MY daughter!”

“I know this!” For the first time, Ilya’s voice rises. “You remind me every time! I KNOW she is your daughter! But she is child, Hollander! A child who should not have to wait because you are too stubborn to accept help!”

“You don’t get to make decisions about what she needs!”

“I am not making decisions! I am giving gift! People give children gifts! Is normal!”

“Not when—” Shane stops. Takes a breath. “You barely know her.”

“Whose fault is that?”

The words hang in the air.

Shane’s grip on his phone tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“No. Say what you mean, Rozanov.”

Silence.

Then, quietly: “I would like to know her. If you would let me. But you make very clear I should stay away. So I stay away. But I can still… I can still make sure she has what she needs.”

“Why?” Shane’s voice cracks. “Why do you care?”

The silence stretches.

“Because…” Ilya stops. Starts again. “Because she is sweet kid. Because she deserves to be spoiled a little. All kids do. And because…” Another pause. “Because I care.”

“About her?

“Yes.”

“Just her?”

Ilya doesn’t answer.

Shane closes his eyes. “You can’t do this. You can’t just buy things.”

“Then what can I do?” Ilya sounds tired. “Tell me, Hollander. What am I allowed to do? Because every time I try to help, you push me away. Every time I try to be… to be there, you tell me is not my place. So tell me. What is my place?”

Shane doesn’t have an answer.

“I should go,” Ilya says. “Tell Lily… tell her I hope she likes the jacket.”

He hangs up.

Shane stands in his kitchen, phone in hand, staring at the box.

-----

Later that evening Lily finds the box.

“Dad! DAD! Look! It’s the jacket! The pink one!” She’s pulling it out, eyes huge with joy. “And shoes! And—oh my gosh, is this Bluey?!”

The stuffed animal. Apparently it’s from some show Lily loves.

“Where did this come from?” Lily asks, already putting on the jacket. It fits perfectly.

Shane’s throat is tight. “Someone… Mr. Ilya sent it.”

“MR. ILYA?!” Lily spins around. “He sent me presents?! Dad, we have to call him! We have to say thank you!”

“Lily...”

“Please? Please can I call him? Or can we see him tomorrow? Dad, please, I have to say thank you, Grandma says you always say thank you for presents.”

Shane looks at his daughter.

In her pink jacket that she desperately needed.

Wearing shoes that actually fit.

At the stuffed Bluey she’s already named “Mr. Blue.”

He can’t return them. Can’t take this away from her.

But he also can’t just… accept it without acknowledgment, especially after their earlier confrontation.

“Lily,” Shane says carefully. “Let’s call Mr. Ilya to say thank you.”

“YES!” Lily bounces. “Can I tell him about my day? And show him my jacket?”

“Sure, baby. Let me just—”

Shane pulls out his phone. Opens FaceTime.

Stares at Ilya’s contact.

They haven’t spoken since the phone call at noon. Since Shane yelled at him. Since Ilya said “because I care” and Shane didn’t know what to do with that.

This is going to be awkward.

He hits call anyway.

The phone rings once. Twice.

Ilya answers on the third ring.

His face fills the screen, clearly annoyed, mouth already open, probably to say something sharp—

Then he sees Lily.

His expression transforms instantly.

The irritation melts away. His eyes go soft. A small smile tugs at his lips.

“Hollander. Lily.” His voice is warm. Gentle. “Privet.”

“Hi Mr. Ilya!” Lily shouts, already climbing onto Shane’s lap to get closer to the screen.

“Hi,” Shane says. His throat feels tight. “We, uh. Lily wanted to call you.”

“Da?” Ilya’s attention shifts fully to Lily. “What is it, малышка?”

“I wanted to say thank you!” Lily beams. “For my presents! Look at my jacket!”

She jumps off Shane’s lap, runs back to show off the jacket, twirling.

“Is very beautiful,” Ilya says seriously. “Pink is good color for you.”

“And the shoes light up!” Lily stomps her feet to demonstrate. The lights flash. “See?!”

“I see! Very cool shoes.”

“And Mr. Blue!” She holds up the stuffed animal. “He’s my new best friend!”

“Mr. Blue is lucky to have you.”

Lily climbs back onto Shane’s lap, already launching into a full report of her day.

“...and then at daycare we had goldfish crackers but Emma took TWO handfuls which isn’t fair, and then we played outside and I went on the swings, and Dad let me have apple slices with peanut butter for snack—”

Shane tries to interject. “Lily, Mr. Ilya probably doesn’t need to hear about all that.”

“—and then we read a book about a caterpillar who eats SO MUCH and then he turns into a butterfly, and I helped Dad make dinner, I stirred the pasta!”

“Lily...”

But Ilya is smiling. Really smiling. Eyes crinkled at the corners, expression soft and attentive.

“You stirred pasta? Very impressive. You are good helper.”

“I am! And then Dad let me pick dessert and I picked ice cream but only one scoop because it’s a school night—”

She keeps going. And going.

Shane tries to reclaim the phone a few times but Lily has a death grip on it.

And Ilya....Ilya just listens. Nods in the right places. Makes interested sounds. Asks follow-up questions.

“What flavor ice cream?”

“Chocolate! It’s the best!”

“Chocolate is very good choice.”

“What’s YOUR favorite?”

“Hmm. Vanilla. Is classic.”

“Vanilla is boring!”

“I like boring.”

Lily giggles and Shane feels a weird fluttering in his stomach. Was Ilya doing this on purpose? No, that can’t be.

So Shane watches them, watches Lily’s face light up when Ilya laughs at something she says.

Watches Ilya’s expression—patient, amused, genuinely interested in a three-year-old’s rambling story about daycare drama.

Watches the easy way they talk to each other. Like they’ve been doing this for years.

He’s so good with her.

The thought hits Shane hard.

He would have been good with her from the start. If I’d told him. If I’d given him the chance.

“—and then tomorrow we’re going to do painting! Do you like painting, Mr. Ilya?”

Shane’s chest aches.

Three and a half years.

Three and a half years of moments like this that Ilya missed.

First words. First steps. First time Lily said something funny and Shane laughed so hard he cried.

Bedtime stories. Scraped knees. Dance parties in the kitchen.

All of it. Gone. Stolen.

Because Shane was scared.

Was I protecting her? Or was I protecting myself?

He doesn’t know anymore.

“Dad?” Lily is tugging his sleeve. “Dad, Mr. Ilya asked you something.”

Shane blinks. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked if Lily can show me her room. She says she has drawings on her wall.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

Lily scrambles off his lap, takes the phone, runs to her room.

Shane can hear her chattering, showing Ilya her artwork, her stuffed animals, her books.

Ilya’s voice responds, always warm and encouraging, asking questions.

Shane sits on the couch alone.

What am I doing?

Ilya bought her a jacket because she needed one and I couldn’t afford it. He answered a FaceTime call with a smile even though we fought this morning. He’s listening to a three-year-old talk about goldfish crackers like it’s the most important thing in the world.

And I kept her from him. For three and a half years. Because I was scared he wouldn’t want her.

But he does want her. Anyone can see that. So what was I really scared of?

Shane doesn’t have an answer.

Or maybe he does and he just doesn’t want to admit it.

Lily comes running back, phone outstretched. “Dad! Mr. Ilya wants to talk to you!”

Shane takes the phone.

Ilya’s face fills the screen again. The softness is still there, but there’s something else too. Something searching.

“Thank you. For calling. For letting her… for letting me talk to her.”

“She wanted to say thank you. For the presents.”

“I wanted to give them. She deserves nice things.”

“Rozanov—”

“I know. I know you want to do it yourself. I respect that. But Hollander…” Ilya’s voice is careful. “Is okay to let people help. Is okay to not do everything alone.”

“I’m not good at that.”

“I know. But maybe you can try? For her?”

For her. Or for you?

Shane doesn’t ask.

“Yeah,” he says instead. “Maybe I can try.”

Ilya smiles. Small. Hopeful.

“Goodnight, Hollander. Goodnight, Lily.”

“GOODNIGHT MR. ILYA!” Lily shouts from where she is already running around again, making her shoes light up.

“Night, Rozanov.”

The call ends.

Lily yawns. “I like Mr. Ilya.”

“I know you do, baby.”

“He’s really nice.”

“Yeah. He is.”

Shane carries her to bed. Tucks her in. Kisses her forehead.

“Love you, Lily.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

She falls asleep almost immediately, new jacket hung carefully on her chair, light-up shoes by the door, Mr. Blue clutched in her arms.

Shane sits on the edge of her bed for a long time.

Watching her sleep.

Thinking about Ilya’s face on the screen. The way he listened to Lily like every word mattered.

Thinking about “is okay to let people help.”

Thinking about three and a half years of doing this alone when maybe—maybe—he didn’t have to.

Did I make the right choice?

For the first time since that positive pregnancy test, Shane isn’t sure.

And that terrifies him more than anything.

Chapter 10: Ilya POV: “Training Camp”

### OTTAWA CENTAURS PRACTICE FACILITY - Team Meeting ###

“Alright, gentlemen,” Coach Morrison announces. “January training camp. Two weeks in the mountains. Fitness, cardio, team bonding. We leave the 2nd, back on the 18th.”

Ilya sits in the back of the room, half-listening.

Two weeks away from the city. Intensive training. No distractions.

Good. He needs to focus on hockey. Needs to stop thinking about—

“For those of you with families,” Morrison continues, “the facility is family-friendly. We’ve got a few guys bringing wives and kids. If you need to arrange childcare, talk to management.”

Ilya’s attention sharpens.

Family-friendly.

Which means…

He looks across the room. Shane is sitting with the other coaches, face carefully neutral.

But Ilya knows that expression. That’s Shane’s “I have a problem I’m trying to solve” face.

Childcare, Ilya realizes. He needs someone to watch Lily.

-----

### THREE DAYS LATER ###

Ilya is in the gym, running on the treadmill, when he hears Shane’s voice from the coaches’ office nearby.

“I understand, I know it’s last minute. My parents are visiting my aunt in Vancouver, they can’t change their flights now… And my regular sitter can’t do two weeks… I’m trying to find—”

A pause.

“Bring her?” Shane sounds stressed. “To training camp? That’s not… Coach, I don’t have anyone to come along to watch her while I work...”

Another pause.

“Are you sure? I don’t want special treatment just because... Okay. Okay, thank you. I really appreciate this.”

Ilya slows his treadmill. Processes.

Lily is coming to training camp.

A little over two weeks. With the team.

16 days of Shane being stressed and exhausted trying to work while managing a three-year-old.

Which means 16 days of Lily being around.

Ilya’s heart beats faster and it’s not from the running.

-----

### TRAINING CAMP - Day One ###

The facility is in the mountains, two hours from Ottawa. Beautiful. Isolated. State-of-the-art gym and training rooms.

And yes, it’s actually family-friendly.

Davies brought his wife and two youngest kids. Another player—Henderson—has his girlfriend and baby with him.

There’s a common area with toys. A small playground outside. The management clearly meant it when they said families were welcome.

Ilya is… surprised.

In Boston, this never would have happened. The Raiders were all business, no room for personal lives during training.

But here, Morrison actually seems to want the families around. Says something about “team chemistry” and “remembering what we’re playing for.”

It’s nice.

Really nice.

And then Ilya sees them.

Shane walking in with Lily on his hip, a duffel bag over his shoulder, looking exhausted already.

Lily spots the playground through the window and gasps. “Dad! Dad, can I play?”

“After we get settled, okay?”

“Okay!” She’s bouncing in his arms.

Shane catches Ilya’s eye across the lobby.

Nods once. Stiff. Polite.

Ilya nods back.

Two weeks, he thinks. I can handle two weeks.

-----

The schedule is brutal. Cardio in the mornings, strength training in the afternoons, team exercises in between.

Shane sets Lily up in a corner of the gym during training sessions. She has books, toys, her tablet with headphones.

She’s remarkably well-behaved for a three-year-old.

But Ilya watches Shane watching her, even during drills. Sees the tension in his shoulders. The way he checks on her every five minutes.

During water breaks, Ilya waves at Lily.

She waves back, huge smile.

“Mr. Ilya!”

Some of the other players notice.

“You know Hollander’s kid?” Davies asks.

“Da. Met her at family day.”

“She’s cute. Hollander doing okay? Must be tough coaching while managing a toddler alone.”

Ilya looks over. Shane is crouched next to Lily, helping her with something. Patient despite being mid-workout, sweaty and tired.

“He is good,” Ilya says.

But he can see the strain.

By day three, other players and wives start interacting with Lily too, who grows more and more comfortable.

Henderson’s girlfriend brings her baby over to play. Davies’ wife sits with two of her kids and Lily during lunch, coloring.

The team is… kind. Welcoming.

Ilya notices Shane visibly relax a little. Maybe this is actually working.

-----

On day four, Ilya finishes his cooldown and heads to the lobby.

Lily is there, sitting on a bench, kicking her feet, looking bored.

Shane is still in a coaches’ meeting. Probably will be for another hour.

Ilya approaches. “Hello, малышка.”

“Mr. Ilya!” She brightens immediately. “Did you have fun?”

“I did. You?”

“Boring. I colored all my pictures already.”

Ilya sits next to her. “That is problem. What we do about this?”

She thinks very seriously. “You could read to me?”

“I do not have book.”

“I have books!” She digs in her backpack. Pulls out three picture books. “You can pick!”

Ilya looks at the books. Looks at Lily’s hopeful face.

“Okay. I pick… this one.”

He chose wrong—it’s about a princess and a dragon and makes no sense—but Lily is delighted.

They sit on the bench. Ilya reads in his heavily accented English, making up voices for the characters.

Lily giggles at his dragon voice.

“You’re so funny, Mr. Ilya!”

He does the voice again. She laughs harder.

And Ilya feels it again, that ache in his chest. The wanting.

This. This feeling of making a child laugh. Of being trusted. Of being… needed, maybe?

This is what I want, he thinks. This is what I’ve always wanted.

-----

It becomes a pattern.

After training, Ilya finds Lily. Reads to her, or plays simple games, or just talks.

Shane allows it. Doesn’t interfere.

Sometimes watches from a distance, expression unreadable.

Other players notice.

“Rozanov’s got a new best friend,” one of them teases in the locker room.

“Is cute kid,” Ilya says with a shrug.

“Since when are you into kids? Thought you were more into—” The player makes a suggestive gesture.

“Can like both,” Ilya says coolly. “Children are not complicated. Is refreshing.”

“Fair enough. She is pretty adorable.”

Davies joins in. “You’re good with her, man. Natural. You got nieces or nephews back in Russia?”

“Yes.” Ilya’s voice tightens. “One niece. But can’t see her too much.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Is fine.” Ilya changes the subject quickly.

-----

### DAY 09 – Evening ###

After dinner, Ilya is reading to Lily again. Some book about a bear who can’t sleep.

She’s curled into his side, getting drowsy.

“Mr. Ilya?”

“Da?”

“I wish you could be my dad’s friend.”

Ilya’s heart stops. “What?”

“He doesn’t have a lot of friends. Grandma says he works too much. But you’re nice. You’d be a good friend.”

Ilya doesn’t know what to say.

“I… I would like that too, малышка.”

“Then why aren’t you friends?”

Because I am in love with him. Because he betrayed me. Because he hates me now and I don’t know how to fix it.

“Is complicated,” Ilya says.

“Grown-ups always say that.” Lily yawns. “I think it’s not that complicated. You’re nice, Dad is nice. You should just be friends.”

If only it were that simple.

Lily’s eyes are closing. She’s falling asleep against him.

Ilya looks up.

Shane is standing in the doorway, watching them.

How long has he been there?

“She is tired,” Ilya says quietly, so as not to wake her.

Shane nods. Walks over. “I can take her.”

“Is okay. I can… I can carry her to your room?”

Shane hesitates.

Then: “Room 304.”

Ilya carries Lily carefully. She’s completely asleep now, head on his shoulder.

Shane unlocks the door. The room is small—one queen bed, a rollaway cot set up for Lily.

Ilya lays her on the cot. Shane covers her with a blanket, tucks in her stuffed rabbit.

They’re both quiet, trying not to wake her.

When they step into the hallway, Shane closes the door softly.

“Thank you,” he says. “For… spending time with her.”

“Is no problem. She is good kid.”

“She likes you.

“I like her too.”

Silence.

Ilya should leave. Should go to his own room. Should maintain distance.

Instead, he says: “If you want… if you need break sometime. To go out or… I don’t know. I can watch her. Give you evening off.”    

He means it neutrally.  As an offer of help that doesn’t involve money.

But Shane’s expression changes.

Goes cold.

“Go out?” Shane repeats. “You mean like…?”

“I just mean if you want time alone, or with...friends.”

“Right. Time to ‘go out.’” Shane’s voice is tight. “That’s what you think I need? A night to go hook up with someone?”

Ilya blinks. “What? No, I—”

“I don’t need you to babysit so I can go sleep around, Rozanov. That’s your thing, not mine.”

“I did not say that!”

“You implied it.”

“I imply nothing” Ilya stops. Takes a breath. “I offered to help. That is all. So you can… I don’t know, sleep. Read book. Have quiet...whatever you want.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because you are exhausted! Because you are working and coaching and parenting with no break! Because I—” He stops himself.

“Because what?”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. “Forget it.”

“No. Say it. Because what?”

“Because I care! Okay? I care about her, I care about—” He stops again. Can’t finish.

Shane just stares at him.

“You weren’t this ...tense back in the day,” Ilya snaps, frustrated. “You used to be able to take offer for what it is without making it into something else.”

“Back in the day I didn’t have a daughter to worry about.”

“I know that! I am offering to help WITH daughter, not help you avoid her!”

“I don’t need your help!”

“Yes, you do! You are exhausted and stubborn and you know what?” Ilya throws his hands up. “You seriously need to get fucked again. Maybe then you stop being so—so” He searches for the English word but then settles on. “—angry!”

Shane’s face goes red. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Ilya is also angry now, the careful distance dissolving. “Maybe casual sex was good for you. Made you less… this.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov.”

“Ah, there he is. The real Hollander.” Ilya’s smile is sharp. “Nice to know he still exists under all the… ice.”

“GO.”

“Gladly.”

Ilya turns and walks away.

Gets to his own room. Slams the door. Sits on his bed and puts his head in his hands.

“You seriously need to get fucked again.”

Why did he say that?

Because he’s frustrated. Because Shane won’t let him help. Because every time Ilya tries to be close, Shane pushes him away.

Because Shane had sex with someone else three years ago and it still hurts.

Because Ilya is jealous and petty and can’t get over it.

You’re an idiot, Ilya, he thinks.

He lies back on the bed, stares at the ceiling and wonders how they got here.

How something that used to be good—easy, fun, simple—became this minefield of hurt feelings and misunderstandings.

He thinks about Lily saying “You should just be friends.”

If only, Ilya thinks. If only.

Chapter 11: Shane POV: “Ginger Ale”

### TRAINING CAMP - Day 11 ###

Shane sits on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, staring at nothing.

Lily is finally asleep in her cot, rabbit clutched to her chest, breathing soft and even after some heavy fighting sleep earlier.

It’s 9 PM. Shane missed dinner. Again.

He’s exhausted. The kind of exhausted that goes bone-deep, that makes thinking feel like moving through syrup.

Nearly two weeks of coaching during the day, parenting at night and barely sleeping in between.

Eleven days of watching Ilya with Lily.

Watching Lily light up every time she sees him. Watching her ask “When is Mr. Ilya coming?” during every break. Watching her curl into his side during story time like she’s known him her whole life.

Watching Ilya be perfect with her.

Patient. Gentle. Making her laugh with his terrible dragon voices and his creative mispronunciations of English words.

Being everything Shane never let him be.

And the absolute worst part is that Shane can see it now. Can see what he’s been denying him.

Ilya would have been a good father.

Not just good. Great.

And Shane took that from him.

Took it from Lily.

Took it from all of them.

Shane keeps replaying their fight in his mind.

“If you want to go out… I can watch her.”

Ilya had meant it kindly. Shane knows that now. Knows it in the rational part of his brain that isn’t exhausted, defensive or terrified.

But in the moment, all Shane heard was judgment. Pity. The implication that Shane needed to go out and blow off steam the way Ilya always did.

“You seriously need to get fucked again.”

That had stung. Still stings.

Because maybe Ilya is right. Maybe Shane has become rigid and uptight and impossible to deal with.

Maybe three and a half years of single parenthood and financial stress and constant vigilance have turned him into someone who can’t accept help. Can’t be vulnerable. Can’t trust. Can’t even recognize kindness when it’s offered.

Shane drops his head into his hands.

He needs to apologize.

Needs to stop pushing Ilya away.

But every time he tries, his throat closes up. His brain reminds him of all the reasons maintaining distance is safer.

Safer for who? a voice in his head asks. For you? Or for Lily?

Shane doesn’t have an answer.

-----

Shane lifts his head when he hears gentle knocking on the door.

It’s 9:17 PM. Who would...?

He opens the door.

Ilya stands there, holding a plate covered in foil and a bottle of ginger ale.

They stare at each other.

“You didn’t come to dinner,” Ilya says finally. “I thought… maybe you are hungry.”

Shane’s throat tightens. “I...yeah. I forgot to eat.”

“I know.” Ilya holds out the plate. “Is chicken and vegetables. Nothing fancy. But is food.”

Shane takes it. Their fingers brush. Shane pretends not to notice the jolt that runs through him.

“And…” Ilya holds up the ginger ale. “I remember you like this. From before.”

Shane stares at the bottle.

Ginger ale. His favorite. A stupid detail from four years ago that Ilya somehow remembers.

“Thank you,” Shane manages.

They stand in the doorway.

“Can I…” Ilya gestures inside. “Can I come in?”

“No. I mean, yes. Come in.” Shane steps aside.

Ilya enters quietly, closing the door softly so as not to wake Lily.

He looks at her sleeping form, expression softening. “She is out.”

“Long day. She played hard with the other kids.”

“Is good. She needs friends her age.”

“Yeah.”

Awkward silence.

Shane sets the plate on the desk. Opens the ginger ale. Takes a sip.

It’s cold. Perfect. Exactly what he needed without knowing he needed it.

“Ilya, I...” Shane starts.

“I am sorry,” Ilya says at the same time.

They stop. Look at each other.

“You first,” Shane says.

Ilya shakes his head. “No. You.”

Shane takes a breath. “I’m sorry. For what I said. Two days ago. You were just trying to help and I… I made it into something it wasn’t.”

“You were tired. Is okay.”

“It’s not okay. You were being kind and I threw it back in your face.” Shane looks down at his hands. “I do that a lot, apparently.”

“Not always.”

“Often enough.”

Silence.

“I am sorry too,” Ilya says quietly. “For what I said. About you needing to…comment about sex. Was not fair.”

“It was true though.”

“What?”

Shane looks up. “I have become uptight. Rigid. I used to be… I don’t know. Different.”

“You used to be less tired,” Ilya says gently. “You have three-year-old and full-time job. Is not same as when you were twenty.”

“Still. I shouldn’t have...” Shane stops. Tries again. “You were just offering to help. And I made it about… other things. Things that aren’t your fault.”

Ilya’s brow furrows. “What things?”

The betrayal I invented. The jealousy I can’t let go of. The fact that I still...

“Nothing,” Shane lies. “Just… my issues. Not yours.”

They’re standing too close. Shane should step back. Should create distance.

Doesn’t.

“She is special girl,” Ilya says, looking at Lily again. “Your daughter.”

“Yeah. She is.”

“You are good father, Hollander.”

Shane’s chest aches. “I’m trying.”

“You are succeeding.”

The words hit harder than they should. Shane has to look away.

“I see how you are with her,” Ilya continues. “Patient. Kind. Even when you are exhausted. Even when is hard. You put her first. Always.”

Not always, Shane thinks. I put me first when I hid her from you. I know that now.

He doesn’t say it.

“Thank you,” he says instead.

More silence.

But it’s different now. Not awkward. Just… heavy. Full of things neither of them are saying.

Shane looks at Ilya.

Really looks.

Four years have changed him. Made him sharper somehow. More mature. The cocky rookie edge has been worn down into something steadier.

But his eyes are the same. Pale blue and intense.

Shane realizes Ilya is looking back.

The air between them shifts.

Shane should move. Should say goodnight. Should maintain the professional distance they’ve been pretending at.

Instead, he takes a step closer.

Ilya’s breath catches. “Hollander…?”

“Shane,” Shane corrects quietly. “It’s Shane.”

“Shane.” Ilya says it like he’s testing it. Like he hasn’t said it in years. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know.”

But Shane is leaning in anyway, can see the exact moment Ilya realizes what’s about to happen.

Their faces are inches apart. Shane can feel Ilya’s breath. Can see his pulse jumping in his throat.

This is a bad idea, his brain screams. This is a terrible idea. You can’t kiss him.

But his body isn’t listening.

His body remembers hotel rooms and desperate kisses and the way Ilya used to touch him like he was something precious.

Shane’s hand comes up, almost without permission, and rests against Ilya’s chest.

Ilya goes very still.

“Shane,” he whispers. “If you don’t want this...if you are going to push me away again, please do it now. Before I—”

Shane kisses him.

It’s soft. Tentative. Nothing like the desperate kisses from before.

Ilya makes a sound in the back of his throat. His hands come up to Shane’s face, cradling it gently and for a moment everything is simple again.

No complications. No secrets. No three-year-old sleeping six feet away who is proof of everything Shane has been lying about.

Just Shane and Ilya. Like it used to be. Like it could have been.

The thought crashes into Shane like cold water.

He pulls back. Gasps. “You should go.”

Ilya’s eyes are dark, pupils blown. “Shane?”

“Please. You should go. I can’t. This was a mistake.”

“Was it?” Ilya’s hands are still on Shane’s face. Gently caressing his freckles. Too gentle. “Because it did not feel like mistake.”

“Ilya..”

“Talk to me. Please. What are we doing? What is this?”

I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since I was nineteen. You have a daughter and you don’t even know it. I’ve been lying to you for four years and I don’t know how to stop.

Shane can’t say any of it.

“It’s complicated,” he says instead.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

Ilya’s hands drop. He steps back, expression shuttering.

“Right. Complicated.” His voice has gone flat. “Of course.”

“Ilya, I’m sorry.”

“No. Is fine. I understand.” He moves toward the door. “You are right. I should go.”

“Wait...”

But Ilya is already opening the door. He pauses in the doorway. Doesn’t turn around.

“I want you to know Shane, this … was not mistake for me. But I understand if it was for you.”

Then he’s gone and Shane stands in the middle of his hotel room, heart racing, lips still tingling, mind screaming.

What did I just do?

He looks at Lily. Still asleep. Peaceful. Unaware that her father just kissed the man who doesn’t know he’s her other father.

Shane sits down heavily on the bed.

Picks up the ginger ale. Takes a long drink.

And realizes: something has changed.

Something fundamental has shifted.

For four years, Shane has been operating under one truth: keeping Ilya at a distance was necessary. Was right. Was the only way to protect everyone involved.

But tonight...tonight he saw another truth.

The way Ilya looked at him. The gentleness in his hands. The hurt in his voice when Shane pushed him away again.

“Was not mistake for me.”

Shane puts his head in his hands.

He’s been so focused on protecting Lily from rejection, from complications, from a father who might not want her.

But what if he’s been wrong?

What if the person he’s really been protecting is himself?

Protecting his heart from being broken again. Protecting his pride from admitting he was wrong. Protecting his control over a situation that stopped being controllable the moment that pregnancy test came back positive.

What have I done?

Shane doesn’t have an answer.

But he knows that he can’t keep doing this.

Can’t keep lying.

Can’t keep pushing Ilya away when every cell in his body wants to pull him closer.

Can’t keep pretending that Lily doesn’t deserve to know her other father.

That Ilya doesn’t deserve to know his daughter.

But how do I tell him?

Shane finishes the ginger ale and looks at Lily sleeping.

And for the first time in four years, lets himself imagine it: Telling Ilya the truth.

She’s yours. She’s always been yours. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I was scared. I’m sorry for all of it.

The thought terrifies him, but so does the alternative.

A lifetime of distance, longing and lies. Of watching Lily grow up without knowing half of where she came from.

Shane lies down next to her cot.

Watches her breathe and makes a decision.

Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But soon.

He has to tell Ilya the truth.

Before it destroys what little they have left.

Chapter 12: Ilya POV: “The Truth”

### TRAINING CAMP - Day 12, Morning**

Ilya can’t focus on the workout.

His body goes through the motions of bench presses, squats, deadlifts, but his mind is somewhere else.

Specifically, it’s stuck on last night.

On Shane kissing him.

On Shane’s hands in his hair, Shane’s breath against his mouth, the way Shane had looked at him.

And then the panic. The retreat.

“You should go.”

Ilya grips the barbell harder than necessary.

Across the gym, Shane is working with two players on form. Professional. Focused.

Not looking at Ilya.

They haven’t spoken since last night.

Ilya doesn’t know what to say anyway.

Was it a mistake? Did it mean something? Are we doing this again or was it just a relapse?

“Rozanov, you okay?” Davies is spotting him. “You’ve been staring at that weight for like thirty seconds.”

“Da. Fine. Just thinking.”

“About Hollander?”

Ilya’s head snaps up panicked. “What?”

Davies grins. “Dude, the tension between you two is insane. Everyone can see it.”

“Is not! What are you talking about?!”

“It’s OK if you had disagreement with him or whatever’s going on, bur maybe sort it out? Team chemistry and all that.”

Ilya doesn’t respond. Does another rep instead.

But Davies is right. The tension is unbearable.

But Ilya has no idea how to fix it.

-----

After their training session Ilya is in his hotel room, changing after his shower, when there’s a knock on the door

He opens it and finds Shane stands there, looking exhausted and nervous.

“Ilya. I—” Shane stops. Starts again. “I have a meeting with Morrison. About next season’s strategy. It’s going to be at least two hours.”

“Okay? You need clock for that?”

“No, I…” Shane won’t meet his eyes, “Sarah was watching Lily but she just called. She and the kids had to leave early for because her son is sick. And I don’t have anyone else to...”

He stops. Takes a breath.

“Can you watch her? Please? I know it’s asking a lot and after last night I have no right to ask for favors but I’m desperate and she trusts you.”

“Yes.”

Shane blinks. “Yes?”

“Yes, I will watch her. Is no problem.”

“Are you sure? Because if you’re uncomfortable after yesterday...”

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice is gentle. “I will watch Lily. Go to your meeting.”

Relief floods Shane’s face. “Thank you. Really. She’s in my room, I’ll bring her.”

“I come get her. You go to meeting.”

“Okay. Okay, thank you. Room 304. I’ll wait with her while I grab my stuff.”

Shane leaves, practically running.

Ilya gets dressed. Tries to calm his racing heart.

Two hours alone with Lily.

This is fine. You’ve spent time with her before. This is fine.

He walks to room 304. Knocks.

Shane opens the door. Lily is behind him, already bouncing with excitement.

“Mr. Ilya! Dad said you’re going to play with me!”

“Da. Is true.” Ilya smiles at her.

Shane grabs his laptop, his notes. “She had lunch already. Snacks are in the bag if she gets hungry. She’ll need a nap around 3, but good luck with that, she fights sleep like—”

“Shane.” Ilya puts a hand on his shoulder. “We will be fine. Go.”

Their eyes meet.

Something passes between them. Unspoken. Heavy.

Shane nods and then leaves.

Ilya looks down at Lily.

She grins up at him. “Can we draw?”

“Of course, малышка. Whatever you want.”

Lily spreads out her coloring supplies on the desk.

She’s chattering about her day. Something about the hotel playground, about a girl named Sophie who can do cartwheels, about how Dad let her have extra dessert at lunch.

Ilya listens, making appropriate noises, while his mind wanders.

He thinks about Shane last night. The kiss. The way Shane had looked at him after: guilty and wanting and terrified all at once.

He thinks about four years of silence.

About Lily’s existence.

About the timeline that never quite made sense.

He’s drawn a terrible picture of a cat when Lily speaks.

“Ilya?”

“Da, малышка?”

She’s coloring very seriously, tongue poking out in concentration. “Do you miss your mama?”

The question catches him off guard.

“Sometimes,” he says carefully. “She... died when I was kid. Long time ago.”

“Oh.” Lily looks up, sympathetic. “That’s sad.”

“Da. Is sad. But was long time ago.”

“I don’t have a mama and sometimes people say that’s sad, too.” Lily says matter-of-factly. Goes back to coloring.

Ilya’s chest tightens. “Your… your dad said. Is just you and him, da?”

“Yep! And Grandma and Grandpa. They are the best.”

“What about…” Ilya tries to keep his voice casual. “What about your mama? I she dead too?”

Lily looks confused. “I told you. I don’t have a mama.”

“But everyone has…” Ilya struggles for words. “Someone had to… there is always mama and dad, or two mamas, or two dads.”

“Dad says some families look different.” Lily is very patient, like she’s explaining something obvious. “I just have Dad. He had me in his tummy.”

Ilya’s world stops.

“What?” Ilya’s voice comes out strangled.

“Dad had me in his tummy.” Lily pats her own stomach. “Right here. Grandma and Grandpa told me. Some dads can do that. Not all dads. But my dad can.”

Ilya can’t breathe.

“Dad says when I’m bigger he’ll explain more. But he carried me and then I was born and now I’m here!” She says it cheerfully, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Ilya’s brain is short-circuiting.

Shane was pregnant.

Shane carried a child.

Shane was pregnant when he disappeared.

The timeline slams into place.

Summer 2011. Vegas. The last time they were together.

Shane disappearing without explanation.

The “injury” that never made sense.

Four years of no contact.

Lily is three and a half years old.

Oh my God.

Oh my God oh my God oh my God

“Mr. Ilya?” Lily’s voice sounds far away. “Are you okay?”

Ilya forces himself to focus. To look at her.

Really look.

Her eyes. Pale Blue. Like his.

Her smile. Shane’s smile but something of Ilya in the curve of it.

The way she tilts her head when she’s thinking.

The way she laughs, so loud and unrestrained.

She’s mine.

The realization hits like being checked into the boards at full speed.

She’s my daughter.

Shane didn’t sleep with someone else.

Shane was pregnant. With Ilya’s child.

And never told him.

For three and a half years, Ilya has had a daughter and didn’t know.

For three and a half years, Shane kept this secret.

Let Ilya think he’d been betrayed. Let Ilya believe there was someone else.

Let Ilya miss...everything.

First smile. First word. First steps.

Three and a half years of being a father and not knowing.

The emotions hit in waves:

Shock: still processing, brain can’t quite accept it.

Then joy: she’s mine, this perfect little girl is mine

Then devastation: I missed so much, I wasn’t there, I didn’t know

Then rage. White-hot, all-consuming rage.

At Shane. At the universe. At himself for not seeing it sooner.

The name. Her name is LILY. My codename. How did I not see it?

But he did see it. Saw her eyes, the timeline, all of it.

And he explained it away. Convinced himself it was a coincidence.

Because the alternative was too impossible. Too painful.

Shane kept her from me.

For three and a half years.

He lied. Every day. Every interaction. Every time I saw her.

He LIED.

“Mr. Ilya?” Lily’s voice is worried now. “Why do you look sad?”

Ilya realizes his vision is blurring. Tears.

He’s crying.

In front of his daughter.

My daughter. She’s my daughter and she doesn’t even know.

“I’m—” His voice won’t work. “I’m okay, малышка.”

But he’s not okay.

He’s the furthest thing from okay.

He needs to...he needs to think. To process.

But Lily is here. Looking at him with those eyes. His eyes.

Worried about him.

Three years old and already so empathetic. So sweet.

Like Shane, he thinks. She’s like Shane.

And that makes it worse somehow.

“Can I...” Ilya’s voice cracks. “Can I have hug?”

Lily doesn’t hesitate. Climbs into his lap immediately. Wraps her small arms around his neck.

“Hugs make everything better,” she says seriously. “Dad says so.”

Dad. Shane. Who lied. Who kept her from me.

Ilya holds her.

His daughter.

For the first time knowing the truth.

And it’s everything.

And it’s destroying him.

Because this should have been moment number one thousand. Not moment one.

He should have held her as a baby. Should have been there for every scraped knee, every bedtime story, every “I love you.”

But he wasn’t. Because Shane didn’t tell him. Didn’t give him the choice.

Stole that choice from him.

Ilya holds Lily tighter. Tries to memorize everything. The weight of her. The strawberry smell of her shampoo. The way she hums a little tune against his shoulder.

His little girl.

His.

Mine, something primal in him snarls. She’s MINE and he kept her from me.

But he can’t fall apart. Not now. Not in front of her.

So he holds on.

And tries to breathe.

And fails.

-----

### THIRTY MINUTES LATER ###

Lily has gone back to coloring.

Ilya sits on the edge of the bed, watching her but his mind won’t stop spiraling.

What do I do? What do I DO?

Confront Shane? Yes. Obviously yes.

But then what?

Lawyers? Custody? Courts?

She’s mine. I have rights. I could...

But the thought of ripping her away from Shane makes him sick.

He’s her dad. She loves him. She calls him Dad.

But he LIED.

For FOUR YEARS.

Ilya’s hands are shaking.

He needs...he needs to move. To hit something. To scream.

But Lily is here.

Sweet, innocent Lily who has no idea that her world is about to implode.

Does she know? Does she know I’m her father?

No. Of course not.

She calls him Mr. Ilya. Treats him like a friend of her dad’s.

She has no idea.

Shane never told her either.

The betrayal cuts deeper. Not just keeping Lily from Ilya, but keeping Ilya from Lily.

She deserved to know. She deserved to have a father.

And I deserved to BE one.

Ilya stands. Paces. Sits. Stands again.

He’s going to lose his mind.

Lily looks up. “Are you okay, Mr. Ilya? You’re acting weird.”

“I’m—” He forces a smile. “I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

“About what?”

About how your dad lied to me for four years. About how you’re my daughter and I didn’t know. About how I missed everything and I can never get it back.

“Grown-up things,” he says instead.

Lily accepts this. Goes back to her drawing.

Ilya checks the time. 2:47 PM.

Shane’s meeting should be done soon.

And then...

And then Ilya is going to...

What? What am I going to do?

He doesn’t know.

Just knows that everything is about to change.

Everything.

-----

### 3:15 PM ###

She fights sleep like Shane warned. But eventually her eyes start drooping.

“’m not tired,” she mumbles.

“I know, малышка. Just rest your eyes.”

“Just for a minute…”

She curls up on the bed. Ilya covers her with the blanket and sits beside her.

Watches her sleep.

My daughter.

The words keep echoing.

My daughter my daughter my daughter.

He reaches out. Touches her hair gently. Dark like Shane’s but with a slight wave that’s all Ilya’s side of the family.

Her nose. Her chin. Her hands.

All pieced together from both of them.

Proof that they created something together.

Something beautiful and perfect and...

...I didn’t know.

The rage builds again.

Higher. Hotter.

Ilya stands. Paces to the window. Looks out at nothing.

He wants to call someone. To talk to someone.

But who?

Not his father— he barely remembers who Ilya is.

Not his brother— he would use it against him.

Maybe Svetlana, but that would mean also explaining why he lied to her the last four years.

So for now he’s alone with this.

Just like Shane was alone with the pregnancy.

The thought stops him cold.

Was Shane alone? Did he have anyone? Was he scared?

No.

Ilya shakes his head violently.

He’s not going to feel sympathy. Not now. Not yet.

Maybe later. Maybe after.

But right now he needs the anger.

Because the anger is the only thing holding him together.

-----

### 3:45 PM ###

Someone knocks on the door.

Ilya’s heart jumps.

Shane.

He opens it.

Shane stands there, looking tired from his meeting. “Hey, sorry that ran long. How did it go?”

He stops, sees Ilya’s face and goes white.

“Oh God.” Shane’s voice is barely a whisper. “Oh God, what happened? Is she okay?”

He pushes past Ilya into his own room and sees Lily sleeping peacefully on the bed, then relaxes slightly. “She’s...she’s fine. Then what happend?”

He turns back to Ilya.

Really looks at him and then understands.

He knows.

Shane’s face crumples. “Ilya...”

“We need to talk.” Ilya’s voice is ice. “NOW.”

“What did she say? How did you...?”

“Not here.” Ilya looks at Lily sleeping. “Not where she can hear.”

“Right. Right, okay.” Shane is scrambling. Pulls out the baby monitor from his bag. Turns it on. Places it on the nightstand next to Lily.

“My room,” Ilya says. “122.”

Shane nods, swallows hard, takes one last look at Lily and then follows Ilya into the hallway.

The door closes softly behind them.

They walk in silence.

The hallway feels endless.

Ilya’s hands are shaking. He shoves them in his pockets.

Shane is pale. Breathing too fast.

Room 122.

Ilya unlocks it. Holds the door open.

Shane walks in and Ilya follows and closes the door.

Locks it.

And the fragile control he’s been holding for the last hour—

Shatters.

Chapter 13: Shane POV: “The Confrontation”

Chapter Notes

NOTE: I changed some Russian phrases. Thank you muuguaucuac

Shane’s hands won’t stop shaking.

He walked down the hallway in a daze. Watched Ilya unlock room 122, then stepped inside.

Now he’s standing in the middle of Ilya’s hotel room and his brain won’t stop screaming.

He knows.

Oh God, he knows.

Shane saw it the moment he walked into his own room. Saw it in Ilya’s face: the devastation, the rage, the betrayal.

Lily must have said something. She’s three. She doesn’t understand what’s a secret.

What did she say? How much does he know?

Shane’s phone is in his hand. The baby monitor app open. Lily still sleeping peacefully.

At least she’s safe. At least she doesn’t know that everything is about to fall apart.

Ilya stands with his back to Shane. Facing the window. Shoulders rigid.

The silence is suffocating.

Shane opens his mouth. “Ilya?”

“Don’t.” Ilya’s voice is quiet. Deadly. “Don’t say my name. Don’t. Just...”

He stops. Takes a shuddering breath.

Shane can see his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“What did she say?” Shane tries.

“She told me.” Ilya’s voice is still eerily calm. English still perfect. Measured. “That you carried her. That you had her in your tummy. That some dads can do that.”

Shane’s stomach drops.

“She said it so simple. So innocent.” Ilya’s shoulders shake. “Like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

“Ilya, I can explain.”

“CAN YOU?!”

Ilya whirls around.

Shane has never seen him like this.

Ilya’s face is blotchy. Eyes red-rimmed. Tears streaming down his cheeks.

But it’s the expression that stops Shane’s heart.

Pure, devastating anguish.

“Can you explain,” Ilya says, voice breaking, “why you kept my daughter from me for THREE AND A HALF YEARS?”

“I—”

“Can you explain why you let me think there was someone else? That you betrayed...” His English is starting to slip. “That I meant NOTHING?”

“Ilya...”

“Can you explain why I have to find out from HER?! From THREE-YEAR-OLD who doesn’t even—she doesn’t even KNOW I am her FATHER?!”

Shane’s own eyes are filling now. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry.” Ilya laughs. Sharp. Broken. “You sorry. Da. Of course you sorry NOW.”

He takes a step toward Shane. Then another. Shane backs up instinctively. His back hits the door.

Ilya keeps coming, but stops inches away.

Close enough that Shane can see every tear track on his face. Can see the way his jaw is clenched so tight it must hurt.

“You know what is like?” Ilya’s grammar is crumbling. “To hold your child and not KNOW she is yours?”

Shane can’t speak.

“You know what is like to sing her lullaby and think is first time when should be THOUSAND time?”

“Ilya, please...”

“You know what is like—” Ilya’s voice cracks completely, “—to understand you was ROBBED? Of EVERYTHING?”

And then Ilya’s hand shoots out and grabs Shane’s t-shirt.

Twists it and shoves Shane hard against the door.

Not violent. Not brutal.

But desperate. Anguished.

Shane’s feet are still on the ground but Ilya’s got him pinned. His knuckles white where they’re gripping Shane’s shirt.

“THREE AND HALF YEAR!” Ilya’s face is inches from Shane’s. “My daughter! MOYA DOCH! For three and half year and you just DID NOT TELL ME!”

Shane’s hands come up. Grab Ilya’s wrists. Not to push him away. Just...holding on.

“I’m sorry,” Shane gasps. “God, Ilya, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry not—” Ilya’s voice breaks. “Sorry not give me back—”

He can’t finish.

His grip on Shane’s shirt tightens. Shaking.

Shane can feel Ilya’s breath on his face. Can see the tears falling freely now.

“You STEAL from me,” Ilya chokes out. His English completely fractured now. “You steal EVERYTHING. Every moment. Every first. GONE.”

“I know.”

“You not KNOW!” Ilya’s voice rises. “You HAD all! You had her smile, her laugh, her first word. You had EVERYTHING and I had NICHEGO! NOTHING!”

Shane is crying too now. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Ilya.”

“STOP! STOP SAYING!”

Ilya releases Shane’s shirt.

Shoves away.

Spins toward the wall.

And SLAMS his fist into it.

The impact is loud. Dull. Sickening.

“ILYA!” Shane lunges forward. “Stop!”

But Ilya’s already hitting the wall again. Not hard enough to go through it but hard enough that Shane can see his knuckles split. Blood.

“Ilya, STOP, you’re hurting yourself!”

Ilya leans his forehead against the wall. Both fists pressed against it now. Leaving red smears.

“Good,” he gasps. “Khorosho. Maybe I should hurt. Maybe I deserve.”

“No.” Shane reaches for him. Stops. “No, Ilya, please.”

“Don’t—don’t TOUCH!” Ilya’s voice cracks. Mixing Russian and broken English. “Don’t—ya ne mogu. I can’t!”

He slides down the wall. Sits.

Hands in his hair. Pulling.

“Ya ne mogu,” he mutters. “Ya etogo ne vynesu. Eto uzhe slishkom.” (I can't take it anymore. It's too much.)

Shane stands frozen.

Watching Ilya fall apart and not understanding what he is saying.

Watching the man he loves—still loves, has always loved—break into pieces.

Because of him.

Because Shane lied.

“Ilya,” Shane whispers. “Please let me...”

“Let you what? Explain?” Ilya looks up. His face is destroyed. English completely broken now. “You want explain? Fine. EXPLAIN. Why you take my daughter? Why you let me miss EVERYTHING? EXPLAIN THIS, SHANE!”

But Shane doesn’t have an answer.

Doesn’t have anything that will make this okay.

But he has to try.

Shane slides down the door.

His legs won’t hold him anymore.

He sits. Back against the wood. Watching Ilya across the room.

Ilya is still on the floor. Hands in his hair. Pulling hard enough that Shane worries he’ll hurt himself.

“I was scared,” Shane whispers. “I was twenty years old and pregnant and I didn’t know what to do.”

“SCARED?!” Ilya’s head snaps up. “You was scared so you just DECIDE? You decide I don’t get to know?!”

“I didn’t know if you’d want... that.”

“YOU DIDN’T ASK!” Ilya scrambles to his feet. Pacing now. Like a caged animal. “You didn’t give me CHANCE! You just—just GONE!”

His hands are shaking. He’s switched entirely to gesture-heavy broken English.

“You know what I miss?” Ilya whirls on Shane. “First smile. You see first smile?”

Shane nods, throat too tight to speak.

“What it look like? She smile big? Small? I DON’T KNOW!” Ilya’s voice cracks. “I never know! Is gone! First smile GONE!”

He starts ticking things off on his fingers. Frantic. Desperate.

“First laugh GONE! First word—was it ‘dada’? I NEVER KNOW! First step—did she fall? You catch her? I NOT THERE!”

Shane is crying harder now.

“First time she sick and you stay up whole night. I cannot help! I not THERE!” Ilya’s pacing faster. “First day at daycare—she cry? She scared? I DON’T KNOW SHANE! I DON’T KNOW NOTHING!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Every single moment!” Ilya stops. Stares at Shane. “Every SINGLE moment for three and half year—GONE.”

He starts hitting his own head with his palms. “Gone, gone, gone.”

“Ilya, stop!” Shane crawls forward. “Stop hurting yourself, please.”

“WHY?!” Ilya’s eyes are wild. “You hurt me worse! You hurt me SO MUCH worse!”

Shane freezes halfway across the floor.

Ilya’s right.

This is nothing compared to what Shane did.

“First time she say ‘I love you’,” Ilya’s voice breaks completely. “You hear that. I didn’t. First time she draw picture for someone was for you. Not me.”

“Ilya...”

“First time she fall and need Papa...she not even KNOW I am Papa!” Ilya’s sliding down the wall again. Back to sitting. “She calls me ‘Mr. Ilya’ like I am NOBODY!”

Shane is fully crying now. Can’t stop. “I know. I know, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry not enough.” Ilya shakes his head violently. “Sorry not FIX! Sorry not give me three year back! Sorry not—bozhe—sorry not CHANGE NOTHING!”

His English is completely shattered now. Grammar gone. Just raw emotion and fragments.

“You want know what worst part?” Ilya looks at Shane. “Worst part is I HELD her today. I hold my daughter and I sing her mama’s lullaby and I think ‘this so special, this first time she let me sing to her.’”

“But was not first time for HER,” Ilya continues. Voice breaking. “For her is just another day. Another person who sing to her. But for me? For me should be moment number THOUSAND. Not moment number ONE.”

Shane can’t breathe.

“And I think...” Ilya’s tears are falling freely. “I think ‘she so beautiful, she so perfect’ and I wonder who she look like. And then I SEE. I see my eyes. I see your smile. I see US in her face.”

“And I think maybe—maybe I am crazy. Maybe I am seeing things because I want...” He stops. “Because I wish she was mine.”

“But she IS mine!” Ilya’s voice rises again. “She ALWAYS was mine! And you KNEW and you never—”

He can’t finish.

Just sits there. Broken.

Shane crawls closer. Slowly.

“Don’t,” Ilya holds up a hand. “Don’t come close. Don’t. I can’t. If you touch me I will—”

He breaks off into Russian. “Ya tebya ubiyu. Net. Ya sebya ubiyu. Net, net, ya ne znayu—” (I’ll kill you. No. I’ll kill myself. No, no, I don’t know—)

“Ilya, you’re scaring me,” Shane whispers.

“GOOD!” Ilya switches back to English. “You should be scared! You should—”

He stops. Takes a shuddering breath.

“I want to hate you,” he says quietly. Each word precise despite the accent. “I want to hate you so much. You deserve I hate you.”

Shane nods. “I know.”

“But I can’t.” Ilya’s voice cracks. “I CAN’T and this make me so ANGRY because you...you did this terrible thing and I still—”

He stops. Won’t finish that sentence.

Can’t finish it.

“Why?” Ilya asks. Begs, really. “Why you do this? Please. I need understand.”

“I was scared,” Shane says again. “I know that’s not good enough but I was.”

“Scared of WHAT?” Ilya’s voice rises. “Of ME?!”

“Of trapping you!” Shane’s voice breaks. “Of ruining your life! You said it yourself. It was just fun! You said don’t make it complicated!”

“So you DECIDE for me?!” Ilya scrambles to his feet again. Pacing. “You decide what I want? What I don’t want?”

“I didn’t know what else to do!”

“You TELL me!” Ilya whirls on him. “You TELL me ‘Ilya, I am pregnant’ and you let ME decide what I want!”

“You would have given up everything.”

“DA! YES!” Ilya’s hands are in fists. “I would give up EVERYTHING! All of it! Hockey, money, father’s approval—VSYO! ALL!”

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

“Is NOT YOUR CHOICE!” Ilya’s voice cracks. “You not—you don’t get to decide what I sacrifice! What I give up! Is MY life! MY choice!”

Shane is sobbing now. “I thought you’d hate me.”

“For WHAT?!”

“For what I am!” Shane shouts. “For being able to get pregnant! For being wrong somehow! For fucking this up.”

Ilya stops.

Stares at Shane.

“You think,” His voice is quiet now. Dangerous. “You think I hate you for this? For being able to carry baby?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Ya tebya nikogda ne nenavidel,” Ilya says fiercely. (I never hated you.) “Never. Not once. Not for this. Not for ANYTHING.”

He drops to his knees in front of Shane. Not touching. But close.

“I was terrified,” Ilya says. Voice raw. “Of my father. My brother. Russia. Losing everything. But I never—NIKOGDA—I never hate you.”

“You said I should not make it complicated,” Shane whispers.

“Because I was SCARED!” Ilya’s voice breaks. “Because I was coward! Because I couldn’t. I couldn’t say...”

He stops.

Closes his eyes.

“It was not just fun,” he says finally. Quiet. “It was never just fun and you KNEW this, Shane. You knew.”

Shane did know.

Deep down, he knew.

But he was scared too.

“I was protecting her,” Shane tries. One last defense.

“From WHO?!” Ilya’s eyes snap open. “From her FATHER?!”

“From rejection! From you resenting us!”

“YOU DON’T GET TO DECIDE THAT FOR ME!”

The shout echoes in the small room.

Silence.

Both of them breathing hard.

“I thought—” Shane’s voice is barely audible. “I thought if I told you, you’d feel trapped. You’d stay out of obligation. And you’d grow to hate us. Hate me. And Lily would grow up knowing her father didn’t really want her.”

“So instead,” Ilya interrupts, voice hollow, “she grow up not knowing father at all. This is better?”

Shane closes his eyes. “No. No, it’s not better.”

“You were protecting YOURSELF,” Ilya says. Each word like a knife. “Not her. Not me. Yourself. From being hurt. From being rejected. From having to TRUST me.”

Shane can’t argue.

Because Ilya’s right.

“You right,” Shane whispers. “You’re right. I was protecting myself. I was scared and selfish and I robbed you of everything. I know. I KNOW, Ilya.”

Ilya just stares at him.

“And I don’t—” Shane’s voice breaks. “I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I can.”

“You can’t.” Ilya stands. Backs away. “Is done. Three and half year GONE. Cannot get back. Never.”

He turns toward the window.

Silent.

Shane sits on the floor.

Destroyed.

“But maybe,” Ilya says finally, not turning around. His English still broken. Still thick with emotion. “Maybe we can do better. Going forward. For her.”

“Yes,” Shane says immediately. “Yes. Anything. Whatever you want.”

“I want—” Ilya’s voice cracks. “I want to be her father. Real father. Not ‘Mr. Ilya.’ Not friend of dad. Her PAPA.”

“Okay.”

“I want time with her. Real time. Not just... few minutes here and there.”

“Okay.”

“I want—” Ilya finally turns. His face is destroyed. “I want you to never – NEVER – lie to me again. About her. About anything.”

“I won’t,” Shane promises. “I swear, Ilya, I won’t.”

“Because if you do—” Ilya’s voice drops. Deadly serious. “If you keep her from me again, if you lie again, I will fight. I will get lawyers. And I will WIN.”

The threat hangs in the air.

Shane nods. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Ilya takes a step closer. “Do you understand? I have money. I can give her everything. Big house, good school, stability. Judge will see this. Judge will see you struggling with money.”

Shane’s heart stops.

His voice shakes. “Are you saying you’ll take her from me?”

“I am saying,” Ilya’s voice is ice, “that you need understand. She is MINE. My daughter. And you cannot—you will not—keep her from me ever again.”

“I won’t!”

“Because I will fight, Shane. I will fight so hard. And I don’t want to hurt her. Don’t want to hurt you. But if you make me choose between being her father and letting you control everything—”

He stops.

“I will choose her. Every time. Always.”

Shane is shaking. “I would never...I mean I won’t keep her from you, I promise.”

“Then we figure this out.” Ilya’s voice softens. Just slightly. “Together. For her.”

“Together,” Shane echoes.

The baby monitor crackles.

“Dad?”

Lily’s voice. Sleepy. Confused.

Just one word. Just calling for Shane.

Ilya flinches like he’s been shot.

His face—

Shane watches it happen. Watches the fresh devastation wash over Ilya’s features.

She didn’t call for him. She doesn’t know to call for him. Because she doesn’t know he’s her father.

“I need to go,” Shane says quietly. Starts toward the door.

“Wait.”

Shane turns back. Ilya is standing there. Hand half-raised. Bleeding knuckles. Face destroyed.

“I’m coming with you,” Ilya says.

“Ilya, you don’t have to.”

“I’m coming.” His voice is firm despite the accent. Despite the tears still on his face. “She is my daughter. I’m coming.”

Shane nods quickly. “Okay. Okay, yes. Come with me.”

They leave the room together.

Walk down the hallway in silence.

Shane can hear Ilya’s breathing. Ragged. Uneven.

Can see him flexing his injured hand. Blood dripping onto the carpet.

“Ilya, your hand—”

“I don’t care.”

“You need to—”

“I DO NOT CARE, Shane!” Ilya stops walking. “My hand can wait. My daughter is calling and I—”

His voice breaks.

Shane’s chest aches. “We’ll tell her. Soon. We’ll tell her you’re her—”

“Papa.” Ilya’s eyes are wet again. “We tell her I am her Papa. Soon.”

“Yes. Soon.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

They start walking again.

-----

Shane’s hands shake as he unlocks the door.

Ilya is right behind him. Close enough that Shane can hear his ragged breathing. Can feel the tension radiating off him.

The door swings open.

Lily isn’t in bed anymore. She’s standing in the middle of the room, tears streaming down her face, clutching her stuffed rabbit to her chest.

“DAD!”

The word is a sob.

She runs.

Throws herself at Shane’s legs, wraps her arms around them so tight it almost knocks him off balance.

“You were GONE!” She’s crying harder now. “I woke up and you were GONE!”

Shane drops to his knees. Pulls her into his arms. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I was just down the hall, I promise.”

“I was SCARED!” Her face is buried in his shoulder. “I thought...I thought you left!”

“No, no, sweetheart. I would never leave you. Never.”

Shane holds her tight. Rocks her gently. Murmurs apologies.

Over her head, he sees Ilya.

Standing in the doorway. Frozen. Watching them.

His face....God, his face.

Like he’s watching something he should be part of but isn’t.

Like he’s on the outside looking in.

Because he is, Shane thinks. Because I put him there.

Then Ilya moves.

Crosses the room. Kneels down beside them.

His hand comes up, he slightly hesitates, but then gently touches Lily’s cheek.

“Hey, Lily,” he says softly. His voice is wrecked but he’s trying. God, he’s trying so hard. “Is okay. You not alone. We here. We both here.”

Lily turns her tear-stained face toward him. “Mr. Ilya?”

“Da. I am here too.” His thumb brushes away one of her tears. “And we—”

His voice catches. Breaks.

“We never leave you alone. Never. I promise.”

Shane’s eyes meet Ilya’s over Lily’s head.

We.

Ilya said we.

Like they’re a unit. A team.

Like they’re parents.

Shane’s chest aches so badly he can barely breathe.

Lily sniffles. Still hiccupping a little. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Ilya says. “Cross my heart.”

He makes the gesture. Lily watches. Nods seriously.

“Okay.”

-----

They sit on the floor together.

Shane and Ilya on either side of Lily. Not touching each other but close.

Lily is still sniffling. Wiping her eyes with her hands.

“You want water?” Shane asks gently.

She shakes her head.

“You want—” Ilya stops. Starts again. “You want maybe draw? You like drawing, da?”

Lily nods. “Okay.”

Shane gets her coloring supplies from her bag. Spreads them out on the carpet.

Crayons. Coloring books. Blank paper.

“You color for a bit, okay?” Shane keeps his voice calm even though inside he’s screaming. “Dad and Mr. Ilya need to talk. Right here—” he points to the corner, just a few feet away, “—right in the corner. We’re not leaving the room. You can see us the whole time.”

“Okay,” Lily whispers.

She picks up a purple crayon. Starts coloring.

Shane and Ilya stand.

Walk to the corner.

Turn so they can still see Lily. So she can still see them.

Shane’s brain is spinning. Too fast. Too much.

“What do we do now?” The words tumble out. “How do we go on?”

He stops. Runs his hands through his hair.

“What do we tell her? When do we tell her? Do we...god, Ilya, I don’t know how to do this.”

“Shane.”

“Do we tell her tomorrow? Tonight? Do we wait until...I don’t know what’s right, I don’t know what you want, I don’t know.”

“Shane.” Ilya’s hand lands on his shoulder. Firm. Grounding. “Stop. Breathe.”

Shane tries but can’t quite manage it.

His chest is too tight. His throat is closing. Everything is falling apart and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

“I don’t know either,” Ilya says quietly.

Shane’s spiral stops. “What?”

“I don’t know either.” Ilya’s English is still heavily accented but more controlled now. Exhaustion has smoothed some of the broken edges. “I need time. To think. To process. This is… eto slishkom. Is too much..”

Shane nods frantically. “Yes. Okay. Time. You need time. That’s...that’s fair. That’s more than fair. Whatever you need.”

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice is gentle now. Tired. “Stop. Just stop talking for minute.”

Shane closes his mouth.

They stand there.

Both watching Lily.

She’s coloring very seriously. Tongue poking out in concentration. Trying to stay inside the lines.

So innocent. So unaware that her entire world just shifted.

“We tell her soon,” Ilya says finally. His voice is quiet. Careful. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But soon. When we have plan. When we know what we are doing.”

“Okay.”

“And we decide together.” Ilya looks at Shane. “Not you decide. Together.”

“Together,” Shane echoes. “Yes. Okay.”

The word feels significant.

Together.

Like a promise.

Silence stretches between them.

Not comfortable. But not hostile either. Just… heavy.

“I should go,” Ilya says. It sounds like it costs him. “Let you have time with her. I need to think.”

He stops and looks down at his hand.

The knuckles are still bleeding. Sluggish now but definitely bleeding.

He’d forgotten.

Shane sees the exact moment he remembers. Sees him notice the blood.

Then the tiniest ghost of humor crosses Ilya’s face.

“And maybe find bandaid,” he says. Dry. Exhausted. “Before I bleed on hotel carpet and they charge me extra.”

Shane’s breath catches.

It’s such a Ilya thing to say.

Even now. Even after everything that just happened.

That tiny spark of humor breaking through the devastation.

Shane almost laughs. Can’t quite. But almost.

“Yeah,” he manages. “Okay.”

Ilya starts toward the door.

Stops. Turns back. Looks at Lily one more time. Then at Shane.

“I am not taking her from you,” he says quietly. “I know you scared of this. But I don’t want that. Don’t want to hurt her. Or you.”

His voice drops even lower.

“Even though I should want hurt you.”

Shane’s throat is so tight he can barely speak. “I know.”

“I just want—” Ilya’s voice cracks. “I just want to be her Papa. That is all.”

“You will be,” Shane promises. “I swear, Ilya. You will be.”

Ilya nods, opens the door and pauses again in the doorway. But he doesn’t turn around again and then leaves.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

Shane stands there.

Staring at the closed door.

Trying to process what just happened.

Trying to breathe.

-----

“Dad?”

Lily’s voice pulls him back.

Shane turns. She’s looking up at him with those pale eyes. Ilya’s eyes.

“Is Mr. Ilya okay? His hand was bleeding.”

Shane goes to sit with her on the floor. “Yeah, he’s okay. He just...he hurt himself by accident.”

“Oh.” Lily picks up a pink crayon. Goes back to her drawing. “Can we get him a good bandaid? Like the princess ones I have?”

Shane’s chest aches.

“Maybe, sweetheart,” Shane manages.

They color together for a while.

Shane picks up a crayon. Tries to color.

His hands are shaking so badly he can barely hold it.

The green line he’s trying to draw looks like an earthquake reading.

His mind won’t stop.

What if Ilya changes his mind? What if he decides full custody is better? What if he gets lawyers? What if the courts look at his bank account versus mine and decide Lily is better off with him? What if I lose her?

“Dad, look!” Lily holds up her drawing.

It’s… honestly Shane can’t tell what it is. Maybe a house? Maybe a rainbow?

But it’s cheerful. Colorful. Innocent.

Shane forces a smile. “It’s beautiful, Lily.”

She beams. Goes back to coloring.

Shane tries to focus but he just can’t.

The what-ifs keep spiraling.

What if telling her the truth makes her hate me? What if she asks why I lied and I don’t have a good answer? What if she wants to live with Ilya instead? What if I destroyed everything?

Dad?” Lily is tugging on his sleeve. “Can I watch Paw Patrol?”

Shane blinks. “What?”

“My show. Paw Patrol. Can I watch it?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure, baby.”

He gets her iPad. Opens the app. Finds her show.

Hands it to her with the headphones.

Lily curls up on the bed. Already absorbed.

Shane sits on the edge of the mattress.

And the panic really hits.

All of it. Crashing down like a wave.

His chest is too tight.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t think.

Can’t...

Okay. Okay. Grounding technique. Like the therapist taught you after Lily was born.

Five things you can see.

Shane forces his eyes to focus.

Lily’s rabbit on the pillow. The lamp on the nightstand. Her light-up shoes by the door. The blanket twisted at the foot of the bed. The window showing darkening sky.

Four things you can touch.

The bedspread under his hands—textured, slightly rough. His phone in his pocket—hard edge pressing against his thigh. His shirt—soft cotton. The wall beside him—cool, solid.

Three things you can hear.

Lily’s show muffled through her headphones but audible. The heater’s gentle hum. His own heartbeat: too fast, pounding in his ears.

Two things you can smell.

Hotel soap and Lily’s strawberry shampoo—sweet, familiar.

One thing you can taste.

Blood.

He bit his lip at some point. Didn’t even notice.

Slowly the panic recedes and Shane can breathe again.

Barely.

He looks at Lily.

She’s laughing at something on the screen. Completely absorbed. Happy. Unaware that everything is falling apart around her.

“I can’t lose you,” Shane whispers. Too quiet for her to hear. “I can’t.”

But maybe he deserves to.

Maybe this is the consequence of four years of lies.

Of three and a half years of keeping Ilya from his daughter.

Of three and a half years of playing God with other people’s lives because he was too scared to tell the truth.

And now Ilya knows.

And Shane has no control over what happens next.

Chapter 14: Ilya POV: “Time”

### The Last Days of Training Camp ###

Ilya spends every free minute with Lily.

Every. Single. Minute.

Morning practice ends at 11? He’s at Shane’s hotel room by 11:15.

Afternoon session done at 4? He’s there by 4:10.

Evening? He orders room service to his own room and brings Lily there. Lets her pick whatever she wants from the menu.

“Can I have pancakes for dinner?” she asks, eyes wide.

“Of course. Anything you want.”

She orders pancakes. And ice cream. And french fries.

Ilya doesn’t care.

Shane would probably say no. Would worry about nutrition and sugar and bedtime routines.

But Shane isn’t here.

And Ilya has three and a half years to make up for.

He can’t waste a single second.

-----

### Day Two After Shane’s confession ###

Ilya takes Lily to the hotel cafeteria for lunch.

“What do you want, малышка?”

She points at everything. “That! And that! Oh, and THAT!”

Grilled cheese. Chicken nuggets. Fruit cup. Cookies.

“All of it?”

“Yes please!”

Ilya pays. Doesn’t care about the cost. Doesn’t care that it’s too much food.

They sit at a corner table.

Lily chatters about everything and nothing. About the cartoon she watched this morning. About how she wants to learn to ice skate for real. About her friend Emma who has a trampoline.

Ilya listens to every word. Memorizes them.

This is what I missed. This. These random conversations about nothing. About everything.

He takes out his phone. “Can I take picture?”

“Okay!” Lily grins, holding up a french fry.

Click.

Ilya looks at the photo. His daughter. Smiling. Happy.

Photo number one, he thinks. Of thousands I should already have.

The anger flares again.

He pushes it down.

Not now. Not in front of her.

-----

### Afternoon ###

“Mr. Ilya! It’s snowing!”

Lily presses her face against the hotel window. Her breath fogs the glass.

“You want to go outside?” Ilya asks.

“YES!”

They bundle up. Lily’s pink jacket (the one Ilya bought her). Her light-up shoes (not appropriate for snow but she insists).

Outside, the world is white.

Fresh snow covering everything.

“Can we build a snowman?” Lily asks.

“Da. We build best snowman.”

They work together.

Ilya does the heavy lifting and the rolling of the big snowballs. Lily pats snow onto the sides, “helping.”

“He needs a face!” she declares.

Ilya finds rocks for eyes. A stick for the mouth.

“Perfect!” Lily claps.

Ilya takes another photo. Lily standing next to the snowman, grinning.

Photo number two.

He can feel the anger building again. The grief.

“Mr. Ilya? Are you okay?”

Lily is looking at him with those pale eyes. His eyes.

Concerned. Sweet. Too perceptive for three years old.

“Da. I am okay.” He forces a smile. “Just cold. We go inside, get hot chocolate?”

“YAY!”

-----

### Evening ###

Ilya reads to Lily in his hotel room.

On the bed. Lily curled into his side.

He reads in Russian first. Then translates to English.

She doesn’t understand all the Russian words but she likes the sound of them.

“What does that mean?” she asks, pointing.

“Medved. Means bear.”

“Med-ved,” she repeats carefully.

“Very good!”

She beams.

Ilya takes a video this time. Just a few seconds. Lily repeating Russian words, giggling when she gets them wrong.

Video number one.

How many words did she learn that I didn’t hear? How many times did she laugh and I wasn’t there?

The thought makes him physically ache.

But he keeps reading.

Keeps smiling.

Keeps pretending that everything is fine.

-----

### The next day ###

“Can I have candy?” Lily asks.

They’re walking past the vending machine in the hotel lobby.

“Dad says only sometimes,” she adds seriously. “Not every day.”

Dad says.

Ilya’s jaw tightens.

“Is okay,” he says. “Today is special day. You can have candy.”

“Really?!”

“Really. Pick which one you want.”

Lily presses her face against the glass. Studying the options like it’s a life-or-death decision.

“That one! The gummy bears!”

Ilya buys it. And the chocolate bar she looks at longingly. And the sour candies.

“Mr. Ilya, that’s too much!”

“Is fine. You save some for later, da?”

She nods, clutching her treasures.

Ilya knows he’s overcompensating.

Knows he’s spoiling her.

Doesn’t care.

I missed three and a half years. She can have all the candy she wants.

-----

### That Night ###

Ilya lies in bed, scrolling through the photos on his phone.

Lily with her pancakes.

Lily with the snowman.

Lily holding her candy.

Lily laughing.

Lily sleeping (he’d taken that one earlier, couldn’t help himself).

Sixteen photos in one day.

He should have thousands by now.

First smile. First laugh. First steps. First words. First everything.

Gone.

His hand tightens on the phone.

The anger is back. Stronger now that Lily isn’t here to distract him.

Shane did this. Shane took all of this from him.

And Ilya is trying to compress three and a half years into three days.

It doesn’t work. Can’t work.

No matter how many photos he takes. How much candy he buys. How much time he spends with her.

He can’t get those years back.

They’re gone.

Forever.

Ilya closes his eyes and tries not to break something.

Shane and Ilya don’t talk.

Ilya can’t.

Every time he looks at Shane, he sees three and a half years.

Sees all the moments Shane had that Ilya didn’t.

Sees the betrayal. The lies. The theft.

And he wants to scream.

Wants to hit something.

Wants to make Shane hurt the way Ilya is hurting.

So he doesn’t talk.

Just takes Lily and goes.

And Shane lets him.

Just stands there. Watching. Guilty.

Like he knows he deserves this. Like he knows Ilya has every right to be angry.

The space between them is arctic.

Cold. Empty. Unbridgeable.

Ilya tells himself he doesn’t care.

Tells himself it’s better this way.

Tells himself Shane deserves the silence.

But at night, alone in his room, scrolling through photos of Lily—

He wonders.

Wonders if Shane took photos too. If Shane has thousands that Ilya will never see.

Wonders what Lily’s first word was. If it was “dada.” If Shane cried when he heard it.

Wonders if Shane was scared. Alone. Struggling.

Then the anger comes back.

Good. He should have been scared. Should have struggled.

Should have TOLD ME.

Ilya closes his phone and tries to sleep.

-----

### Last morning practice ###

Ilya is exhausted. Hasn’t slept properly in three days.

Too much thinking. Too much feeling. Too much everything.

Shane is running drills.

Calling out plays. Giving instructions.

Professional. Focused. Like everything is normal. Like their world didn’t just explode.

“Rozanov!” Shane’s voice cuts across the ice. “That’s the weak side entry. We talked about this.”

Ilya doesn’t respond. Just skates the play again.

Wrong. On purpose.

“Rozanov.” Shane’s tone is sharper now. “You’re not listening.”

“I am listening,” Ilya says. Doesn’t look at him. “I just think different play is better.”

“That’s not the point. We need everyone running the same—”

“Maybe your play is wrong.”

Silence on the ice.

The other players have stopped. Watching.

Shane’s jaw tightens. “Run it again. The way I showed you.”

“Why?” Ilya finally looks at him. “You are so good coach suddenly?”

“What?”

“You play what—one year in NHL before you quit? And now you tell ME how to play?”

Shane’s face goes white.

The other players are very carefully not looking at either of them

“Off the ice,” Shane says quietly. “Now.”

“Why? You don’t like when I question you?”

“Off. The. Ice. NOW.”

Ilya skates off.

Slams through the door to the cabins.

Doesn’t care that everyone is watching.

Doesn’t care about anything except the rage burning in his chest.

Finally he gets to say what he’s been holding back.

Shane follows him into the locker room and closes the door behind them.

And Ilya is ready for this fight.

-----

The locker room door closes.

They’re alone.

Shane turns to face him. “I know you’re angry.”

“ANGRY?” Ilya laughs. It sounds wrong. Bitter. Broken. “You think I am just angry?”

“I know you have every right to be furious with me, but I’m asking you—BEGGING you—keep it off the ice. Keep it professional. Don’t let the team see. Please.”

“Professional?” Ilya steps closer. “You want professional? YOU? You who was professional LIAR for FOUR YEARS?”

“And I AM sorry about that.”

“I DON’T CARE!” Ilya’s control snaps. “You want I keep hockey separate? YOU?”

His voice cracks.

“Hockey was ALL I HAD, Shane! For four years! While you had HER! Had OUR DAUGHTER! I had NOTHING but hockey!”

Shane flinches. “That’s not—”

“You think I WANTED just hockey?!” Ilya is shouting now. “You think I was HAPPY? Playing games, winning cups, flying around—while YOU had everything that MATTERED?!”

“I didn’t have everything! I gave up hockey.”

“You CHOSE!” Ilya’s hands are shaking. “You chose to keep her! You chose to not tell me! You chose to let me have NOTHING but hockey while you got to have HER!”

Shane’s face is red now. Tears in his eyes but also anger.

“You think it was CHOICE?!” Shane shouts back. “You think I WANTED to give up everything?!”

“You had HER!”

“I GAVE UP HOCKEY!” Shane’s voice breaks. “I gave up the ONE thing I loved more than—”

He stops.

Can’t finish.

But Ilya hears it anyway.

More than anything.

The words hang unspoken.

Shane loved hockey more than he loved anything else.

And he gave it up anyway.

For Lily.

While Ilya always loved Shane more than hockey.

And never got the chance to choose.

“You don’t understand,” Shane says. Voice shaking. “You don’t! Hockey was EVERYTHING to me. My whole life. My identity.”

“I KNOW!” Ilya shouts. “I KNOW how much you loved it! Everyone knew!”

“And I gave it up!” Shane is crying now. “I gave it ALL up! My career, my dreams, my future—EVERYTHING I worked for since I was six years old!”

“For OUR daughter!”

“YES! For HER!” Shane’s voice cracks completely. “Because I had to! Because I was pregnant and scared and alone and I couldn’t—I couldn’t keep playing! My body was changing and the league would find out.”

He’s sobbing now.

“I lost EVERYTHING, Ilya! Everything I loved! And you got to KEEP playing! You got to keep YOUR dreams! Keep YOUR career!”

“BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T TELL ME!” Ilya roars. “Because you CHOSE not to tell me! You think if you told me I would just keep playing?! Keep my career while you suffer alone?!”

Shane stares at him.

“You think I would choose hockey over YOU?!” Ilya’s voice breaks. “Over HER?! Over FAMILY?!”

“You said it was just fun.”

“I WAS LYING!”

The words echo in the locker room.

Silence.

Ilya is breathing hard. Shaking.

“I was lying,” he says again. Quieter. “It was never just fun. Was never casual. I—”

He stops. Can’t say it. Not like this. Not in anger.

But Shane heard it anyway.

“Then why didn’t you SAY something?!” Shane’s voice is desperate. “Why didn’t you tell me it mattered?! That I mattered?!”

“Because I was SCARED!” Ilya shouts. “Because my father, my brother, Russia—because I was TERRIFIED.”

He breaks off and runs his hands through his hair.

“You loved hockey more than anything,” Ilya says finally. Quiet. Broken. “Everyone could see it. The way you played. The way you talked about the game. Hockey was—was your first love. Always. You would have never risked that.”

Shane is crying harder. “You’re right...Hockey was everything. And I—”

He stops.

Can’t finish.

Because Ilya knows it’s true.

Shane loved hockey more than he loved Ilya.

And giving it up destroyed him.

“You mattered more than hockey,” Ilya whispers.

Shane’s breath catches.

“I would have given it up,” Ilya continues. Voice shaking. “If you had told me. If you had asked. I would have walked away from ALL of it. Money, fame, career. Everything.”

“Ilya?”

“Because hockey was never—it was escape for me. From my father. From Russia. From everything. But you...”

His voice cracks completely.

“You were HOME. You and her. Lily. That was what I WANTED. Not hockey. Not career. FAMILY.”

Shane is staring at him. Tears streaming down his face.

“And you took that from me,” Ilya says. “You decided I would choose hockey. You decided for me. And you were WRONG.”

“I didn’t know.”

“BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T ASK!” Ilya’s voice rises again. “You just assumed! You thought because I said ‘just fun’ that I didn’t want that.”

He can’t finish.

Shane is sobbing. “I’m sorry. God, Ilya, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t—” Ilya’s voice breaks. “Sorry doesn’t give me back those years. Doesn’t give me back the CHOICE. You got to choose. You chose her over hockey. But I didn’t GET to choose. You chose FOR me.”

Silence.

Both of them breathing hard.

“You gave up what you loved most,” Ilya says finally. Voice hollow. “Hockey. Your first love. Your everything. And I...”

He stops.

Swallows hard.

“I never got chance to chose what I loved most. Because you took that choice from me.”

Shane’s face crumples. “What did you love most?”

Ilya looks at him.

Really looks.

And almost says it.

Almost admits it.

You. I loved you most. Always you.

But he can’t.

Not like this.

Not when everything is broken.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Ilya says instead. “Is done. You made choice for both of us. And now we both lost.”

“I know,” Shane whispers. “I know. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You can’t.” Ilya’s voice is flat.

He turns toward the door.

“But maybe,” he says, not looking back, “maybe we can stop losing MORE. Maybe we can—”

He stops.

Can’t finish.

“Go back to practice,” he says instead. “I need minute.”

Shane nods. Wipes his eyes.

“For what it’s worth,” Shane says quietly. “I wish I could have kept playing. I miss it. Every day.”

A pause.

“But I don’t regret her. I don’t regret Lily. Even if it cost me everything. I don’t regret her.”

Ilya’s chest tightens.

“I don’t regret her either,” he says. Voice rough. “I just wish I could have been there. Could have been part of it.”

Could have had both. You and her. Family.

“Could have had choice,” he finishes instead.

Shane leaves.

The door closes.

Ilya stands alone.

And realizes:

They both gave up what they loved.

Shane gave up hockey: his first love, his identity.

Ilya gave up Shane. And Lily. And family.

Not by choice. But he lost them anyway.

We both lost, Ilya thinks. And we’re both still paying the price.

-----

Ilya doesn’t go back to practice.

Tells the coaches he’s sick. Headache.

It’s not entirely a lie.

His head is pounding. His chest aches. Everything hurts.

He goes back to his hotel room.

Lies on the bed.

Stares at the ceiling.

Bozhe.

Ilya rolls over. Grabs his phone.

Scrolls back through the photos from the last few days.

Lily smiling.

Lily laughing.

Lily happy.

Because Shane raised her.

Alone.

While giving up everything he loved.

Ilya’s throat tightens.

What did Shane sacrifice?

Hockey. His career. His identity.

Money. Security. Stability.

His body—carrying a pregnancy, giving birth, the toll of that.

His freedom—every decision for three and a half years centered around Lily.

Sleep. Peace. Ease.

Everything.

And what did I sacrifice?

Ilya thinks

Nothing.

He didn’t even KNOW there was something to sacrifice.

He played hockey. Made millions. Won games. Became famous.

While Shane struggled.

While Shane was alone.

While Shane—

While Shane was terrified and pregnant at twenty years old with no one to help him.

The thought makes Ilya sick.

He sits up.

Puts his head in his hands.

You were reckless, Ilya. Both of you. Idiots.

In the Ceasar’s Palace in Vegas.

Drunk on champagne and victory and each other. They didn’t use protection. Didn’t think about consequences.

Just wanted each other and didn’t care about anything else.

Stupid. So stupid.

Shane couldn’t keep playing even if he’d told Ilya.

Pregnancy would have shown eventually. Body changing. League would have found out.

His career was over the moment that test came back positive.

Even if Shane had called Ilya. Had told him. Had asked for help.

Shane still loses hockey

Still has to disappear.

Still has to give up everything.

And Ilya—

What would Ilya have done?

“I would have given it all up,” he’d said in the fight. “Everything. For her. For—”

He’d stopped himself.

Couldn’t say “for you.”

But would he have?

Really?

At twenty years old. Rookie year. Father breathing down his neck. Brother threatening to out him.

Would Ilya have walked away from hockey?

Moved to...where? Some small town where no one knew them? Raised a baby in secret?

Come out publicly and faced the backlash?

I don’t know, Ilya thinks honestly. I want to say yes. But I don’t know.

He was a coward then. Scared of his father. Scared of the league. Scared of everything.

So Shane made the decision for both of them.

Wrong? Yes.

Unfair? Absolutely.

But was it entirely without reason?

“You said it was just fun. You said don’t make it complicated.”

Shane’s words from the fight echo.

Ilya had said that.

Over and over.

Every time things got too intense. Too real. Too close to something that mattered.

“Is just fun, Hollander. Don’t make it complicated.”

“We keep it casual. No feelings.”

“What happens in hotel rooms stays in hotel rooms.”

What was Shane supposed to think?

That Ilya would drop everything for a baby? For Shane? For a relationship Ilya kept insisting didn’t matter?

We both failed, Ilya realizes.

Shane failed by not telling.

But Ilya failed by making it impossible to tell.

By creating an environment where Shane thought he had no choice.

By being too scared to admit—

Ilya stops that thought.

Doesn’t finish it.

Can’t.

But can he forgive Shane?

Thinks about it. Really thinks.

The anger is still there. Hot and sharp and painful. Three and a half years. Gone. Stolen.

Every first. Every milestone. Every moment.

The betrayal still burns and the grief is still overwhelming.

So can he forgive that?

Ilya doesn’t know. Maybe not.

Maybe the anger will always be there. Under the surface. A wound that never quite heals.

But Shane paid a price too. Maybe a higher price.

Ilya’s phone buzzes and stops his train of thoughts.

Text from Davies: You ok man? Coach said you went back to hotel.

Ilya doesn’t respond.

Puts the phone down.

Thinks about Shane’s face in the locker room.

“Please don’t take that from me too.”

Like Ilya is taking things.

Like Ilya is the one causing pain.

But maybe he is.

Not intentionally. Not maliciously. But he’s been so focused on his own anger, his own grief, that he hasn’t thought about Shane’s.

Hasn’t thought about what Shane lost or what Shane gave up.

What Shane sacrificed.

For our daughter.

Ilya closes his eyes.

The anger is still there.

But understanding is creeping in too.

And the question remains:

Can he forgive?

I don’t know, Ilya thinks. But maybe I can try.

For Lily.

For—

He stops. Doesn’t finish. But the thought is there anyway.

For us.

For whatever we could be if I wasn’t so angry.

Ilya sits up and looks around his hotel room.

Empty. Sterile. Temporary.

Not home.

And then he thinks about his house in Ottawa.

Five bedrooms. Nobody in them.

Pool. Never used.

Yard. Empty.

That’s not home either.

Home was Shane’s tiny apartment he saw through the one video call with Lily.

Cramped and crowded and full of Lily’s toys.

Full of life. Full of love.

Ilya wants that.

Wants them in his house.

Wants to wake up to Lily’s laughter.

Wants family dinners and bedtime stories.

Wants everything

Maybe he can’t forgive Shane. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But he can move forward and build something new.

Can be Lily’s father.

Can be—

Whatever Shane will let him be.

I am done being coward, Ilya decides.

Done hiding. Done being scared. Done letting fear control his life.

He wants his daughter.

And he wants—

He stops.

Still can’t quite finish that thought.

But it’s there.

Growing.

Undeniable.

I want Shane too. Even after all this.

Tomorrow the training camp ends and they go back to Ottawa.

Back to separate lives. Separate homes.

Ilya will be in his empty house. Shane and Lily in their tiny apartment.

No. Not anymore.

Ilya makes a decision.

Picks up his phone.

Texts Shane: We need to talk. After we get back to Ottawa. Important.

The response comes quickly: Okay.

Nothing else.

Just okay.

Ilya puts the phone down.

And starts planning.

-----

### OTTAWA – The day after the training camp ###

Training camp is over.

Everyone disperses. Back to their lives. Their families. Their homes.

Ilya drives to his house alone.

The gate opens automatically. Long driveway. Perfectly landscaped yard covered in snow.

He parks in the three-car garage.

Gets out.

Silence.

The house is dark. Cold.

He unlocks the door. Steps inside. More silence.

Ilya stands in the foyer.

Five bedrooms upstairs. All empty. Living room to the left. Furniture pristine. Never used.

Dining room to the right. Table that seats twelve. He’s never had anyone over.

Kitchen straight ahead. Gourmet. Top of the line appliances. He makes coffee and cereal. That’s it.

He pictures Lily sitting at the island. Coloring. Eating breakfast.

Shane making coffee. Leaning against the counter. Reviewing game footage on his laptop.

Family.

Living room—massive sectional couch, TV he barely watches, fireplace he’s never used.

He pictures Lily’s toys scattered everywhere. Dolls and blocks and books.

Shane on the couch. Lily between them. Watching cartoons in Russian.

Family.

Upstairs—the bedrooms.

One for him.

One for Shane.

One for Lily.

He stops at the door of the room next to his.

Opens it.

Empty. Guest room. Never been used.

But he can see it.

Pink walls (Lily would want pink) and a Princess Bed.

Toys. Drawings on the walls. Stuffed animals.

My daughter’s room.

In my house.

Where she belongs.

Across the hall is another bedroom. He opens the door.

Imagines Shane’s things in here. Clothes in the closet. Laptop on the desk. Books on the nightstand.

Close enough to hear if Lily needs something.

Close enough to—

Ilya stops that thought

But it’s there anyway.

Close enough to me.

He goes back downstairs and out the back door.

The yard is huge. Snow-covered. Untouched.

Swing set could go there. Sandbox. Slide.

Space for Lily to run. To play. To be a kid.

Space for a family.

His family.

Ilya stands in the cold.

Looking at his empty house, his empty yard and his empty life.

And knows—knows—what he has to do.

He wants them here.

Shane and Lily.

In his house. In his life. In his space.

Making it messy. Making it loud. Making it home.

Maybe he can’t forgive Shane.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But he can have this.

Can have his daughter here.

Can watch her grow up.

Can be her father. Her Papa.

Every day. Every moment.

No more missed firsts.

No more photos he doesn’t have.

No more moments stolen.

Just a family.

Real. Present. Here.

Ilya goes back inside.

-----

### OTTAWA TRAINING FACILITY - The next day ###

Players file out. Loud. Joking. Normal.

Shane stays behind, organizing equipment and putting away cones. He is taking too long. Stalling.

But Ilya waits.

By the time he finished, the facility is quiet. Empty.

Shane turns. “You wanted to talk?”

He looks nervous. Defensive. Like he’s bracing for another fight.

Ilya doesn’t blame him.

“Da.” Ilya’s throat is dry. “I want—I need to say something.”

Shane nods. Waits.

Ilya takes a breath.

Just say it. Direct. Clear.

“I want you and Lily to move in with me.”

Silence.

Shane stares at him. “What?”

“Move in. To my house. You and Lily. Together.”

“Ilya, I don’t...I don’t understand?”

“Is simple.” Ilya keeps his voice steady. “I have big house. Five bedroom. You have small apartment, one bedroom. I have space. You don’t. You are struggling. I see it. She needs—”

He stops. Starts again.

“She needs things. Needs room to grow. Needs both of us. Not you in apartment far away, me in house far away. Both. Together. Same place.”

Shane is shaking his head. “I can’t. We can’t just—”

“Why not?”

Shane’s hands are shaking. “Because that’s—Ilya, that’s huge. That’s weird.”

“Is necessary,” Ilya interrupts. “For Lily. She needs her fathers. Both. Not separate. Together.”

“Does this mean...” Shane’s voice is small. Hopeful. “Are you saying you forgive me?”

The question hangs between them.

Ilya wants to lie. Wants to say yes. Make this easier.

But he can’t.

“No.”

Shane flinches like he’s been slapped.

“I don’t forgive you,” Ilya continues. Honest. Brutal. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. I don’t know.”

“Then why?”

“Because she is my daughter.” Ilya’s voice cracks despite himself. “Because I already miss three and half year. I will NOT miss more. Not one day. Not one minute. Not ONE SECOND.”

Shane’s eyes are filling with tears.

“I want her in my house,” Ilya says. Fierce. Determined. “I want to be there when she wakes up. When she go to sleep. When she eats breakfast. When she needs hug. For EVERYTHING. And you—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

“You are her father too. She needs you. So you come also.”

“What if I say no?” Shane’s voice is barely a whisper.

Ilya’s jaw tightens.

This is the part he hates. The threat. The ultimatum.

But he means it.

“Then I get lawyers.” The words taste like ash. “I fight for custody. Full custody. And Shane—”

He steps closer.

“I will win. You know I will win.”

Shane goes white. “You would really?”

“Look at facts,” Ilya says. Each word deliberate. Cold. “I have money. Millions. You have debt. I have big house, stable job, resources. You have tiny apartment. I can give her everything. Private school. College fund. Stability. Security. What can you give?”

Shane is crying now. Silent tears streaming down his face.

Ilya hates himself for this, but he continues anyway.

“Any judge will see this. Will see that I can provide better life. Better future. And I will use it. I will use ALL of it if you make me.”

“You’d take her from me.” Shane’s voice breaks. “You’d really take her.”

“I take NOTHING!” Ilya’s voice rises. “She is already MINE. Was always mine. I am just getting what you STOLE from me!”

The word echoes in the empty facility.

Stole.

True. Painful. Undeniable.

Shane is sobbing now. “Please don’t. I can’t lose her, Ilya, please.”

“Then don’t make me fight!” Ilya’s own eyes are burning. “Don’t make me take her! I don’t WANT to hurt her! Don’t want to take her away from you! But I WILL if you keep her from me again!”

“I won’t.”

“Then say YES!” Ilya’s hands are shaking. “Say yes to moving in! Say yes to being family! Say yes to doing this TOGETHER instead of separate!”

Silence except for Shane’s quiet crying.

Ilya forces himself to breathe. To calm down.

Softer now: “I don’t want lawyers, Shane. Don’t want judges. Don’t want dirty custody battle.”

His voice cracks.

“Want to be her Papa. Want to read her stories. Want to make her breakfast. Want to be there when she scared or sad or happy. Want ALL of it.”

He looks at Shane directly.

“And I think you want that too. For her. To have both fathers. Together. Da?”

Shane nods. Still crying but nodding.

“So you decide,” Ilya says quietly. “We do this together: you, me, Lily, one house, both parents, or we do this with lawyers and custody agreements where she gets—what? Weekend with me? Week with you? Holiday split? Back and forth like package?”

Shane’s face crumples at the image.

“That is NOT what I want,” Ilya says. “Is not what YOU want. Is DEFINITELY not what SHE needs. So we do better. We be adults. We put her first. We move in together and we figure it out. Together.”

More silence.

“Your choice, Shane.”

Shane wipes his eyes. Voice shaking: “That’s not really a choice.”

“No.” Ilya doesn’t deny it. “Is not. But is more choice than you give me four years ago.”

The words land like a punch.

Shane staggers back slightly and then leans against the lockers.

“When?” he whispers finally.

“This weekend.”

“That’s really short notice.”

“I already wait FOUR YEARS, Shane!” Ilya’s voice cracks. “Four years while you had her! While I had NOTHING! Is not soon. Is LATE. Is SO LATE.”

Shane is crying again. “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay we’ll move in.” Shane looks up. “This weekend. We’ll...we’ll move in.”

Ilya’s chest loosens. Just slightly.

“Good.”

He starts to leave.

Shane’s voice stops him: “Ilya, wait please. Will you ever forgive me?”

Ilya stops but doesn’t turn around.

The question sits heavy in the air.

Will he?

Can he?

“I try,” Ilya says honestly. “For her. For Lily. I try to. Move forward. To build something new. Even if I cannot forget. I try.”

He turns. Looks at Shane.

“Is enough for now. Has to be.”

Shane nods. “Okay.”

Ilya leaves.

Walks out to his car.

Sits in the driver’s seat.

Hands shaking on the steering wheel.

Did I just threaten to take Lily from Shane?

Did I just use money and resources as a weapon again?

Yes. He did. And he hates himself for it.

But it worked.

Shane said yes and they’re moving in this weekend.

Lily in his house. In his life. In his space.

Where she belongs.

Where she should have been from the beginning.

Ilya starts the car and drives home.

To the empty house that won’t be empty much longer.

And tries to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach.

Tries to ignore the guilt.

Tries to focus on what matters:

Lily.

My daughter.

Family.

Home.

Even if it’s not perfect.

Even if it’s built on threats and ultimatums.

Even if Shane will never forgive him for this.

Ilya pulls into his driveway, continues to sit in the dark garage and wonders if he just made everything worse.

But it’s too late now.

Shane said yes.

This weekend they’re moving in.

And Ilya gets what he wants.

So why does it feel wrong?

He doesn’t have an answer.

Just sits in the dark and tries to convince himself he did the right thing.

For Lily and for himself.

For...

He stops. Doesn’t finish.

Because he doesn’t know if Shane will ever speak to him again after this.

Doesn’t know if they can build something real when it’s based on threats.

Doesn’t know if Lily will be happy here or just confused and scared.

Doesn’t know anything except:

She’s coming home.

To him.

Chapter 15: Shane POV: “Moving Forward”

### Shane’s Parents’ House – After the talk with Ilya ###

Shane pulls into his parents’ driveway.

His hands are shaking on the steering wheel.

He needs to tell them.

Needs to say it out loud.

Ilya is Lily’s father. And we’re moving in with him this weekend.

The words feel impossible.

But he has to.

Shane gets out of the car. Walks to the front door.

His mom opens it before he can knock. “Shane! We weren’t expecting you yet. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just...can we talk? Before I take Lily?”

His mom’s face shifts. Concerned. “Of course. Come in.”

His dad is on the couch, reading his New Yorker and looks up when Shane enters. “Hey, son. Everything alright?”

“I need to tell you something.” Shane sits. His leg won’t stop bouncing. “About Lily. About her other parent.”

His parents exchange a look.

“Okay,” his mom says carefully. She sits beside his dad. “We’re listening.”

Shane takes a breath.

“It’s Ilya Rozanov.”

Silence.

His dad blinks. “What?”

“Ilya Rozanov. Star center player of Boston? Transferred to Ottawa last summer? He’s Lily’s father.”

His dad stares. “Rozanov? But you two were rivals! I remember watching your games, you couldn’t stand each other!”

“That was for show,” Shane says quietly. “We were… together. Secretly. During our rookie year.”

His mom makes a small sound.

Shane looks at her. She’s smiling slightly. Sad but knowing.

“I knew it,” she says softly.

“What?”

“I knew something was going on between you two.” She shakes her head. “A mother knows, Shane. The way you looked at each other during games and in between. That wasn’t just rivalry.”

Shane’s dad is still processing. “So you and Rozanov were—and he’s—Lily’s his?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know?”

“He does now.” Shane’s throat tightens. “He found out at training camp. Lily kind of told him everything to puzzle the pieces together and...”

Shane stops. Swallows hard.

“He’s angry. Really angry. And he has every right to be. I kept her from him for nearly four years.”

His mom reaches over. Takes his hand. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“And now we’re...we’re moving in with him. This weekend.”

His dad sits forward. “Moving in? Shane, are you sure that’s a good idea? You barely know him anymore. Four years is a long time.”

“I don’t have a choice, Dad.” Shane’s voice is flat. “He said if I don’t agree to move in, he’ll fight for custody. And he’ll win. He has money, resources, a huge house—everything a court would look at and say is better for Lily.”

“He threatened you?” His dad’s voice hardens.

“He’s hurt,” Shane says. “And angry. I took his daughter from him. I lied for years. He has every right to be.”

“That doesn’t give him the right to threaten you,” his dad interrupts.

“David.” Shane’s mom squeezes Shane’s hand. “Let Shane finish.”

Shane takes a shaky breath. “You are right. But we are going to try. To co-parent. To be a family. For Lily’s sake. She needs both of us. And this way she gets that. We’ll all live together. Both her dads under one roof.”

His parents are quiet.

“Do you trust him?” his mom asks gently. “To take care of you both?”

Shane thinks about it. About Ilya with Lily at training camp. Patient. Gentle. Desperate to make up for lost time.

About the fight in the locker room. The pain in Ilya’s voice.

About the ultimatum. Cold. Determined. I will win.

“I trust him with Lily,” Shane says finally. “He loves her. That’s clear. He’d do anything for her.”

“And with you?” his dad asks.

Shane doesn’t have an answer.

His mom seems to hear what he doesn’t say.

“Shane, honey, are you safe? With him?”

“Yes...he wouldn’t hurt me. Not physically. He’s just angry. And he’s hurting. And I...”

Shane’s voice breaks.

“I deserve it. I took everything from him.”

“No.” His mom’s voice is firm. “You made a choice out of fear. It wasn’t the right choice, but you don’t deserve to be punished forever.”

“Maybe I do.”

“You don’t.” His dad’s voice is quiet but certain. “You were twenty years old. Pregnant. Terrified. You did what you thought was right at the time.”

Shane wipes his eyes. “I know. God I know but it doesn’t change what I took from him. It’s just a fucked up situation.”

His parents exchange another look.

“Does he treat you well?” his mom asks. “Both of you?”

Shane thinks about the last few days.

Ilya with Lily—yes. Patient. Kind. Loving.

Ilya with Shane—cold. Distant.

But not cruel. Not abusive. Just… hurt.

“He’s good to Lily,” Shane says. “That’s what matters.”

“You matter too, sweetheart.”

Shane shakes his head. “Right now, Lily is what matters. And moving in together is the best thing for her. She gets both her dads. Stability. A real home.”

His mom studies him. “And what do you get?”

A chance to make things right, Shane thinks. Maybe. If Ilya ever forgives me. If I can forgive him.

“A chance to be a better father,” Shane says instead. “To give Lily what she deserves.”

His dad sighs. Stands. Crosses to Shane.

Pulls him into a hug.

“We support you,” he says quietly. “Whatever you decide. But Shane, if this gets bad, if you need help, you call us. Immediately.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise, Dad.”

His mom joins the hug. “We love you. And we’re proud of you. For trying. For putting Lily first.”

Shane nods against her shoulder.

Can’t speak.

After a moment, his mom pulls back. “Now. Let’s get Lily. And you can start this new chapter.”

She pauses.

“For what it’s worth, Shane—I think you’re doing the right thing. Lily deserves both her fathers. And maybe this is a chance for both of you to heal.”

Shane wants to believe that.

Isn’t sure he can. But he nods anyway.

-----

Lily runs to him when he enters the playroom. “Dad! Grandpa taught me a new card game!”

“That’s great, honey.” Shane kneels down. “Listen, we need to go home and pack, okay? We’re moving.”

Lily’s eyes go wide. “Moving? Where?”

“To a house. A big house. With Mr. Ilya.”

Lily’s face lights up. “REALLY?! We’re going to live with Mr. Ilya?!”

“Yeah. Really.”

“Is he your friend now?” Lily asks. Innocent. Curious.

Shane’s throat tightens.

Friend.

That’s not it. They never were and never will be. But what else can he say?

“Something like that,” Shane manages.

“Cool!” Lily is already running to get her shoes. “Can I have my own room? Will there be a garden? Can we get a dog?”

Shane’s mom laughs softly. “One thing at a time, sweetheart.”

Shane just watches his daughter.

So excited. So happy.

Unaware of how complicated everything really is.

At least she’s happy, Shane thinks. At least there’s that.

-----

### That Night - Shane’s Apartment ###

Lily is asleep.

Shane sits on the couch, surrounded by boxes.

He hasn’t packed much yet. Can’t quite make himself start.

This apartment has been his home for three and a half years.

Tiny. Cramped. Barely enough space.

But it was theirs.

His and Lily’s.

And now they’re leaving.

Moving into Ilya’s house.

Into Ilya’s space.

Into a life Shane isn’t sure he’s ready for.

His phone buzzes.

Text from Ilya: Moving truck comes Saturday 9 AM. I send address.

Another text: Lily’s room is ready. Pink walls like she loves.

Shane stares at the messages.

Ilya painted Lily’s room.

Already.

Got it ready for her.

He wants her there, Shane thinks. He’s making space for her.

But not for me.

The thought hurts more than it should.

Shane types back: Thank you. We’ll be ready.

He puts the phone down.

Looks around the apartment.

This was supposed to be temporary. A place to land while Shane figured things out.

It became home anyway.

But maybe Ilya’s house can be home too.

For Lily.

Maybe even for Shane.

If Ilya ever stops being angry.

If Shane can ever forgive himself.

If they can build something new from all these broken pieces.

Hurt people hurt people, Shane thinks.

Ilya is hurting. So he lashes out. Threatens. Uses his power and money as weapons.

Shane is hurting. So he withdrew. Lied. Kept secrets.

They’ve both hurt each other.

Over and over.

In different ways.

But maybe moving in together is a chance to stop

To start healing.

To build something better.

-----

### Saturday Morning - 8:45 AM ###

The moving truck pulls up outside Shane’s apartment building fifteen minutes early.

Shane watches from the window, Lily pressed against his leg, bouncing with excitement.

“Is that it? Is that the truck? Are we going NOW?”

“Soon, honey. Let them get set up first.”

There isn’t much to move. Six boxes of Lily’s things—toys, clothes, books. Three boxes of Shane’s belongings. Some kitchen supplies they’ll probably never use in Ilya’s gourmet kitchen. Lily’s bed frame, though Ilya said she’d have a new one. Shane wants her to have something familiar.

The movers are efficient. Professional. They have everything loaded in under an hour.

Shane does a final walk-through of the apartment. The place looks smaller empty. The walls are marked where Lily’s drawings were taped up. There’s a stain on the carpet from when she spilled juice last year. The kitchen still smells faintly of the pancakes Shane made this morning, their last breakfast here.

“Dad, come ON!” Lily is at the door, practically vibrating. “Mr. Ilya is waiting!”

Shane takes one last look. Three and a half years in this apartment. Three and a half years of just the two of them.

And now—

“Okay, baby. Let’s go.”

-----

Ilya’s house is twenty minutes outside the city. Lily chatters the entire way, asking questions Shane can’t answer. Will her room really be pink? Is there a backyard? Can they get a puppy?

Shane’s hands are tight on the steering wheel. The moving truck is ahead of them, and he follows it through increasingly upscale neighborhoods until they turn onto a private road. Gates. Actual gates that open automatically.

“Whoa,” Lily breathes. “Dad, look at those gates!”

The driveway is long, lined with trees. And then the house comes into view.

It’s not a mansion, exactly, but it’s close. Two stories. Stone and wood. Huge windows. Attached three-car garage.

“THAT’S where we’re living?!” Lily’s voice goes up an octave.

Shane parks behind the moving truck. Sits for a moment, just staring.

This is Ilya’s house. This is where they’re going to live now.

The front door opens and Ilya steps out.

He’s dressed casually in a jeans, a henley and is barefoot despite the cold. He must have been waiting inside. His eyes find Shane’s through the windshield and for a moment neither of them moves.

Then Lily unbuckles her seatbelt. “Can I go say hi?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

She’s out of the car before Shane can say anything else, running up the front steps. “Mr. Ilya! We’re here! This house is SO BIG!”

Ilya’s face transforms when he sees her. The coldness melts away, replaced by something warm and genuine. He crouches down to her level. “Privet, printsessa. You ready to see your new room?”

“YES! Dad said it’s pink! Is it really pink?”

“Very pink. Come, I show you.”

He takes her hand and they disappear inside together.

Shane sits in the car a moment longer. The movers are already unloading boxes, carrying them toward the house. He should help. Should go inside.

He gets out of the car.

-----

The entryway is enormous. Vaulted ceilings, hardwood floors, a staircase that curves up to the second floor. Everything is clean, modern, expensive.

Shane can hear Lily’s excited voice from upstairs. “Oh my gosh! Dad! DAD, come see!”

He climbs the stairs, following the sound.

Lily’s room is at the end of the hall. The door is open and Shane stops in the doorway.

The walls are pink. Not just pink—the exact shade Lily pointed to in a paint store months ago when Shane said maybe someday they could paint her room. There’s a white bed frame shaped like a castle, already made up with princess bedding. A bookshelf filled with new books. A toy chest. A desk with art supplies neatly arranged.

Lily is spinning in circles in the middle of the room. “It’s PERFECT! Mr. Ilya, it’s SO perfect!”

Ilya is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with an expression Shane can’t quite read. “You like it?”

“I LOVE it!” She runs to him, hugs his legs. “Thank you thank you thank you!”

Ilya’s hand comes down to rest on her head, gentle. “You are welcome, Lily.”

His eyes meet Shane’s over Lily’s head.

Shane swallows. “It’s...this is really nice, Ilya. Thank you.”

Ilya nods once. Doesn’t smile. “Your room is across hall. I show you.”

-----

It’s not the master bedroom—that one is down the hall, clearly Ilya’s. But it’s still easily twice the size of Shane’s old bedroom. King-size bed, dresser, desk, attached bathroom.

“I thought—” Ilya stops at the doorway, doesn’t come in. “You are close to Lily. In case she needs you at night.”

“Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

The movers bring up Shane’s boxes, stacking them neatly in the corner. Shane stands awkwardly in the middle of the room while Ilya hovers in the doorway, neither of them quite looking at each other.

“Kitchen is downstairs,” Ilya says finally. “And living room, den, my office. Lily can play anywhere. There are no rules about where she can go.”

“Okay.”

“Except my bedroom. And your bedroom is yours. But everything else is...is for everyone.”

“Got it.”

More silence.

“I make lunch,” Ilya says abruptly. “For Lily. You want?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Ilya disappears down the hallway.

Shane sits on the edge of the bed. His bed. In his room. In Ilya’s house.

This is real. This is happening. They’re living here now.

Through the wall, he can hear Lily talking to herself in her room, probably arranging her stuffed animals. Down the hall, the sound of Ilya’s footsteps on the stairs.

Shane should unpack. Should start making this space his own. Should do something other than sit here feeling like an intruder in someone else’s life.

But he just sits. Staring at the boxes. At this room that’s too big, too nice, too much.

Trying to convince himself this is going to work.

-----

The kitchen is as impressive as the rest of the house. Granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, an island big enough to seat six people.

Ilya is making grilled cheese and tomato soup. Simple, but Lily’s favorite.

She’s sitting at the island, swinging her legs, telling Ilya about her friend Emma’s birthday party next week. Ilya listens, asks questions, flips the sandwiches with practiced ease.

Shane hovers near the doorway, unsure where to stand, where to sit, how to be in this space that’s supposed to be his home but doesn’t feel like it yet.

“Sit,” Ilya says without looking at him. “Is lunch for everyone.”

Shane sits at the island, two stools away from Lily.

They eat mostly in silence, except for Lily’s chatter. The grilled cheese is perfect—crispy on the outside, melty on the inside. The soup is homemade, not from a can like Shane usually makes.

“This is really good,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya shrugs. “Is easy.”

After lunch, Lily wants to explore the backyard. Ilya bundles her into her jacket—the pink one he bought her—and they go outside together. Shane watches from the kitchen window. Ilya is pointing out where they could put a swing set, maybe a sandbox. Lily is running around, arms spread wide, spinning in circles.

She looks happy. Really happy.

That’s what matters, Shane reminds himself. That’s why they’re here.

He turns away from the window and starts unpacking the kitchen boxes, looking for places to put things in cabinets that are already full of Ilya’s stuff. He’s trying to figure out where the Tupperware goes when Ilya comes back inside, alone.

“She is making snow angels,” Ilya says. “I can see her from window.”

“Okay.”

Ilya leans against the counter, watching Shane. “You don’t have to do that now. Can wait.”

“I need to do something.”

“Okay.”

More silence. It’s becoming a pattern.

“Ilya,” Shane starts, then stops. Doesn’t know what he wants to say.

Ilya waits.

“Thank you,” Shane finally manages. “For Lily’s room. For all of this. I know you didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did.” Ilya’s voice is flat. “She is my daughter. I am her father. This is what fathers do.”

The words land like a slap. I am her father. Not we are her parents.

Shane nods. “Right. Of course.”

Ilya pushes off the counter. “I have some work to do. You need anything, my office is down the hall.”

He leaves before Shane can respond.

Shane stands alone in the kitchen, holding a stack of plastic containers, and wonders how long they can keep doing this. Living in the same house, barely speaking, circling each other like strangers.

For Lily, he reminds himself again. We can do this for Lily.

He just hopes that’s true.

-----

### That Evening ###

Bedtime is awkward.

They both end up in Lily’s room at the same time. Shane has her pajamas, Ilya has a new stuffed animal—a pink elephant that Lily immediately names Eleanor.

“Both of you are here!” Lily says, delighted. “For bedtime!”

They manage to coordinate without speaking much. Shane helps her into pajamas while Ilya straightens the covers. Shane brushes her teeth while Ilya arranges her stuffed animals. They read her a story together, Shane on one side of the bed, Ilya on the other, taking turns with the pages.

When she’s finally tucked in, she looks at both of them and smiles. “This is nice. I like having both of you here.”

Shane’s throat tightens. “Good night, baby. Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.” She looks at Ilya. “Good night, Mr. Ilya.”

“Spokoynoy nochi, printsessa.”

They leave her room together, pulling the door almost closed. Stand in the hallway between their rooms.

“She seems happy,” Shane says.

“Da. She does.”

“That’s good. That’s...that’s what matters.”

Ilya looks at him for a long moment. Shane can’t read his expression in the dim hallway light. He looks like he wants to say something.

“Good night, Shane,” Ilya says finally.

“Good night.”

They go to their separate rooms. Doors closing. Alone.

-----

### That Evening - 9:30 PM ###

Shane lies in his new bed in his new room and stares at the ceiling. He can hear Lily’s soft breathing through the wall. Can hear, faintly, Ilya moving around in his room down the hall.

They need to talk.

There are things they need to figure out before tomorrow, before the team sees them together, before Lily starts asking questions they haven’t prepared answers for.

Shane sits up. Pulls on a hoodie over his t-shirt. Walks barefoot down the hall.

Stops at Ilya’s door.

Light is visible underneath. He’s still awake.

Shane knocks softly

“Da?” Ilya’s voice is muffled.

“It’s Shane. Can we talk for a minute?”

Silence. Then footsteps. The door opens.

Ilya is in sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, hair damp from a shower. He looks tired. “Something wrong?”

“No. I just...we need to figure some things out. Before tomorrow.”

Ilya nods. Steps back. “Come in.”

Shane has never been in Ilya’s bedroom before. Their fling was always limited to hotel rooms.

It’s bigger than Shane’s, as expected. King bed, sitting area by the window, more personal than the rest of the house—photos on the dresser, books stacked on the nightstand, hockey equipment in the corner.

“Sit.” Ilya gestures to the lounge chairs by the window.

They sit. The awkwardness is immediate and suffocating.

“So,” Shane starts. “Monday we go back to practice. The team is going to see us arrive together. They’re going to ask questions.”

“Da. I know.”

“What do we tell them?”

Ilya is quiet for a moment. “We say you needed bigger place. I have extra rooms. Is helping out colleague. Simple.”

“People are going to talk.”

“Let them talk.” Ilya shrugs. “They don’t need to know truth.”

Shane nods slowly. “Okay. And Lily?”

“What about her?”

“She’s going to ask questions too. She already asked today if you’re my friend. And she’s going to tell people at daycare that she lives with Mr. Ilya now. Kids talk.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. “We say I am your friend. Colleague. I help because you need bigger place for her. Is same story.”

“And when do we tell her the truth?” Shane asks quietly. “That you’re her father?”

The question hangs in the air.

Ilya looks out the window. His reflection is visible in the dark glass, expression unreadable. “Not yet.”

Shane blinks perplexed. “What?”

“Not yet,” Ilya repeats. He turns to face Shane. “I want...I need time with her first. To build connection. Real connection. Then we tell her I am her Papa.”

“Ilya, she already has a connection with you. She loves you.”

“She loves Mr. Ilya who buys candy and reads stories.” Ilya’s voice is firm. “Not Papa. Not parent who has rules and authority and...I want her to know me FIRST. Really know me. As person. As someone she trusts. THEN we tell her I am her father. When she is ready. When I am ready.”

Shane hadn’t expected this. “You’re not ready?”

Ilya’s expression cracks slightly. “I don’t want her to know I am her father and then—and then not like me. Or be scared. Or confused. I want foundation first. I want her to like me because of who I am, not because she HAS to because I am Papa.”

The vulnerability in his voice makes Shane’s chest ache. “She’s not going to be scared of you.”

“You don’t know that.” Ilya’s hands clench on the armrests. “What if she asks why I wasn’t there before? Why I didn’t...I don’t know how to explain that to three-year-old. I don’t know how to—”

He stops. Takes a breath.

“I need time,” he says finally. “Few weeks. Maybe month. To be part of her routine. To be...to be someone she depends on. Someone she wants around. THEN we tell her. When is good news. Happy news. Not confusing.”

Shane looks at his hands. “Okay. A few weeks. We build a routine first. Let her get used to living here. Then we tell her.”

“Together,” Ilya adds. “We tell her together. Sit her down, explain. Make it special. Good memory. Not trauma.”

“Together,” Shane agrees.

Silence settles between them again.

“What about the team?” Shane asks. “Eventually they’re going to figure out you spend a lot of time with her. That you care about her more than just a colleague’s kid.”

Ilya is quiet for a long moment. “We worry about that later. First is Lily. Team can think what they want. I don’t...I am not ready to come out. Not yet. I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“Is that...is that okay with you?” Ilya asks. “That we stay private? That I don’t—that I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” Shane says quickly. “I’m not asking you to come out. That’s your choice. Always your choice.”

Ilya nods. “Thank you.”

More silence.

“So we agree,” Shane says. “Outside this house, you’re my colleague who’s helping me out. Inside this house, you’re Mr. Ilya who lives here and spends time with Lily. And in a few weeks, when Lily is ready, you become Papa.”

“Da. Is good plan.”

“And if Lily asks questions before then?”

“We tell her is special secret. Just for our family. Not for other people yet.”

Shane almost smiles. “She’s three. She’s terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Then we are careful,” Ilya says. “We don’t talk about it where she can hear. We wait.”

“Okay.” Shane stands. “I should let you sleep. Lily wakes up really early.”

“Shane.” Ilya stands too. “This plan. Is okay with you? Really?”

Shane looks at him. At the worry in his expression, the uncertainty.

Ilya is scared. Scared of being rejected by his own daughter. Scared of moving too fast. Scared of ruining this before it even begins.

“Yeah,” Shane says softly. “It’s okay. I think you’re right. Building a foundation first is smart. And Lily already adores you, so when we do tell her, she’s going to be thrilled.”

Something in Ilya’s shoulders relaxes. “I hope so.”

“I know so.”

They stand there for a moment longer. Too close and too far away at the same time.

“Good night, Ilya.”

“Spokoynoy nochi, Shane.”

Shane goes back to his room. Closes the door and lies back down in bed.

They have a plan now. A timeline. A strategy for how to navigate this impossible situation.

It’s not perfect. It’s built on half-truths and carefully worded explanations and waiting for the right moment that might never come.

But it’s something.

A framework. A path forward.

Shane closes his eyes and tries to sleep, tries not to think about how many more secrets they’re keeping, how many more lies by omission.

But this one is different, he tells himself. This one is for Lily. To protect her. To make sure when she learns the truth, it’s a good thing. A happy thing.

Not another complication in an already complicated life.

----

### Week One – Morning ###

Shane wakes to the smell of something sweet cooking.

For a moment, he forgets where he is. Then the size of the room reminds him: Ilya’s house. Their house now, technically.

He pulls on sweatpants and a t-shirt and follows the smell downstairs.

Ilya is at the stove, flipping thin pancakes with practiced ease. He’s barefoot, wearing flannel pajama pants and an old Dynamo Moscow shirt that’s soft and faded from years of washing. His hair sticks up in every direction and there’s a smudge of flour on his cheek.

Shane stops in the doorway, suddenly very aware that he’s staring.

“Morning,” he manages.

Ilya glances over. “Coffee is ready. Blini in two minutes.”

“Thanks.”

Shane pours himself coffee, leans against the counter. Watches Ilya work. There’s something hypnotic about it—the efficient movements, the way he checks each pancake before flipping it, the slight frown of concentration.

“Dad!” Lily’s voice echoes from upstairs. “I can’t find my purple shirt!”

“Coming!” Shane sets down his mug.

“Is in dryer,” Ilya says without looking up. “I washed yesterday.”

Shane pauses. “You did laundry?”

“Da. Saw it in basket. Was full. So I washed.”

It’s such a small thing. Such a domestic, normal thing. But it makes Shane’s chest feel strange.

“Thanks,” he says again and goes to help Lily.

-----

By the time they come back down, Ilya has the table set. Blini stacked on a plate, bowls of berries and sour cream and honey arranged beside them.

“Pancakes!” Lily climbs into her chair. “Mr. Ilya, these are my FAVORITE!”

“Is Russian pancake but I know.” Ilya ruffles her hair as he passes. “Is why I make them.”

They eat together, Lily chattering about her dreams, Ilya listening with that focused attention he gives her, Shane drinking his coffee and trying not to notice how right this feels. How easy.

Like they’ve been doing this for years instead of days.

-----

### Week One – Evening ###

Bedtime becomes a coordinated dance.

Shane runs the bath while Ilya picks out pajamas. Ilya reads the first story while Shane brushes Lily’s teeth. They tuck her in together, one on each side of the bed, and she falls asleep holding both their hands.

In the hallway after, they pause between their rooms.

“She went down easy tonight,” Shane says.

“Da. Was good day. She is happy.”

“Yeah.”

They stand there. Neither quite ready to go to their separate rooms yet. Neither quite knowing what else to say.

“Good night, Shane.”

“Good night.”

But Shane catches himself watching Ilya walk away, noticing things he shouldn’t notice—the way the pajama pants sit low on Ilya’s hips, the breadth of his shoulders, the way he runs his hand through his hair when he’s tired.

Shane forces himself to look away. Go to his own room. Close the door.

This is not...they’re not...

He’s just noticing. That’s all. Noticing someone he lives with. Normal. Fine.

(It doesn’t feel fine.)

-----

### Week Two ###

Shane is making coffee one morning when Ilya reaches past him for a mug.

Too close. Shane can smell his shampoo—something woodsy and clean. Can feel the warmth radiating from him.

“Sorry,” Ilya murmurs. “Excuse me.”

His hand brushes Shane’s hip as he moves away.

It’s nothing. Accidental. Meaningless.

But Shane’s skin tingles where they touched.

“No problem,” Shane manages.

Later, they’re both reaching for Lily at the same time as she’s climbing on the counter, trying to reach something she shouldn’t have. Their hands collide, fingers tangling briefly before they pull back.

“I got her,” Shane says.

“Da, okay.”

But they both hesitated. Both felt it, that split second of contact that lasted too long.

A little later Shane is brushing his teeth when Ilya knocks.

“Is occupied?” he calls through the door.

Shane spits, rinses. Opens the door. “All yours.”

But the hallway is narrow and they have to squeeze past each other. Shane’s back against the wall, Ilya’s chest brushing his for a brief moment.

They both freeze.

“Sorry,” Shane breathes.

“Is fine.” But Ilya doesn’t move for a second. Just stands there, close enough that Shane can count his eyelashes. Can see the exact color of his eyes in the morning light.

Then Ilya steps back. Into the bathroom. Closes the door.

Shane stands in the hallway, heart racing, and tells himself this is nothing.

Just two people sharing space.

Normal.

Fine.

(Still doesn’t feel fine.)

-----

### Week Three ###

Shane starts waking up earlier. Not on purpose—his body just adjusts to the smell of blini, the sound of Ilya moving around downstairs.

He finds himself in the kitchen before Lily wakes up, drinking coffee while Ilya cooks.

They don’t talk much. But it’s comfortable. Ilya hums sometimes, old Russian songs Shane doesn’t recognize. Shane reads the news on his phone. The coffee maker gurgles. The pancakes sizzle.

It’s peaceful.

One morning, Shane catches himself smiling at nothing. Just smiling because Ilya is singing off-key under his breath and the kitchen smells like home and this—

This is nice.

Really nice.

Ilya notices. “What?”

“Nothing. Just...you’re a terrible singer.”

Ilya throws a dish towel at him. “Shut up. Is classic Russian song. You have no culture.”

“I have plenty of culture. Just not… whatever that was.”

“Is Vysotsky! You have no taste, Hollander.”

But he’s smiling too.

And Shane realizes he hasn’t been this relaxed in years.

-----

Lily is thriving.

She’s always been a happy kid, but now she’s lighter somehow. More secure.

She draws pictures of the three of them constantly. “This is our house!” she announces, showing Shane a crayon drawing of a big square with stick figures inside. “That’s you, that’s me, that’s Mr. Ilya!”

“It’s beautiful, baby.”

“I’m going to make one for Mr. Ilya too!”

She runs off.

Shane looks at the drawing. At the three stick figures holding hands.

Like a family, he thinks. And immediately feels guilty.

They’re not a family. Not really. They’re just...

What are they?

Co-parents. Roommates.

Two people trying to give their daughter a stable home.

But it’s starting to feel like more than that, because Shane notices more things.

Like how Ilya always makes sure Lily’s favorite cereal is stocked. How he learned to braid her hair from YouTube videos. How he speaks to her in Russian more and more, teaching her words, and she’s picking them up frighteningly fast.

Like how Ilya leaves Shane’s favorite coffee creamer in the front of the fridge. How he starts keeping the kitchen stocked with things Shane likes. Like the specific brand of peanut butter, the multigrain bread, the cherry tomatoes Shane snacks on.

Small things. Thoughtful things.

Things that make Shane’s heart do uncomfortable flip-flops.

One evening, they’re stacking the dish washer together.

Their hands brush while staking the plates and neither pulls away immediately.

“Sorry,” Shane says, but doesn’t move.

“Is okay,” Ilya says, but doesn’t move either.

They stand there for a moment. Hands between them. Not quite touching but not quite not touching. Then Ilya opens his mouth, looks into Shane’s eyes and...

...then Lily calls from the living room—“Dad! Mr. Ilya! Come see my tower!”—and the moment breaks.

But Shane’s hand tingles the rest of the night.

-----

### End of Week Three ###

Its late in the evening. Lily is asleep. Shane is currently reviewing some game footage when there’s a knock on his door.

Shane looks up. “Come in.”

Ilya opens the door. Stands in the doorway and looks uncertain. Which is unusual for Ilya. He has been strange the whole week since their moment in the kitchen earlier his week.

“You are still awake,” Ilya says.

“Yeah. Just working. Need to be prepared for San Francisco.”

“Da. Makes sense.” Ilya doesn’t move. Just stands there.

Shane lets go of the mouse and turns to Ilya fully. “Did you need something?”

“I,” Ilya stops. Takes a breath. “Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”

Shane’s stomach drops.

“Okay,” Shane says carefully.

Ilya comes in. Closes the door behind him. Sits on the edge of Shane’s bed.

Shane stays at his desk. Giving him space.

“I need to apologize,” Ilya says.

Shane blinks. “What?”

“For how I...for how I made you move in here. For threatening you. For using lawyers as—as weapon. For making you feel like you had no choice.”

Shane’s breath catches. “Ilya—”

“No. Please. Let me say this.” Ilya looks at his hands. “When you told me about Lily, I was...I was so angry. So hurt. And I wanted to hurt you back. So I threatened to take her. Said I would fight for custody. Said I had money and resources and you had nothing.”

His voice cracks.

“And that was...that was cruel. It was—” he looks up at Shane, eyes wet, “—it was wrong. You did not deserve that.”

Shane’s throat is tight. He should say something. Should accept the apology.

But—

“You’re right,” Shane says. Voice hard. “It was wrong.”

Ilya blinks. Clearly he expected Shane to say “it’s okay” or “I understand.”

“It was a shitty thing to do,” Shane continues. “Threatening to take my daughter from me. Using your money as a weapon. Making me feel like I had no choice but to move in here or lose her.”

“Shane, I—”

“I’m not done.” Shane’s hands are shaking, spilling out what has been on his mind for weeks. “You made me terrified. Do you understand that? Terrified.”

Ilya’s face crumples. “I know. I am so—”

“And you know what the worst part was?” Shane’s voice breaks. “I thought you meant it. I thought you actually would do it.”

“I would never actually do it.”

“But I didn’t know that!” Shane’s voice rises. “I didn’t know if you were bluffing or serious! All I knew was that you were threatening me and I was terrified and I felt like I had no power, no choice, no—”

He stops, trying to blink away the tears in his eyes.

“I know I made a huge mistake too by not telling you about Lily. I am still incredibly sorry for that. But what you did, that was also not OK, Ilya.”

Ilya is also blinking away tears now. “I know. I am so sorry. I was...I was so angry and hurt and I wanted—”

“I know what you wanted. You wanted control. You wanted me to hurt the way you were hurting. And I get it. I do. I kept your daughter from you for three and a half years. You had every right to be angry.”

Shane takes a shaky breath. “But you didn’t have the right to threaten me like that. That’s—that’s not okay. That’s never okay. I don’t care how hurt you were.”

“You are right,” Ilya whispers.

“I need you to promise me something,” Shane says. Voice steady now. Firm. “I need you to promise me you will never do that again. Never use money or lawyers or threats to—to control me. To force me into something. If we’re going to do this, if we’re going to live here together, raise Lily together, we have to be partners. Equals. Not you having all the power and me just accepting whatever you decide.”

“I promise.” Ilya stands. Crosses to Shane. “I promise, Shane. We decide things together. As...as partners.”

“You mean that?”

“Yes. I swear.”

Shane searches his face. Looking for...something. Sincerity. Truth.

He finds it.

“Okay,” Shane says finally. “Okay. I forgive you.”

“You do not have to.”

“I do. Because you apologized. Because you acknowledged how fucked up it was. And because—” Shane’s voice softens, “—because I understand why you did it.”

Ilya reaches out. Hesitates. Then puts his hand on Shane’s shoulder. Just resting there.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For forgiving me. For...for still being here.”

“Where else would I go?” Shane asks. Small smile. “You’ve got my daughter across the hall.”

“Not just for Lily,” Ilya says. Voice low. “I want you here for...for you too.”

Shane’s breath catches. “Ilya?”

“I should let you finish working.” Ilya drops his hand. Steps back. “Is late.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Ilya heads for the door. Stops with his hand on the handle as if he wants to say something more, but decides against it and leaves.

Shane stands alone in his room. Heart racing.

That was hard. Calling Ilya out like that. Telling him how fucked up it was. Not just immediately forgiving and moving on out of his own guilt.

But it needed to be said.

And Ilya—

Ilya listened. Apologized. Promised to do better.

And Shane believes him.

Shane sits on the edge of his bed and stares at his hands.

But it’s not just Ilya who needed to apologize, is it?

Shane kept Lily secret for three and a half years. Lied. Hid. Kept Ilya from his own daughter.

That was not OK too.

Shane rubs his face.

Ilya apologized tonight. For the threats. For the lawyers. For making Shane feel powerless.

But has Ilya actually forgiven Shane?

He said he wanted Shane here “for him too.” He’s been...kind. Patient. Good with Lily. Good to Shane.

But forgiveness?

Shane doesn’t know.

They haven’t talked about it. Not really.

Ilya said he wanted Shane here. Ilya made space for them. Ilya painted Lily’s room pink and bought her toys and reads to her in Russian every night.

But that’s for Lily.

What about Shane?

Has Ilya forgiven Shane for the three and a half years? For the lies? For keeping his daughter from him?

I don’t think so, Shane realizes. I don’t think he has.

And that’s—

That’s fair.

Shane lies back on his bed. Stares at the ceiling.

We’re both broken, he thinks. We both hurt each other. We both did fucked up things.

And we both need to forgive each other.

Shane doesn’t know if they can do that.

Doesn’t know if Ilya will ever really forgive him for the three and a half years.

Doesn’t know if living in the same house, co-parenting Lily, being “partners”—if that’s enough.

Shane closes his eyes.

He said what he needed to say tonight. Set boundaries. Made Ilya promise.

That was important.

Now Shane needs to let Ilya do the same.

Whenever Ilya is ready.

Shane will listen.

Maybe they can both finally let go.

Together.

-----

### Week Four ###

It’s a Wednesday night. Lily has been begging to watch her favorite cartoon—the Russian one with Masha and the Bear that Ilya introduced her to.

“Can we watch? Please please please?”

“Da, we watch.” Ilya settles on the couch, Lily immediately climbing into his lap.

Shane hovers. “I’ll just... go read or something.”

“Shane.” Ilya looks at him. “Sit. Watch with us.”

“I don’t speak Russian.” 

“I translate. Sit.”

Shane sits. On the far end of the couch. A full cushion between them.

The show starts. Lily is already giggling at something. Ilya explains in a low voice what’s happening, translating bits of dialogue, teaching Lily new words.

“What’s that word mean?” Lily asks.

“Медведь. Medved. Means bear.”

“Med-ved,” she repeats carefully.

Shane watches them together. Lily completely relaxed, Ilya’s hand gentle on her back, both of them absorbed in the show.

His chest aches.

This is what it could have been. What it should have been.

Ilya with his daughter. Teaching her his language. Making her laugh.

Shane shifts on the couch, trying to get comfortable but also trying not to intrude on their moment.

Ilya glances over. “You are too far. Cannot hear.”

“I’m fine.”

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice is patient but firm. “Come here.”

Before Shane can protest, Ilya’s arm extends. His hand catches Shane’s shoulder. Gently pulls him closer.

Shane ends up pressed against Ilya’s right side. Lily is on the left. Both of them tucked against him.

“Better,” Ilya says, like this is perfectly normal. Like they do this all the time but Shane can barely breathe.

He’s pressed against Ilya’s chest. Can feel his heartbeat. Can feel the rumble of his voice when he speaks. Can smell that woodsy shampoo and something underneath that’s just Ilya.

“Masha is very naughty,” Ilya is saying to Lily. “She always makes trouble for Bear. See? Now she—”

Shane isn’t listening to the words.

He’s hyperaware of every point of contact. Ilya’s arm around his shoulders. The warmth of his body. The steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Lily giggles at something on screen, snuggling closer into Ilya’s other side.

And Shane...Shane realizes with sudden, painful clarity:

He’s still desperately in love with Ilya Rozanov.

He never stopped.

Maybe these four years were just...waiting. Pretending. Lying to himself about what Ilya meant to him.

Because this, sitting on a couch watching a Russian cartoon, tucked against Ilya’s side while their daughter laughs, this is everything Shane has ever wanted.

Not hockey. Not career. Not fame.

This.

Family. Home. Ilya.

Oh no Shane thinks. Oh no oh no oh no.

Because falling in love with Ilya again is the worst possible thing that could happen.

Ilya is still angry. Still hurt. Still might never forgive him.

They’re co-parents. Roommates. Barely on speaking terms outside of logistics and Lily.

Ilya is doing this for Lily. Not for Shane.

And Shane is sitting here realizing he’s completely, hopelessly, devastatingly in love with someone who might never love him back.

“Dad?” Lily’s voice breaks through his spiral. “Are you watching?”

“Yeah, honey. I’m watching.”

But he’s not watching the show.

He’s watching Ilya’s profile. The way he smiles when Lily laughs. The gentle way he touches her hair. The ease in his expression—so different from the cold distance he shows Shane when they’re alone.

I love him, Shane thinks. God help me, I still love him.

And there’s nothing he can do about it.

Nothing except sit here. Be grateful for this moment. This closeness.

Even if it’s not real.

Even if it’s just for Lily.

Even if Ilya will never feel the same way.

The cartoon continues. Lily falls asleep against Ilya’s chest. Ilya keeps talking anyway, voice low and soothing, translating even though no one is listening anymore.

And Shane just breathes. Tries to memorize this. The weight of Ilya’s arm. The sound of his voice. The feeling of being home.

Even if it’s temporary.

Even if it’s built on lies and secrets and things that can never be.

Even if it breaks his heart.

He stays.

And tries not to fall any deeper.

(Fails spectacularly.)

Chapter 16: Ilya POV: “Papa”

### Practice - Week Four ###

Ilya feels good on the ice today. Better than good. The team is clicking, the plays are working and Shane’s coaching is sharp and clear without being overbearing.

They’re running drills—face-off practice. Ilya lines up against Davies.

Wins easily.

“Come on, man!” Davies laughs. “You don’t have to make me look bad!”

“Is not my fault you are slow,” Ilya grins.

Shane skates over. “Alright, Rozanov. You think you’re so good at face-offs? Prove it.”

The challenge is clear in his voice. Playful. Confident.

It reminds Ilya of...before. When they were rookies. When everything between them was charged with competition and something else neither of them acknowledged.

“You want to face off against me, coach?” Ilya’s grin widens. “You remember what happened every time we faced off? I won. Every single time.”

“Your memory is faulty,” Shane says, but he’s smiling. Actually smiling. “I won plenty.”

“Da? Prove it.”

They line up. The team gathers around, sensing something. Entertainment.

Ilya crouches into position. Shane mirrors him across the circle.

And then—

Shane winks.

It’s quick. Barely there. But unmistakable.

Ilya’s brain short-circuits.

Did he just?

The puck drops.

Shane wins the face-off cleanly.

Ilya just stands there, stick loose in his hands, staring.

Shane skates away backwards, grinning. “Still got it, Rozanov.”

The team laughs. Someone chirps Ilya about losing focus.

But Ilya—

Ilya is trying to remember if Shane ever did that before. Ever winked. Ever showed that kind of confidence.

The answer is no.

Rookie Shane was serious. Focused. Intense but never playful like this.

This is different.

The old Shane would never do that, Ilya thinks. And doesn’t know if that makes him happy or sad.

Or both.

After practice, Davies skates over. “You two good now? Whatever was going on before?”

“What do you mean?”

“The tension, man. At training camp you could barely look at each other. Now you’re—I don’t know. You seem better.”

Henderson joins them. “Yeah, it’s good to see. You work well together on the ice. Natural chemistry.”

Ilya glances over at Shane. He’s talking to Morrison, gesturing about some play, completely absorbed.

“Da,” Ilya says. “We work well together.”

Better than well.

Something has shifted in the last few weeks. The sharp edges have softened. The silences aren’t as heavy.

Then something has shifted again after Ilya apologized for the threat he used. For the shittiest thing he has ever done. For the thing that haunted his mind every second since Shane actually moved in.

They’re not fixed. Not healed.

But they’re something.

And Ilya doesn’t hate it.

-----

### That Evening – Bedtime ###

They tuck Lily in together like they do every night now.

It’s become routine. Comfortable.

Shane reads the first story, Ilya does the voices. They take turns answering her endless questions about why the moon follows the earth and whether dinosaurs could swim and what happens to dreams when you forget them.

Tonight she’s particularly tired. Falls asleep mid-sentence about the dream she had last night.

“Out like a light,” Shane whispers.

They stand. Move toward the door together.

Lily’s sleepy voice stops them: “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, baby,” Shane says softly.

A pause. Then: “Love you, Ilya.”

Ilya’s heart stutters.

“Love you too, sweetheart,” he manages. His voice sounds rough even to his own ears.

They close her door gently. Stand in the hallway.

The silence is different tonight. Heavier somehow.

“She...” Ilya starts.

“I know,” Shane says.

“She said...”

“I know.”

Ilya looks at Shane. Really looks. In the dim hallway light, Shane’s face is soft. Open in a way it hasn’t been since... before everything fell apart.

“You think it’s time?” Shane asks quietly. “To tell her? That you’re her dad?”

Ilya’s chest tightens. “Da. Tomorrow. We tell her tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Shane nods. “Tomorrow.”

They stand there. Neither moving. Just looking at each other.

The moment stretches. Too long. Too charged.

Shane’s eyes drop to Ilya’s mouth for a fraction of a second. Ilya sees it. Feels his own breath catch.

Don’t, Ilya thinks. Don’t do this. Don’t hope.

“Good night, Ilya,” Shane whispers.

The way he says it—soft, almost tender—makes something in Ilya’s chest crack open.

“Spokoynoy nochi, Shane.”

Shane goes to his room. Door closes softly.

Ilya stands in the hallway for a long moment. Then goes to his own room.

Lies down in bed and stares at the ceiling.

He can hear Shane moving around through the wall. The creak of the bed. The rustle of sheets.

Or maybe he’s imagining it.

Maybe he just wants to believe Shane is that close.

Tomorrow, Ilya thinks. Tomorrow we tell Lily I’m her father.

Tomorrow everything changes again.

He’s terrified.

What if she doesn’t want him as Papa? What if she’s confused or scared or—

Stop, he tells himself. She loves you. She said it tonight. She loves you.

It will be okay.

Ilya closes his eyes.

And realizes something that’s been growing quietly over the past few weeks:

He’s forgiven Shane.

Not completely. Not fully. The anger is still there, underneath. The grief over lost years. The pain of betrayal.

But it’s not sharp anymore.

It’s dull. Manageable.

And in its place—

There’s this. These weeks. These mornings making blini while Shane drinks coffee and reads the news. These evenings tucking Lily in together. These small moments of domesticity that Ilya never thought he’d have.

The best weeks of my life, he realizes.

Even with the pain. Even with the complicated history. Even with all the things they haven’t said.

These have been the best weeks of his life.

Because he has Lily. His daughter. Growing to know her. Growing to love her.

And he has Shane. Not the way he wants, not completely, but—close. Closer than he’s been in four years.

I won’t forget, Ilya thinks. I’ll never forget what was taken from me.

But maybe I can move forward anyway.

Maybe I already am.

He falls asleep thinking about Shane’s wink on the ice. About the way Shane smiled. About the word “tomorrow” and all the possibility it holds.

-----

### The Next Morning – Breakfast ###

Ilya is making blini again. Shane is drinking coffee. Lily is at the table, coloring.

Normal. Easy.

“Ilya?” Lily asks.

“Da, printsessa?”

“What’s ‘dad’ in Russian?”

Ilya’s hand stills on the spatula. “What?”

“Dad. Like father. What is it in Russian?”

Shane has gone very still across the kitchen.

“Is… is ‘papa,’” Ilya says carefully. “Pah-pah.”

“Oh.” Lily thinks about this. “So if I wanted to call you Papa in Russian, I’d say Papa?”

Ilya’s heart is beating too fast. “Da. You would say Papa.”

“Okay.” Lily goes back to coloring.

Ilya turns back to the stove. Tries to flip a pancake. His hands are shaking.

“Papa?”

He turns.

Lily is looking at him expectantly. “Papa, can you pass me the milk?”

His world stops.

Ilya stands frozen. Spatula in one hand. Milk carton in the other. Unable to move.

Unable to breathe.

She called him Papa.

Just like that.

Casually. Naturally.

Like she’s been doing it her whole life.

“Papa...Ilya?” Lily asks again, confused by his stillness.

Ilya’s vision blurs. Tears. He’s crying.

He crosses to the table. Sets down the milk with shaking hands.

“Da, Lilichka,” he manages. His voice is wrecked. “Here is milk.”

Lily pours it. Doesn’t seem to notice anything unusual. Just goes back to coloring and drinking her milk.

Like she didn’t just...like she doesn’t know what she just...

Ilya turns away. Grips the counter. Tries to breathe.

Shane is staring at him. Eyes wide. Also close to tears.

They stand in the kitchen. Lily humming at the table. The blini burning on the stove.

Ilya doesn’t care.

She called him Papa.

Papa.

-----

### After Breakfast ###

Lily is playing in the living room. Shane and Ilya are in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher in silence.

Ilya can’t stop the tears. They keep coming. Silent. Overwhelming.

“She called me papa.” His voice breaks.

“I know,” Shane says softly.

“We need to tell her,” Ilya says. “Now. Properly. She thinks...she thinks Papa is just word. She doesn’t understand what it means.”

Shane nods. “Okay. How do we explain this to a nearly four-year-old?”

“Truth,” Ilya says. “Simple truth. She can understand.”

They go to the living room together.

Lily is setting up a tea party. She looks up when they sit down on either side of her.

“Lily,” Shane starts. Voice already shaky. “We need to talk to you about something important.”

“Okay.” Lily sets down her plastic cup, giving them her full attention.

“You called Ilya ‘Papa’ this morning,” Shane continues. “At breakfast.”

“Yeah! Because you said that’s what Dad is in Russian!”

“Right, but—” Shane looks at Ilya, helpless.

Ilya takes over. “Lily, when you say Papa, is not just Russian word for dad. Is—” He takes a breath. “I AM your papa. Really. Like Dad is your dad. I am your other dad. Your papa.”

Lily’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “But I thought dads live together before the baby comes?”

“Usually, da. But...” Ilya looks at Shane. Help me.

Shane’s face is already red. “Lily, remember how we talked about how you grew in Dad’s tummy?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, when a baby grows, there’s always two people who...who helped make the baby. And Ilya—” Shane’s voice cracks. “Ilya is the other person. The other dad. He helped make you.”

Lily looks between them. “So you and Papa you made me together?”

“Da,” Ilya says softly. “We made you together.”

“But you don’t live together before?”

This is the hard part.

“We were...we were friends,” Ilya says carefully. “Very close friends who loved each other. And we hugged and kissed each other very much. And then you happened. You are miracle, Lilichka. Best thing ever.”

Lily is processing. “So you hugged each other and then I came, but then—then what? Why didn’t you live together? Why didn’t I know you were my papa before?”

Shane’s face goes from red to crimson. He’s staring at his hands.

“That is...that is complicated,” Ilya says. “Dad was scared. And I didn’t know about you. Dad didn’t tell me.”

“Why not?”

“Because...” Shane’s voice is barely audible. “Because I thought Papa wouldn’t want us. I was wrong. Very wrong. But I was scared, so I didn’t tell him.”

Lily’s face scrunches up. “But Papa is nice. Why would you think he wouldn’t want us?”

The question is so innocent. So logical.

And it destroys both of them.

“I made mistake,” Shane whispers. “Big mistake. I should have told him.” His voice breaks.

“But is okay now,” Ilya says quickly, seeing Shane falling apart. “Because now we ARE together. All of us. And I get to be your papa for real. Every day.”

“So you’re really my papa?” Lily asks. “Like really really? Forever?”

“Da.” Ilya’s voice is fierce. “Really really. Forever. I am your papa, Lily. Always. I will never leave. Never.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. Scout’s honour.” He makes the gesture.

Lily thinks about this for a long moment.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Can I call you Papa all the time now?”

Ilya’s eyes fill again. “Please. Please call me Papa.”

“Okay!” She launches herself at him. Hugs him tight. “Papa!”

Ilya catches her. Holds her. Buries his face in her hair.

Over Lily’s head, his eyes meet Shane’s.

Shane is crying silently. Face still red with embarrassment and shame and grief.

But there’s something else too.

Relief.

She knows now, Shane mouths.

Da, Ilya mouths back. She knows.

Lily pulls back. “So we’re a real family now?”

“We always were family,” Ilya says. “But now you know. Now is official.”

“Good!” Lily seems satisfied. Then, “Can we have McDonalds to celebrate?”

Ilya laughs. It comes out half-sob. “Da. We can have McDonalds.”

“YAY!”

She runs to the kitchen.

Shane and Ilya sit on the floor. Wrecked.

“That was—” Shane starts.

“Terrible,” Ilya finishes. “You turned so red I thought you would explode.”

“You told our four-year-old we hugged each other so much I became pregnant,” Shane hisses. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Is truth!” Ilya defends. “We DID hug each other! She doesn’t need to know how babies are made!”

“You can’t just...you can’t just SAY that to her!”

“Why not? Is fact! We hugged and kissed each other, we made baby, baby is her! Is beautiful story!”

Shane drops his head into his hands. “Oh my god.”

“What? You want I tell her what is sex? That we forgot condom?”

“NO!” Shane’s head snaps up. “Absolutely not! She’s FOUR!”

“Exactly! So we say we hugged each other! Is age-appropriate!”

Shane stares at him. Then, despite everything, starts laughing.

It’s slightly hysterical. But it’s real.

“We’re disasters,” Shane manages.

“Da,” Ilya agrees. “Complete disasters.”

“She’s going to tell everyone at daycare that her dads hugged each other very much and made her.”

“Is sweet story!”

“It’s mortifying!”

“PAPA!” Lily calls from the kitchen. “Are we going to McDonald’s or not?”

“Coming, printsessa!” Ilya stands. Offers Shane a hand.

Shane takes it.

Ilya pulls him up. They stand there for a moment. Hands still clasped.

“She knows now,” Shane says quietly. “She knows you’re her dad.”

“Da. She knows.” Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand once. “Thank you. For letting me tell her. For being here.”

“Where else would I be?”

Ilya doesn’t answer. Just heads to his room to change and get his wallet.

Chapter 17: Shane POV: “Tension”

Shane spends the rest of the day in a daze of relief.

Lily knows. She called Ilya Papa without hesitation, without confusion, just pure acceptance that this is her family now.

She’s been saying it all day actually: “Papa, can we play?” “Papa, look what I drew!” “Papa, will you read me a story?”

And every time, Ilya’s face does this thing where he looks like he might cry but he’s also smiling and Shane’s chest aches watching it.

They decided, after Lily went down for her nap, that if she tells people at daycare, they’ll deal with it. Ilya isn’t exactly a common name and someone will probably make the connection eventually, but for now it’s just—it’s just a family thing. Private. Theirs.

“If she tells her friends, she tells them,” Ilya said, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. “Is not shameful. Is truth. I am her papa.”

“I know,” Shane agreed. “I just...I don’t want you to feel pressured to come out before you’re ready.”

“I am not coming out,” Ilya said firmly. “I am just being her father. If people figure out, they figure out. But I am not making announcement. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Is private.”

Shane understood. He did. And honestly, he felt the same way. This thing between them, this fragile new family they’re building, it’s too precious to expose to scrutiny yet.

So they agreed. If Lily mentions it, fine. But they’re not volunteering information.

It should make Shane feel better.

It does, mostly.

Except for one thing that keeps circling back in his mind, over and over:

Very close friends who loved each other.

Loved.

Past tense.

Not love. Not present.

Loved.

Like it’s over. Like it’s done. Like whatever they had four years ago is dead and buried and Shane missed his chance.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. They’re co-parenting. They’re doing this for Lily. That’s enough.

(It’s not enough.)

(He wants more.)

(He wants Ilya.)

But that ship has sailed. Shane made sure of it when he lied for three and a half years, when he kept Lily secret, when he destroyed any trust Ilya might have had in him.

Loved.

Not love.

The word haunts him.

-----

### Later That Week - Tuesday Evening ###

Shane is trying to reach the pasta pot on the top shelf and failing miserably.

“Why did you put it up there?” he mutters, stretching on his toes. His fingers brush the handle but can’t quite grasp it.

“Here.” Ilya’s voice comes from right behind him.

Too close behind him.

Shane freezes as Ilya reaches over his shoulder, easily grabbing the pot. But instead of stepping back immediately, Ilya pauses. His chest is pressed against Shane’s back. His arm is still extended, trapping Shane against the counter.

Shane can feel the heat of him. Can smell his aftershave—cedar and something spicy, the same scent he wore four years ago in hotel rooms and locker rooms and that one time in Shane’s apartment when they were both too drunk to care about being careful.

“Here,” Ilya says again, his voice lower now, rougher. He sets the pot on the counter beside Shane.

But he still doesn’t move.

They stand there. Ilya’s chest against Shane’s back. Ilya’s arm still caging him in. Both of them breathing too carefully.

“Thanks,” Shane manages. His voice comes out strangled.

Ilya steps back. “No problem.”

Shane turns but Ilya is already walking away, heading to the fridge like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just press himself against Shane for five endless seconds.

Like Shane’s heart isn’t racing.

Like this is normal.

(It’s not normal.)

-----

### Wednesday Morning ###

Lily wants to be carried down the stairs. She’s being dramatic about it, claiming her legs are “too tired” even though she slept for ten hours.

“Come here, printsessa,” Ilya says, scooping her up.

They reach the bottom of the stairs at the same time Shane does. Ilya transfers Lily to Shane without thinking, the way they’ve done a hundred times now.

But this time, their hands overlap on Lily’s back. Shane’s fingers brush against Ilya’s. Their faces are inches apart as they lean in to make sure Lily is secure.

Shane’s cheek grazes Ilya’s.

Just barely. Just for a second.

But it’s enough to make Shane’s breath catch. Enough to make Ilya’s eyes snap to his. Enough to make the moment stretch too long, become something it shouldn’t be.

“Got her?” Ilya asks. His voice is rough.

“Yeah. I got her.”

Ilya pulls back. His hand lingers on Lily’s back for just a moment longer than necessary, his fingers sliding against Shane’s before falling away.

Shane holds Lily tighter and tries to remember how to breathe normally.

-----

### Friday Evening - The Play Kitchen ###

Lily has set up an elaborate tea party in the living room. Her play kitchen is arranged with precision—two tiny chairs, two tiny plates, two tiny cups.

“Sit!” she commands. “Papa, you sit here. Dad, you too.”

Shane looks at the chairs. They’re designed for children. He’s going to look ridiculous.

“Lily, I don’t think I’ll fit.”

“SIT!” she insists.

Ilya is already folding himself onto his chair, knees practically to his chest, looking absolutely absurd and not caring at all. “Is fine, Shane. Sit.”

Shane sits.

Or tries to.

“No, no!” Lily shakes her head. “Dad, you have to sit on Papa’s lap! That chair is for Mr. Bluey!”

She holds up the stuffed dog that Ilya bought her all those weeks ago.

Shane’s brain short-circuits. “Lily, I can just sit on the floor.”

“No! Papa’s lap!” She’s using her stubborn voice. The one that means she’s not going to back down.

Shane looks at Ilya helplessly.

Ilya’s expression is carefully neutral. “Is okay. If you want.”

If you want.

Like it’s casual. Like it’s nothing.

Shane’s heart is pounding.

He stands. Moves toward Ilya. Tries to figure out how to do this without making it weird.

(It’s already weird.)

He sits. Carefully. On Ilya’s lap.

Ilya’s thighs are solid beneath him. Warm. Shane can feel every point of contact—his ass on Ilya’s legs, his back against Ilya’s chest when he leans back slightly to make room for Lily’s “tea service.”

“Good!” Lily declares, arranging Mr. Bluey on the other chair. “Now we can have tea!”

She starts her elaborate pretend ritual—pouring invisible tea, offering invisible cookies, chattering about the weather and whether Mr. Bluey prefers sugar or honey.

Shane tries to focus on her. Tries to be present.

But all he can feel is Ilya.

Ilya’s breath on his neck. Ilya’s hand resting besides Shane’s hip. Ilya’s body heat seeping through Shane’s clothes.

And then—

Shane shifts slightly, trying to get comfortable.

And feels it.

Ilya is hard.

Not just a little. Fully, unmistakably hard.

Shane freezes.

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.

He starts to stand. Needs to get up. Needs to—Ilya’s hand clamps onto his hip.

Not hard. Not bruising. But firm. Holding him in place.

Shane looks back over his shoulder. Ilya’s face is flushed, jaw tight, eyes dark with something Shane hasn’t seen in four years.

Ilya’s gaze flicks meaningfully toward Lily. Then back to Shane.

She’s right there. If you stand up now, she’ll see.

Shane understands.

If he stands up, Lily will see that Ilya is hard. Will ask questions. Will notice something is wrong.

So Shane—

Shane sits back down.

Fully. Deliberately.

Right on Ilya’s lap.

Right on his erection.

Ilya’s breath hitches. His fingers tighten on Shane’s hip. His other hand comes up to grip Shane’s shirt so hard his knuckles go white.

“Dad!” Lily is holding out an invisible cup. “Your tea!”

“Thanks, baby,” Shane manages. His voice sounds almost normal. Almost.

He takes the invisible cup. Pretends to drink. Pretends everything is fine.

While sitting on Ilya Rozanov’s lap. While feeling Ilya hard beneath him. While Ilya’s hand is still gripping his hip and shirt like a lifeline.

The tea party continues.

Lily chatters. Mr. Bluey gets a second helping of cookies. The weather is discussed in great detail.

Shane sits there. On Ilya’s lap. Barely breathing.

Ilya’s thumb starts moving. Just slightly. Rubbing small circles on Shane’s hip through his jeans.

It’s probably unconscious. Probably doesn’t mean anything.

But Shane feels it like a brand, when finally—finally—Lily declares the tea party over.

“Okay, time to clean up!” she announces, already moving on to something else.

Shane stands immediately.

Ilya makes a sound—something between a gasp and a groan—quickly disguised as a cough.

“I’ll help Lily,” Shane says quickly. “You...uh...stay there.”

“Da,” Ilya rasps. “Good idea.”

Shane herds Lily to her bedroom, helps her put away the play dishes.

When he comes back downstairs twenty minutes later, Ilya is in the kitchen. Making actual tea. He is very focused on the tea.

They don’t talk about it.

Don’t acknowledge it.

Just move around each other carefully for the rest of the evening, giving each other space, not making eye contact.

-----

### That Night - Shane’s Room ###

Shane lies in bed staring at the ceiling.

He can’t do this anymore.

Can’t live in this house with Ilya, feeling what he feels, wanting what he wants, and pretending it’s nothing.

Today was—

Today was too much.

The aftershave. The hand on his hip. The hard line of Ilya’s arousal beneath him.

The way Ilya held him there. Touched him. That tiny circle his thumb traced like a promise.

Shane wants.

God, he wants.

Wants to go down the hall to Ilya’s room. Wants to knock on the door. Wants to ask if Ilya felt it too, if Ilya wants him too, if there’s any possibility that they could—

But what if he doesn’t?

What if this afternoon was just biology? Just proximity? Just the unavoidable result of having someone on your lap?

What if loved really is past tense?

Shane would understand if Ilya never forgave him what he did, but the last few weeks made him...hopeful?

But what if Shane goes to Ilya and Ilya rejects him, and then they have to keep living here, keep co-parenting, keep pretending everything is fine when it’s not?

Shane rolls over. Buries his face in his pillow.

He can’t keep living like this.

But he also can’t risk destroying what they’ve built.

For Lily’s sake.

(For his own sake, because losing Ilya again would break him completely.)

So he stays in his bed.

Alone.

One wall away from Ilya.

And tries to convince himself that co-parenting is enough.

That wanting is manageable.

That he can survive this.

(He can’t.)

(He really, really can’t.)

Chapter 18: Ilya POV: “Jealousy

Morrison’s voice carries across the locker room after practice. “Alright, listen up. We’ve got New York this weekend. Two days, the flight is Friday at noon. Coaching staff is coming—yes, Hollander, that means you too.”

Ilya glances over at Shane, who nods, already making notes on his tablet.

Two days away. Overnight.

Which means Lily stays with Shane’s parents.

Ilya’s chest tightens at the thought. She hates when they’re both gone overnight. One of them, she can handle. But both? She gets clingy. Anxious.

Last time they tried it, she cried for twenty minutes before they left.

-----

### Friday Morning ###

They’re running late. Of course they are.

Lily refused to get dressed, then refused to eat breakfast, then refused to put on her shoes. Now she’s clinging to Shane’s leg in the entryway of Shane’s parents while Shane tries to gently pry her off.

“Baby, we talked about this. We’re only gone for two nights. Grandma and Grandpa are so excited to see you.”

“I don’t WANT you to go!” Lily’s face is red, tears streaming. “I want you to STAY!”

“Lilichka.” Ilya kneels down beside her. “We will call before bed. Both nights. Promise.”

“But you’ll be GONE!”

“Only two sleeps,” Shane says, voice strained. “Then we’re back. And we’ll bring you a present from New York.”

“I don’t WANT a present! I want YOU!”

She’s working herself into a full meltdown now. Shane looks helpless, guilty, like he’s considering canceling the trip entirely.

“Lily.” Ilya’s voice is firm but gentle. “Look at me.”

She turns her tear-stained face toward him.

“We have to go. Is Papa’s job. Is Dad’s job. But we always come back. Always. You know this, da?”

“But what if you don’t?” Her voice is so small. So scared.

Ilya’s heart breaks.

He pulls her into his arms, holds her tight. “We always come back. Every time. Have we ever not come back?”

She shakes her head against his shoulder.

“So we will come back this time too. Two sleeps. Then we are home. With you. And we will have—” he looks at Shane for help.

“Movie night,” Shane supplies. “Your choice. Any movie you want.”

“With popcorn?” Lily sniffles.

“With so much popcorn,” Ilya promises.

She’s quiet for a moment. Then, “And candy?”

“Don’t push it,” Shane says, but he’s smiling.

“Little bit candy,” Ilya concedes.

Lily pulls back, wiping her eyes. “Okay. But you have to call. Both nights.”

“Both nights,” Shane agrees.

“And FaceTime so I can SEE you.”

“FaceTime,” Ilya confirms.

“And bring me a good present. Not a boring one.”

Shane laughs, slightly hysterical. “Deal.”

Yuna appears in the doorway. “Ready, sweetheart?”

Lily nods, still reluctant. Gives Shane one more hug, then Ilya.

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, baby.”

“Love you, Papa.”

Ilya’s chest constricts. He’ll never get used to hearing that. Never stop feeling like his heart might explode every time.

“Love you, printsessa. See you in two sleeps.”

She goes to Yuna, who scoops her up. “We’re going to have so much fun! We’re making cookies tonight!”

“Really?” Lily perks up slightly.

“Really. The kind with the chocolate chips.”

They leave. Shane and Ilya stand in the empty entryway, both feeling like terrible parents.

“She’ll be fine,” Shane says quietly. “She always is.”

“Da. I know.”

But it doesn’t make leaving easier.

They head to the car.

The drive to the airport is quiet.

Ilya stares out the window as Shane drives, watching the city pass by.

Last time she was with her grandparents was right after her birthday, he thinks. She was easier then. Excited. Happy.

The memory surfaces, vivid and warm.

-----

### FLASHBACK - April, Two Weeks Ago ###

The doorbell rings at exactly 2 PM.

Lily shrieks. “GRANDMA AND GRANDPA!”

She runs for the door. Shane intercepts her. “Whoa, let me get it first.”

“But I want to!”

“I know, baby, but—”

Ilya comes up behind them. “We answer together, da? All three?”

Lily nods enthusiastically.

They open the door.

Yuna and David stand on the porch, arms full of wrapped presents and a balloon bouquet.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” they chorus.

Lily launches herself at them. Yuna laughs, juggling presents to hug her granddaughter.

Shane stands in the doorway, looking nervous. “Hey. Come in.”

He glances back at Ilya.

This is it. The first time Shane’s parents are coming to the house. The first time Ilya is meeting them officially as...as what? Lily’s father? Shane’s...?

Shane clears his throat. “Mom, Dad, this is Ilya Rozanov. He plays for Ottawa, he’s a center, he used to play for Boston, he won the MVP Award his second year in the league...”

He’s rambling. Nervous rambling.

Ilya steps forward. “I think your parents know I play hockey, Shane.”

Shane’s mouth snaps shut.

Ilya looks at Yuna and David directly. “They are probably more interested in when and how we made Lily.”

Dead silence.

Shane’s face goes bright red. “ILYA!”

Then Yuna bursts out laughing. Deep, genuine laughter that makes her eyes crinkle.

David joins in, shaking his head.

“Oh, I like him,” Yuna says, grinning.

Before Ilya can react, she’s hugging him. Full-body, warm, motherly hug.

Ilya freezes. Arms at his sides. Completely unprepared for this.

“Um,” he manages. “Hello?”

His hands hover awkwardly. Does he hug back? Pat her shoulder? What is the protocol here?

Over Yuna’s shoulder, he sees Shane still covering his face with his hands, mortified.

David steps forward, offering his hand. “Good to finally meet you. Officially.”

Yuna releases Ilya. He shakes David’s hand quickly, grateful for something he knows how to do.

“Da. Good to meet you also.”

“CAKE!” Lily announces. “Papa got me a CASTLE cake!”

“A castle!” Yuna gasps, appropriately impressed. “We have to see this!”

They move to the kitchen. Ilya’s cake—ordered from the fancy bakery downtown—sits on the counter. Three tiers, decorated to look like a pink castle with turrets and flags.

Lily insisted. Ilya delivered.

“Ilya, this is incredible,” Yuna says.

“Is nothing. She wanted castle.”

“It’s not nothing,” David says, studying it. “This must have cost a fortune!”

“Is her birthday,” Ilya interrupts. “She can have castle.”

Shane is watching him with an expression Ilya can’t quite read.

They eat cake. Lily chatters about her upcoming trampoline park party with friends next week. Yuna asks about school. David talks to Ilya about the season, about the team’s chances in playoffs.

It’s nice. Normal.

Then the conversation shifts.

“She was so tiny when she was born,” Yuna says, looking at Lily fondly. “Only six pounds, two ounces.”

Ilya’s hand tightens on his fork.

“Shane was terrified to hold her at first,” David adds. “Thought he’d break her.”

“I was not—” Shane protests. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“A little?” Yuna laughs. “You made me demonstrate on a doll first.”

“She was so small!” Shane’s face is pink. “I’d never held a baby before!”

They’re all laughing. Sharing memories. Stories from those first days, first weeks.

Ilya is quiet.

He wasn’t there for any of it.

Didn’t see Shane hold Lily for the first time. Didn’t help with midnight feedings. Didn’t witness first smiles or first laughs.

Just...nothing.

His chest feels tight.

Shane notices. Ilya sees him notice.

“Hey,” Shane says softly. “Lily, want to show Papa your baby pictures?”

“Yeah!” Lily climbs onto the couch. Shane sits beside her, Ilya on her other side.

Shane pulls out his phone. Scrolls to an album.

“This is you,” he tells Lily, “when you were brand new.”

The photo shows a tiny, red-faced infant. Eyes closed. Wrapped in a hospital blanket.

“I was so SMALL!” Lily marvels.

“You were,” Shane agrees. He swipes to the next photo. Lily sleeping. Then Lily yawning. Lily’s tiny hand wrapped around Shane’s finger.

Ilya stares at the screen.

She was so small.

His daughter was so small and he wasn’t there to see it.

“This one’s my favorite,” Shane says quietly, stopping on a photo of Lily at maybe two months old. She’s smiling a real smile, looking up at whoever’s holding the camera.

Shane. It was Shane holding the camera.

Shane, alone, taking pictures of their daughter.

“She was so small,” Ilya whispers.

“Yeah.” Shane’s voice is rough. “She was.”

They sit there. Looking at photos. Lily pointing out her “tiny baby feet” and “tiny baby hands.”

Ilya’s throat is too tight to speak.

“Do you have pictures of me in your tummy, Dad?” Lily asks suddenly.

Shane goes still. “No, baby. I didn’t take many.”

“Why not?”

“I just...I was busy.”

“I have some,” Yuna says quietly.

Everyone looks at her.

She pulls out her phone. Scrolls. Finds what she’s looking for.

“Here.”

She shows Ilya and Lily.

Shane. Pregnant.

Maybe five months, standing in profile. Hand on his belly. Small but visible bump. Wearing a soft gray t-shirt. Hair a mess. Looking young, scared and—

Beautiful.

Yuna swipes. Another photo. Shane at seven months. Bigger now. Sitting on a couch, laptop balanced on his belly, frowning at something on the screen.

Another. Shane at nine months. Huge. Tired. Hand on his lower back. But smiling. Small, hopeful smile.

Ilya can’t breathe.

Can’t look away.

“Pretty,” he says. So quiet he barely hears himself.

Shane’s head snaps toward him. “What?”

Ilya swallows hard. “You were pretty. Are pretty. Were—”

He stops. Doesn’t trust his voice.

Shane is staring at him. Eyes wide. Something vulnerable in his expression.

“You think so?” Shane whispers.

Ilya nods. Can’t say more.

Because what he wants to say is:

You’re beautiful. You were beautiful carrying our daughter. I wish I could have seen it. Wish I could have been there. Wish I could have touched your belly and felt her kick. Wish I could have held your hand during labor. Wish I could have been THERE.

I’m not sad because I’m angry. I’m sad because I love you. Still. Always. And I would have given anything to be part of this.

I’ve forgiven you. I just don’t know how to say it.

But he can’t say any of that.

Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.

So he just looks at the photo of Shane, pregnant and young and scared and hopeful, and tries not to fall apart.

“PAPA!”

The shout comes with a handful of frosting directly to his face.

Ilya blinks. Cake. In his eyes. On his nose. Dripping down his cheek.

Lily is cackling.

“Oh, you think that is funny?” Ilya grins. Scoops frosting off the cake. Gets Lily right on the cheek.

She shrieks. Retaliates. Gets him on the forehead.

It’s war.

“No!” Shane is on his feet. “Stop! Lily! Ilya! The CAKE! You can’t just—”

But Ilya and Lily are both laughing too hard to listen. Frosting flies. Lily’s face is covered. So is Ilya’s. The pristine castle cake is destroyed.

“ILYA!” Shane sounds genuinely distressed. “LILY!”

Yuna and David are laughing. Actually laughing. Not helping at all.

“You two are terrible,” Shane says, but he’s fighting a smile. “Absolutely terrible.”

“But Papa started it!” Lily protests, grinning through pink frosting.

“Did not! You started!”

“Did not!”

“Did!” “Okay, okay!” Shane holds up his hands. “Everyone to the bathroom. Now. Before this gets worse.”

“Worse?” Ilya looks around. Frosting on the walls. Frosting on the floor. Frosting everywhere. “How can it get worse?”

Shane just points. “Bathroom! Both of you.”

They go. Giggling. Leaving Shane to clean up their mess.

But as Ilya washes Lily’s face, gentle with a warm washcloth, he can’t stop thinking about those photos.

About Shane. Alone. Pregnant. Scared.

About everything Ilya missed.

About everything he wishes he could have been there for.

I forgive you, he thinks, looking at his daughter’s frosting-covered, joyful face. I forgive you, Shane. I just wish I knew how to tell you.

-----

### END FLASHBACK ###

Ilya blinks. They’re pulling into the airport parking garage.

“You okay?” Shane asks. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Da. Just thinking.”

“About?”

About Lily’s birthday. About seeing you pregnant. About how I’ve forgiven you but I’m too much of coward to say it.

“About Lily,” Ilya says instead. “She will be okay.”

“Yeah. She will.”

They grab their bags from the trunk.

Head inside to meet the team.

And Ilya tries not to think about Shane, pregnant and beautiful, smiling hopefully at a camera while carrying their daughter.

Tries not to think about how much he loves him.

Still.

Always.

I should tell him, Ilya thinks as they check in. I should tell him I’ve forgiven him.

But the words won’t come.

-----

The airport is chaos.

The team floods through security—loud, laughing, shoving each other like overgrown children. Henderson is arguing with Davies about something. Morrison is on his phone, probably talking to his wife. The rookies are taking selfies.

Ilya goes through the motions. Shows his Russian ID, which is always troublesome and then takes off his shoes and waits.

Shane is a few people ahead in line. Focused on getting his laptop out of his bag, his tablet, making sure everything is organized and efficient because that’s what Shane does. Plans. Organizes. Controls what he can control. Ilya understands that now.

They board the plane.

Shane sits three rows ahead, across the aisle. Next to Morrison. Already pulling out his laptop before they’ve even taken off.

Ilya watches him.

Can’t help it.

The way Shane frowns when he’s concentrating, that little line between his eyebrows that Ilya used to kiss away. The way he chews on his pen when he’s thinking. The way the light from the window catches in his hair, makes it look almost golden.

Four years ago, Ilya would have sat next to him. Would have found excuses to touch him in front of the others. A hand on Shane’s knee, shoulders pressed together, fingers brushing when reaching for the same armrest. Being bad and searching for trouble.

Now they sit three rows apart.

Professional. Distant.

Cowards, Ilya thinks bitterly. We are both cowards.

“Dude, you’re staring.”

Ilya’s head snaps around. Henderson is in the seat next to him, grinning knowingly.

“Am not.”

“You’ve been staring at Hollander for like ten minutes straight.”

“I am looking out window.”

“Shane is not out the window, man.”

Ilya scowls. Pulls out his own phone. Pretends to be very interested in scrolling through nothing.

Henderson laughs quietly. “Whatever you say.”

But Henderson is right. Ilya can’t stop looking.

Shane shifts in his seat, stretching his neck. Ilya watches the line of his throat. Remembers kissing there, right below his ear, the spot that made Shane gasp.

Shane runs a hand through his hair. Ilya remembers doing that. Threading his fingers through Shane’s hair, pulling gently, making Shane arch into him.

Stop, Ilya tells himself. Stop thinking about this. Stop wanting.

But he can’t.

The flight is about two hours. Feels like ten.

-----

The team descends on the hotel lobby like a small army.

Morrison handles check-in for everyone. Comes back with key cards. Hands one to Shane. “You’re on fourteen.”

Then to Ilya. “Rozanov, you’re on twelve.”

Ilya takes the key card. 1221.

“See you at the game tomorrow,” Shane says. Professional. Distant.

“Da. See you.”

Shane heads toward the elevators. Ilya watches him go.

Wants to follow. Wants to say...what? Don’t go. Stay with me. Let me tell you I’ve forgiven you. Let me tell you I still love you.

But Shane is already in the elevator. Doors closing.

Gone.

And Ilya goes to his own room. Twelfth floor. Down the hall. Unlocks the door to 1221.

Standard hotel room. King bed. Desk. TV. Window overlooking the city.

Empty.

He drops his bag. Sits on the edge of the bed.

Pulls out his phone and opens his photos.

The most recent ones are all Lily. Lily making blini with him this morning. Lily’s frosting-covered face from her birthday. Lily asleep on the couch last week, curled into his side.

His daughter.

Our daughter, he corrects himself.

He scrolls back further. Finds the photo Shane sent him two weeks ago—the three of them together. Shane took it, arm extended for a selfie. Lily in the middle. Ilya on her other side. All of them smiling.

They look like a family.

We are a family, Ilya thinks.

But something is missing.

He knows what it is.

-----

### After The Game - Saturday Evening ###

They win.

5-2.

Ilya gets two goals and an assist. Feels good on the ice. Sharp. Focused.

Every time he glances at the bench, Shane is there. Watching. Taking notes. Saying something to Morrison.

Once, their eyes meet through the glass.

Something passes between them. Something electric.

Then Shane looks away first and the moment breaks.

After the game, the locker room is loud. Celebratory. Everyone high on the win.

“Great game, Rozanov!” Davies claps him on the shoulder.

“Da. Team played well.”

“Two goals, man! You were on fire!”

Ilya shrugs. It was a good game. But he’s thinking about Shane. About the look they shared.

About what it meant.

(About what it didn’t mean.)

-----

### Hotel Bar - 11 PM ###

The team floods the hotel bar. Still riding the high of the win. Still loud. Still celebrating.

Ilya goes because Henderson drags him. “Come on, man. One drink. Live a little. You got a reputation to live up to.”

He orders a beer. Finds a spot at the bar. Nurses his drink while the team gets progressively louder around him.

Shane is there too. At a table in the corner with Morrison and the assistant coaches. Working. Always working. Even now.

Ilya watches him over the rim of his beer.

The way Shane gestures when he’s making a point. The way he leans forward, intense, focused. The way he—

Someone approaches Shane’s table.

Tall. Fit. Wearing an Admirals jacket.

Ilya’s eyes narrow.

He recognizes that jacket. Recognizes the player.

Scott Fucking Hunter.

The Admirals’ left wing. Good player. Fast. Smart.

And—if the rumors are true—gay.

Ilya’s hand tightens on his beer bottle.

Scott says something. Shane looks up and his face...changes.

Opens.

Lights up.

Lights up.

“Hunter? Scott Hunter?” Shane’s voice carries across the bar. Surprised. Delighted.

Shane stands. Shakes Scott’s hand. They’re talking now. Shane is smiling. Really smiling. The kind of smile that reaches his eyes.

“Holy shit, I haven’t seen you since—what, 2009? 2010?”

“2010,” Scott says, grinning. “Last game of your rookie season. You kicked my ass, scored a hattrick.”

“You remember that?”

“Of course I remember! You were terrifying on the ice.”

They’re laughing now. Shane throws his head back, genuinely amused.

The kind of smile Shane used to give Ilya.

Hasn’t given him in months.

And Scott Hunter—gay Scott Hunter—gets it after thirty seconds.

Ilya’s vision starts to blur at the edges.

Red.

Everything is red.

Scott touches Shane’s arm. Casual. Friendly.

Shane doesn’t pull away.

They’re talking about the old days, about mutual friends from the all star games, about where Scotts career went and about Shane’s “injury”.

And all Ilya can see is an attractive man.

A gay man.

Touching Shane.

Making Shane laugh.

Getting the version of Shane that’s warm and open and happy.

The version Ilya wants desperately and can’t seem to reach anymore.

No.

Ilya’s heart is pounding. His chest is tight. His hands are shaking.

No no no no no.

Shane is his.

Not Scott Hunter’s. Not anyone else’s.

His.

The rational part of Ilya’s brain knows this is ridiculous. Knows Shane is just talking to an old acquaintance. Knows this is probably innocent. Probably nothing.

But the irrational part, the part that has spent four years missing Shane, the part that has spent the last months living with him and wanting him and not being able to have him, the part that sees an rumored gay man touching Shane and smiling at Shane—

That part doesn’t care about rational.

That part only knows:

Someone else is making Shane smile.

Someone else is touching him.

Someone who could actually have Shane, who wouldn’t have to hide too much longer, who could give Shane everything Ilya is too afraid to offer—is getting the version of Shane that Ilya wants desperately.

No.

Ilya stands.

Doesn’t remember deciding to stand. Just does.

Crosses the bar.

Long strides. Purposeful. Predatory.

He doesn’t care who sees. Doesn’t care who notices.

He reaches Shane’s table.

“Shane.”

His voice comes out rougher than intended. Darker.

Shane turns. Eyes widening in surprise. “Ilya? What is wrong?”

“We need to talk. Now.”

It’s not a request.

Shane blinks. “I’m in the middle of—”

“Now, Shane.”

Scott Hunter raises his eyebrows. Takes a step back, clearly sensing the tension. “Hey, man. I’m Scott Hunter. We played against each other tonight—”

“I know who you are,” Ilya says. Doesn’t look at him. Only looks at Shane.

Scott’s eyebrows climb higher. “Right. Well. I’ll just...I’ll catch you later, Hollander.”

“Scott, wait, you don’t have to...” Shane starts.

But Ilya leans down. Gets close to Shane’s ear. Close enough that no one else can hear.

Close enough to smell that fucking aftershave that drives him crazy.

Close enough to feel Shane’s breath hitch.

“1221,” Ilya whispers.

Shane goes completely still.

Ilya sees the exact moment the number registers. Sees Shane’s eyes go wide. Sees his face flush.

1221.

Their code.

Four years ago, in locker rooms and crowded bars and hallways where they had to be careful. Ilya would say a room number. Shane would show up twenty minutes later.

Every time.

Without fail.

Shane hasn’t heard a code in four years.

And now—

“I...” Shane’s voice cracks. “I’m talking to someone.”

“Now, Shane.” Ilya straightens. Doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t dare. If he touches Shane now, he won’t stop. “Please.”

The please does it.

Shane turns to Scott. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“No worries, man.” Scott grins, clearly amused. “Go. We’ll catch up later.”

“Yeah. Later.”

Shane stands. Follows Ilya.

Ilya leads him out of the bar. Can feel eyes on them. Henderson. Davies. Morrison.

Doesn’t care.

Doesn’t care about anything except getting Shane alone.

Getting Shane to his room.

Getting Shane to...

Stop, he tells himself. You’re just going to talk. Just talk. That’s all.

(It’s not all. It’s never all. Not with Shane.)

They reach the elevators. Ilya hits the button.

The doors open immediately. Empty car.

They step inside.

The doors close.

Silence.

Ilya can hear Shane breathing. Fast. Nervous.

Can feel the heat of him standing too close in this small space.

The elevator stops. Third floor. Doors open.

A couple gets on. Hotel guests. Oblivious.

Ilya and Shane press to opposite sides of the elevator.

Not looking at each other.

But hyperaware.

Ilya can see Shane’s reflection in the polished doors. Can see the tension in his shoulders. The way his hands are clenched at his sides.

The couple gets off at seven.

Alone again.

Still not looking at each other.

Still not speaking.

The silence is suffocating.

Shane’s breathing is too fast. Ilya can hear it. Can feel it.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

The elevator climbs.

Twelve.

Ilya’s floor.

The doors open.

Ilya steps out. Doesn’t look back. Just walks.

Down the hall. Past identical doors. To 1221.

He unlocks it. Holds the door open.

Shane walks in.

Ilya closes the door.

Click.

The sound is too loud in the quiet room.

They’re alone now.

In a hotel room.

Just like before.

But everything is different.

Everything is the same.

Shane turns to face him. “What’s going on? Why did you—”

He stops.

Sees Ilya’s face.

Whatever he sees there makes his breath catch.

“Ilya?”

Ilya just looks at him.

At Shane. Beautiful, infuriating Shane who Ilya has been living with for months without being able to touch. Without being able to say what he needs to say.

Shane, who was laughing with Scott Hunter.

Shane, who Ilya wants so desperately it’s tearing him apart.

“You friends with Scott Hunter?” Ilya’s voice comes out harsh. Jagged.

“What?”

“Scott Hunter. In bar. You know him?”

Shane’s eyebrows draw together. “Yeah, I haven’t seen him in years, he just wanted to catch up.”

“You were laughing.”

“I...yeah? He was telling me about—”

“You were laughing,” Ilya repeats. Sharper now. “With him. You were...he touched you. You let him.”

Understanding dawns on Shane’s face.

“Ilya,” he says carefully. “Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“You are. You’re jealous. Of Scott Hunter.”

“I am NOT!” Ilya stops. Forces himself to breathe. “Yes. Okay? Yes. I am jealous.”

Shane stares at him. “Of Scott? Ilya, he’s just an acquaintance, I was just catching up with him.”

“I know.” Ilya runs his hands through his hair. Agitated. Can’t stand still. “I know is stupid. I know is just friend. But I—”

He can’t finish.

Can’t say it.

Shane takes a step closer. “But what?”

“But you were smiling,” Ilya says. Voice breaking. “Really smiling. The way you used to smile at me. The way you don’t smile at me anymore. And he just walked up and got that in thirty seconds. Something I haven’t gotten in months. And I—”

His voice fails completely.

Shane is very close now. Close enough to touch.

“And he’s gay” Ilya continues, the words tumbling out now. “Scott Hunter is gay, well not openly but everyone knows and so he doesn’t have to hide and he could...he could give you everything. Could be with you. Without hiding. Without pretending. And I—”

He stops. Chest heaving.

Shane is staring at him. Eyes wide. Shocked.

“Ilya,” he whispers. “I don’t want Scott Hunter.”

“But you should,” Ilya says desperately. “You should want someone who can...who isn’t afraid.”

“I don’t want him,” Shane repeats. Firmer now. “I don’t smile at you because I don’t know if I’m allowed to. I don’t know where we stand. I don’t know if you—”

He stops.

They’re staring at each other.

Too close.

Too much.

“If I what?” Ilya asks. Voice rough.

Shane swallows hard. Ilya watches his throat work. Wants to put his mouth there.

“If you’ve forgiven me,” Shane whispers.

Chapter 19: Shane POV: “Finally”

“If you’ve forgiven me.”

The words hang in the air between them.

Shane can barely breathe. His heart is pounding so hard he thinks Ilya must be able to hear it.

Ilya is staring at him with those intense pale eyes, the ones that see through every defense Shane has ever built.

The silence stretches.

And then—

“I forgave you weeks ago.”

Shane’s knees nearly give out.

“What?”

“Weeks ago,” Ilya repeats. He takes a step closer. “Maybe at Lily’s birthday. Maybe before. I don’t know exactly when. But Shane...” his voice breaks, “...I forgive you.”

Shane can’t process this. Can’t understand it.

“You never said anything. You’ve been so cold, so distant, I thought you’d never...”

“Because I am coward,” Ilya interrupts. Voice rough. “Because I didn’t know how to tell you that...”

He stops. His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides. Like he’s physically holding himself back.

“That you what?” Shane whispers.

Ilya’s jaw works. Struggling with something.

“That I still want you. That I never stopped wanting you.” His voice drops lower, darker. “That seeing you with Scott Hunter made me want to—” he makes a frustrated noise, “—made me crazy. Made me realize I cannot share you. Will not share you. You are MINE, Shane.”

The possessiveness in his voice sends heat straight through Shane’s body.

“Yours,” Shane breathes. Can barely get the word out. “I’ve always been yours.”

Ilya’s eyes go dark.

“Da?”

“Yes. Always. There’s never been another. I haven’t—” Shane stops. Swallows hard. “Since you. There’s been no one since you.”

Ilya goes completely still. “What?”

“Four years,” Shane says. Voice shaking. “Four years and I...I couldn’t. Didn’t want anyone else. Just you. Only you.”

“Shane?”

But Shane isn’t done. Can’t stop now that he’s started.

“I thought...I thought you’d never forgive me. I thought we could never come back from what we did to each other. And seeing you tonight, jealous, possessive, saying I’m yours,” his voice cracks, “I don’t know what to do with that except—”

He can’t finish.

Doesn’t need to.

Because Ilya is crossing the space between them and his hands come up to cup Shane’s face.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Close enough that Shane can see the gold flecks in Ilya’s eyes. Can see the way his pupils are blown wide. Can feel his breath on his lips.

Then Ilya kisses him.

And it’s...everything.

Desperate and hungry and four years of wanting compressed into this moment.

Shane’s hands fly to Ilya’s hair, gripping, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough.

Ilya’s hands slide from Shane’s face to his waist, fingers digging in, backing him up.

Shane’s back hits the wall.

He gasps against Ilya’s mouth and Ilya swallows the sound, kisses him deeper, harder.

“Mine,” Ilya growls against his lips.

“Yours,” Shane gasps back. “Yours, always yours.”

Ilya’s thigh slots between Shane’s legs and Shane can’t help it, grinds down, desperate for friction, for contact, for anything.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes. Pulls back just enough to look at Shane’s face. “You...look at you.”

Shane doesn’t know what he looks like. Probably wrecked. Desperate. Four years of need written all over him.

“I want you,” Ilya says. Voice rough and raw. “God, Shane, I want you so much.”

“Then have me.” Shane pulls him back in. “Please. I need you. Please.”

Ilya makes a sound that sounds like a half groan, half growl and kisses him again.

Can’t stop kissing him.

Can’t get close enough.

Shane’s hands are everywhere. On Ilya’s shoulders, his chest, his back, trying to touch all of him at once, trying to confirm this is real, that this is happening.

Ilya’s hands slide under Shane’s shirt. Warm palms on bare skin.

Shane arches into the touch with a gasp.

“Off,” Ilya mutters against his mouth. “Need this off.”

He pulls Shane’s shirt over his head. Shane does the same to Ilya, hands shaking.

And then it’s skin on skin for the first time in four years.

Shane’s hands trace Ilya’s shoulders, his chest, the definition of his abs. He’s broader than he was back then. More muscled. Solid.

“You’re...” Shane starts.

Can’t finish because Ilya is kissing his neck. That spot below his ear. The one that makes Shane’s knees weak.

“I remember,” Ilya murmurs against his skin. “I remember everything about you.”

Despite that, map his hands Shane’s body like he’s relearning it. Ribs, waist, hips.

They stumble toward the bed. Shane’s calves hit the mattress and Ilya lowers him down, covering his body with his own.

The weight of him is perfect. Right.

Shane wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer, rocking up against him.

Ilya pulls back. Looks at Shane’s face.

“Are you sure?” His voice is rough but the question is genuine. “We can stop. If you want. We don’t have to.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Shane interrupts. “Please, Ilya. Please.”

Ilya’s eyes close briefly. When they open again, they’re blazing.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, lyubimiy.”

-----

Ilya sits back on his heels, hands going to Shane’s jeans.

Unbuttons them slowly. Slides the zipper down.

Shane lifts his hips and Ilya pulls the jeans down his legs, tossing them aside.

Then he just looks.

Shane is lying there in just his boxer briefs, already hard, already desperate, and Ilya is looking at him like he’s something precious.

“Beautiful,” Ilya breathes.

Shane’s face heats. “I’m not...I’m not the same as I was. My body—”

“Is perfect,” Ilya says firmly. He leans down, presses a kiss to Shane’s stomach. “You carried our daughter. Your body is perfect.”

His lips trace the faint stretch marks on Shane’s hips. Silver lines that Shane has always hated, always tried to hide.

Ilya kisses each one.

“Perfect,” he repeats.

Then lower. To the thin scar below Shane’s navel. The C-section scar.

Ilya pauses there. Fingers tracing it gently.

“This?” His voice is thick.

“C-section,” Shane whispers. “Male pregnancy deliveries are still risky. They had to—”

He can’t finish.

Ilya presses his forehead to Shane’s stomach. His shoulders are shaking.

“I should have been there,” he says. Voice wrecked. “Should have held your hand. Should have helped.”

“You’re here now,” Shane interrupts. Threads his fingers through Ilya’s hair. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Ilya looks up at him. Eyes wet.

Then he leans down and kisses the scar. Gentle. Reverent.

Shane’s breath catches.

Ilya kisses his way back up. Stomach, ribs, chest. Pausing to take one of Shane’s nipples in his mouth.

Shane arches off the bed with a gasp.

“Sensitive,” Ilya notes. Sounds pleased.

“Shut up,” Shane manages.

Ilya grins against his skin. Moves to the other nipple.

Shane’s hands fist in the sheets.

“Ilya, please!”

“Please what?”

“More. I need more, please.”

Ilya sits back. Strips off his own jeans and boxer briefs in one smooth motion.

And Shane stares.

Ilya is hard. Has been hard this whole time. His cock is flushed and heavy.

“See what you do to me?” Ilya says. Voice rough.

Shane can’t speak. Can only nod.

Ilya hooks his fingers in Shane’s boxer briefs. “Can I?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

He pulls them off.

And now they’re both naked.

Both hard.

Both breathing too fast.

Ilya settles between Shane’s legs, his weight perfect, his skin hot against Shane’s.

They rock together and Shane moans, the friction perfect and not enough, not nearly enough.

“I need you,” Shane gasps. “Inside. Please. I need you inside me.”

Ilya groans. “Da. Wait. I have—” He reaches for his suitcase on the floor.

Comes back with condom and lube.

“Optimistic,” Shane manages. His voice comes out shaky.

“Hopeful,” Ilya corrects. He’s opening the lube, slicking his fingers. “Very, very hopeful.”

He kisses Shane while his hand moves between Shane’s legs. Fingers circling, teasing.

“Ready?”

“Yes. Please, Ilya, hurry!”

The first finger slides in and Shane gasps, back arching off the bed.

It’s been so long. Four years. Nothing but his own hand and even then, rarely, because it just made him miss Ilya more.

“Okay?” Ilya asks. Watching his face.

“More. Don’t stop.”

Second finger, scissoring gently, stretching.

Shane rocks down onto them, desperate.

“So tight,” Ilya breathes. “Shane, you’re so tight.”

“Haven’t—” Shane gasps. Can barely form words. “Haven’t done this since...since you. Only you. Always you.”

Ilya makes a sound that’s half groan, half something else. His fingers still.

“Really?”

“No one else,” Shane repeats. Can’t look at him. “Like I told you, I couldn’t. Didn’t want anyone else.”

“Bozhe,” Ilya breathes. His forehead drops to Shane’s shoulder. “Shane.”

“Please,” Shane whispers. “Please, Ilya. Need you.”

Third finger, patient and thorough, finding that spot inside that makes Shane see stars.

“There,” Shane gasps. “Right there. Oh god!”

Ilya works him open with devastating patience, hitting that spot over and over until Shane is writhing beneath him, begging, desperate.

“Please. I’m ready. I need you.”

Ilya pulls his fingers out. Shane whimpers at the loss.

Then watches as Ilya rolls the condom on with shaking hands. Slicks himself up.

Lines up.

Looks into Shane’s eyes.

“You’re mine,” he says.

And pushes in.

Slow. Careful. Watching Shane’s face the entire time.

Shane’s mouth falls open.

The stretch is intense. Overwhelming. Perfect.

Four years.

Four years without this. Without Ilya inside him. Without feeling this full, this complete.

“Okay?” Ilya’s voice is strained. Holding himself perfectly still.

“Perfect,” Shane manages. “You’re perfect. Move. Please move.”

Ilya pulls out slowly. Pushes back in.

Finding a rhythm.

Slow at first. Savoring every moment.

Shane wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on.

“Faster,” he gasps. “Please, Ilya.”

Ilya’s control snaps.

He starts moving faster, harder, hitting that spot inside Shane with devastating precision.

Shane cries out, can’t help it, pleasure overwhelming.

Ilya’s face is buried in Shane’s neck, breathing hard, Russian falling from his lips.

“Ty moy,” Ilya gasps. “Moy, moy, moy—” (Mine, mine, mine)

The angle is perfect. Ilya hitting that spot inside him over and over. Shane can feel it building, pleasure coiling tight in his belly.

“Close,” he gasps. “I’m so close!”

Ilya’s hand wraps around Shane’s cock. Strokes in time with his thrusts.

“Da,” Ilya breathes against his neck. “Come for me. Want to see you. Want to feel you.”

Shane shatters.

Ilya’s name torn from his throat as he comes, vision whiting out, overwhelmed.

Ilya follows moments later. Buried deep. Shane’s name a prayer on his lips as Ilya collapses on top of him.

Both breathing hard. Hearts racing. Still connected.

Shane’s hands are in Ilya’s hair, holding him close. Not ready to let go. Not ready for this to end.

Eventually, Ilya pulls out. Gentle. Careful.

Shane winces slightly at the loss.

“Sorry,” Ilya murmurs. Presses a kiss to Shane’s shoulder.

He disposes of the condom, disappears into the bathroom.

Comes back with a warm washcloth.

Cleans Shane with tender touches that make Shane’s chest ache.

This is—

This is more than he ever hoped for.

Ilya crawls back into bed. Pulls Shane against his chest. Arms tight around him.

Shane goes willingly. Buries his face in Ilya’s neck. Breathes him in.

And then they lie there in silence.

Shane can hear Ilya’s heartbeat. Still elevated. Gradually slowing.

Ilya’s hand is stroking through his hair. Gentle. Soothing.

This is real, Shane thinks. This happened. We’re here. Together.

He closes his eyes.

“Shane.”

Ilya’s voice is quiet. Shaking.

“Yeah?”

A pause. Ilya’s hand stills in Shane’s hair.

“I love you.”

Shane’s breath stops.

Completely stops.

He lifts his head.

Looks at Ilya.

Ilya is crying.

Really crying.

Shane has never seen him like this. Never seen Ilya this vulnerable, this broken open.

Can’t speak. Can’t process.

Can only stare.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

The words just come out. Didn’t mean to say them. But can’t help it.

Ilya’s face crumples. Thinks Shane is rejecting him.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I shouldn’t have. I mean—”

“No!” Shane cups Ilya’s face with both hands. “No, Ilya, I...holy shit because I love you too.”

Ilya goes still.

“What?”

“I love you,” Shane says. Tears streaming down his own face now. “I love you so much. I’ve been in love with you for five years and I thought...”

He can’t finish.

Crying too hard.

Both of them are crying.

“You love me?” Ilya whispers. Voice disbelieving.

“Yes. God, yes. I love you. There’s no one else. There’s never been anyone else. Just you. Only you.”

Shane kisses Ilya’s tears away. Tastes salt on his lips.

“Only you,” he repeats. “For years. Only you.”

Ilya pulls him impossibly closer. Rolls them so Shane is on top of him, wrapped entirely in Ilya’s arms.

Both of them holding on like they’re drowning.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya whispers against Shane’s hair. “Ya tebya lyublyu, Shane.”

“What does that mean?”

“I love you. In Russian. Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Shane’s chest aches. “Say it again.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I love you too,” Shane whispers. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Can’t stop saying it.

Making up for four years of silence.

For years of wanting to say it and not being able to.

They lie there. Tangled together. Both crying. Both holding on.

“We’re going to be okay,” Shane whispers finally. “We’re going to figure this out.”

“Da.” Ilya’s voice is rough. “Together.”

“Together.”

Shane presses his face into Ilya’s neck. Breathes him in.

Cedar and sweat and something that’s just Ilya.

Home.

This is home.

Not a place. Not a house.

This. Ilya’s arms. Ilya’s heartbeat. Ilya’s voice saying “I love you” like a promise.

“Sleep,” Ilya murmurs. “We talk in morning. But now let’s just sleep.”

“Okay,” Shane whispers.

He should move. Should clean up properly.

But Ilya’s arms are around him and Ilya loves him and Shane is more exhausted than he’s been in years.

So he just—

Lets go.

Falls asleep wrapped around Ilya.

Safe.

Loved.

Finally.

-----

Shane wakes slowly.

For a moment, doesn’t remember where he is.

Then the weight of Ilya’s arm across his waist.

The warmth of Ilya’s body against his back.

The gentle rise and fall of Ilya’s breathing.

Oh god.

We had sex. We said I love you. This is real.

Panic starts to creep in.

What does this mean? How do they navigate this? What about Lily? The team? The league?

What if—

“Morning, lyubov moya.”

Ilya’s voice. Sleep-rough. Right in Shane’s ear.

Ilya pulls him closer. Presses a kiss to his shoulder.

The panic recedes.

“You called me—what does that mean?” Shane asks.

“My love,” Ilya murmurs. “Means ‘my love.’”

Shane’s heart does something complicated in his chest.

“Say it again.”

He feels Ilya smile against his skin. “Lyubov moya.”

“I love you,” Shane whispers.

Ilya’s hand slides down Shane’s side. Gentle. Possessive.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Just...processing.”

“Regretting?”

“No!” Shane turns over to face him. “No. Never. I just...we need to talk. About how this works. About what we tell people.”

Ilya’s expression is serious now. “Da. We need to talk. But—”

He leans in. Kisses Shane softly.

“—later. We talk later. At home. But now—” another kiss “—now I just want this.”

And Shane lets himself have it.

Lets himself kiss Ilya back.

Lets himself feel loved.

Just for this moment.

Before reality comes crashing back in.

-----

They shower separately.

Because showering together would make them very, very late.

Get dressed. Pack their bags.

Move around each other in the hotel room with careful distance.

Professional. Like last night didn’t happen.

But then, as Shane is buttoning up his shirt, Ilya catches his hand.

Just for a second.

Squeezes.

“I love you,” Ilya says quietly.

Shane’s breath catches. He’s not used to hearing it yet. Doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to it.

“I love you too.”

“Later,” Ilya promises. “We talk later. Figure everything out.”

“Later,” Shane agrees and leaves the room to pack his own stuff.

A little later they meet the team in the lobby.

Everyone is loud. Hungover. Complaining about the early flight.

Shane and Ilya keep their distance.

Sit rows apart on the plane.

Professional.

But Shane catches Ilya watching him. Their eyes meet across the aisle.

Something passes between them.

Henderson, sitting next to Shane, notices. “You two good? You’ve been weird all morning.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “We’re good.”

Better than good.

But he can’t say that.

-----

The plane lands in Ottawa.

Everyone scatters to their cars, loud and relieved to be home.

Shane and Ilya walk to the parking garage together.

“We should talk,” Shane says. “Soon. About everything.”

“Da. Tonight? After we pick up Lily?”

“Yeah. Tonight.”

They stand there. Want to kiss but can’t. Too public. Too risky.

“I love you,” Ilya says quietly.

Shane’s heart still isn’t used to it. Still trips over itself every time.

“I love you too.”

Shane drives on autopilot.

His mind is spinning.

They still need to talk. About how to navigate this. About what they tell Lily—eventually. About whether they tell the team. About what this means for their future.

There are so many questions. So many complications.

But right now—

Right now Shane is just happy.

Happier than he’s been in four years.

Because Ilya loves him.

Ilya forgave him.

They’re together.

Finally.

And whatever comes next—the conversations, the decisions, the inevitable complications—

They’ll figure it out.

Together.

Chapter 20: Chapter 20: Ilya POV: “Home”

Shane’s parents’ house looks the same as it did two days ago, but everything feels different.

Everything.

Shane parks on the street and they walk to the front door together. Not touching, but close enough that their hands almost brush.

Shane knocks.

Yuna opens the door, Lily already barreling past her.

“DAD! PAPA!”

She launches herself at both of them. Ilya catches her, lifts her up, feels Shane’s hand on her back at the same time.

Their fingers overlap.

Shane’s eyes meet his over Lily’s head.

I love you, Ilya thinks. Doesn’t say it. Not here. Not yet.

But Shane’s small smile says he knows anyway.

“We missed you, printsessa,” Ilya says, kissing the top of her head.

“I missed you TOO! Grandma and I made SO many cookies and we watched THREE movies and I helped make pancakes this morning!”

“Sounds like you had good time,” Shane says, setting her down.

“I did! But I’m happy you’re back.” She grabs both their hands. “Can we go home now?”

“Da. We go home.”

Yuna is watching them from the doorway. Her expression is knowing. Warm.

“You two look good,” she says carefully.

Shane’s face flushes. “We won the game.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.” She hands Shane Lily’s overnight bag. “You both look… lighter.”

Ilya meets her eyes. She smiles at him.

She knows, he realizes. Or suspects.

“Thank you for watching her,” Ilya says.

“Anytime. We’re family.”

The word hits Ilya square in the chest.

Family.

-----

They’ve been home for an hour.

Lily is playing with her toys in the living room, Ilya is making dinner (pasta, simple, Lily’s favorite) and Shane is setting the table.

It should feel normal. They’ve done this dozens of times over the past months.

But it doesn’t feel normal.

It feels—

Different.

Shane passes behind Ilya to get to the silverware drawer. His hand brushes Ilya’s lower back and he kisses his neck. Just briefly. Just enough.

Ilya’s breath catches.

A few minutes later, Ilya is draining the pasta. Shane is right there with the colander. Their shoulders press together.

Shane doesn’t move away.

Neither does Ilya.

“Smells good,” Shane murmurs.

“Da. Is almost ready.”

They’re standing too close. Ilya can feel the heat of Shane’s body. Can smell his shampoo.

Wants to kiss him

Can’t.

Not yet. Not in front of Lily.

But then Shane’s hand finds his. Squeezes once. Quick.

They eat dinner together. Lily chatters about her time with her grandparents. Shane and Ilya listen, respond, pass dishes back and forth with the ease of people who’ve been doing this forever.

After dinner, Shane starts clearing the table. Ilya helps.

At the sink, washing the pots that don’t fit the dishwasher, their hands brush in the soapy water.

Shane’s pinky hooks around Ilya’s.

Just for a second.

But Lily sees.

“You’re holding hands!” she announces. Delighted.

Shane jerks his hand away. Face bright red. “We’re just...”

“You hold hands ALL the time now!” Lily continues. “And you hug! And I saw Papa kiss Dad’s cheek!”

Bozhe. Ilya had thought she was fully focussed on her playtime when he did that.

Apparently not.

“Are you gonna give me a brother now?” Lily asks. Completely innocent. “Or a sister? ‘Cause that’s how babies are made, right? When people love each other a lot and hug and kiss?”

Ilya chokes on air from laughing.

Shane goes from red to white. “Lily, that’s not—oh my god.”

Ilya recovers first. Kneels down to Lily’s level.

“No, printsessa. No brother or sister. Dad and Papa love each other very much. But that doesn’t mean a new baby always.”

“Oh.” Lily processes this. “So you just love each other? Like before I was born?”

“Da. Exactly like that.”

“Okay!” She seems satisfied with this answer. “I’m glad. I like when you’re happy.”

She runs off to play.

Ilya stands. Looks at Shane.

Shane is still frozen by the sink. Bright red. Mortified.

“She...she just...oh my god, she asked if we’re going to give her a sibling because she saw us holding hands.”

“She is happy for us,” Ilya says. Trying not to laugh.

“Ilya, this isn’t funny!”

“Is little bit funny.”

“She’s FOUR. She just asked about baby-making because YOU explained to her that babies come from people who hug each other!” Shane drops his head into his hands. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

Ilya crosses to him. Wraps his arms around Shane’s waist from behind.

Shane tenses. “Ilya, she’s right there.”

“She already knows. Might as well enjoy it.”

He presses a kiss to Shane’s temple.

Shane melts back against him with a sigh.

“This is crazy,” Shane mutters.

“Da. But is good crazy.”

“Yeah. It is.”

They stand there for a moment. Ilya holding Shane. Shane’s hands coming up to cover Ilya’s where they rest on his stomach.

From the living room, Lily calls out: “You’re hugging AGAIN!”

Shane groans. “She’s never going to let this go.”

“Good,” Ilya says. Means it.

-----

It’s 10 PM.

Lily has been asleep for an hour. Shane is in Ilya’s office working on his laptop.

Game footage. Analysis. Whatever coaches do.

Ilya has been watching TV downstairs. Trying to give Shane space to work.

But he’s been alone for thirty minutes and that’s long enough.

He climbs the stairs. Heads to the office.

Shane is bent over his laptop, completely absorbed. Earbuds in. Doesn’t even notice Ilya in the doorway.

Ilya watches him for a moment. The furrow between Shane’s brows when he concentrates. The way he chews on his bottom lip. The way his fingers tap against the desk when he’s thinking.

Mine, Ilya thinks. All mine.

He walks into the room.

Shane still doesn’t notice.

Ilya comes up behind him. Slides his hands over Shane’s shoulders.

Shane jumps. Pulls out one earbud. “Ilya? I’m working.”

“I know.”

“I need to finish this analysis of the game against New York before tomorrow’s practice.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Ilya’s hands slide down Shane’s chest. Slow. Deliberate.

“Ilya!” Shane’s voice is already going breathy. “I really need to—”

“You need to take break,” Ilya murmurs. He spins Shane’s desk chair around. Kneels between his legs.

Shane’s eyes go wide. “What are you doing? We can’t! Lily is—”

“Asleep. I checked. She is out completely.”

“But...”

Ilya’s hands go to Shane’s belt. “You want me to stop?”

Shane’s breath hitches. “I...this is...”

“Yes or no, Shane.”

A pause. Shane’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers.

Ilya grins and unbuckles Shane’s belt with practiced ease. Unbuttons his jeans. Slides the zipper down slowly.

“Lift,” he says.

Shane lifts his hips. Ilya pulls his jeans and boxer briefs down in one motion. Just enough. Just to where Ilya needs them.

Shane is already half-hard.

Ilya wraps his hand around him. Strokes once. Twice.

Shane’s head falls back against the chair with a quiet groan.

“Shh,” Ilya reminds him. “Lily is sleeping.”

“You’re...god...you’re evil.”

“You love it.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Shane’s hand flies to his mouth as Ilya leans in and licks a stripe up the underside of Shane’s cock.

“Fuck,” Shane breathes behind his hand.

Ilya does it again. Then takes Shane into his mouth.

All the way down. Until Shane hits the back of his throat.

Shane’s free hand grips the armrest so hard his knuckles go white. The other is clamped over his mouth, muffling the sounds he can’t quite hold back.

Ilya pulls off. Licks around the head. Takes him deep again.

Finds a rhythm. Slow at first. Savoring the weight of Shane on his tongue. The way Shane trembles. The way his thighs shake.

“Ilya.” Shane gasps. “I’m...I’m not going to last.”

Good.

Ilya speeds up. Hollows his cheeks. Takes Shane as deep as he can.

Uses one hand to fondle Shane’s balls. The other grips his hip, holding him down.

“Oh god! Oh god! Ilya!”

Shane comes with a muffled shout, hips jerking, hand still clamped over his mouth.

Ilya swallows. All of it.

Pulls off slowly. Licks his lips.

Looks up at Shane, grinning like the devil.

Shane is wrecked. Panting. Eyes unfocused. Face flushed.

Beautiful.

“You...” Shane’s voice is hoarse. “You can’t just...We were in my office and I was working.”

“And now you are relaxed in the office,” Ilya says smugly. Stands up. “Ready to finish your work, da?”

Shane stares at him. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I—” Shane stops. His expression softens. “Yeah. I do.”

Ilya leans down. Kisses him. Soft and slow.

“I love you too, lyubov moya.”

Shane’s hands come up to cup Ilya’s face. “What about you? You didn’t finish?”

“Later. In bed. For now—” Ilya pulls Shane’s pants back up, does up the button and zipper, “—you finish your work. I wait for you.”

“Ilya?”

“Finish your work, Shane. Then come to bed. Then,” he grins, “you can return favor. Da?”

Shane’s face flushes again. “Yeah. Da. Give me twenty minutes.”

“Take your time. I am patient man.”

Shane finishes his work in fifteen minutes.

Practically runs to the bedroom.

Ilya is already under the covers, reading something on his phone.

He looks up when Shane enters and smiles.

Shane closes the door and then locks it.

Strips off his clothes.

Climbs into bed.

And proceeds to absolutely wreck Ilya.

-----

Later, lying in the dark, Shane speaks.

“Ilya, how are we going to keep doing this?”

Ilya’s hand is in Shane’s hair. Playing with the strands idly.

“What do you mean?”

“This. Us. Being together but not being able to actually be together anywhere except here.”

“We do what we did before,” Ilya says carefully. “We are careful. We are private. And in few years, when Lily is old enough that she might accidentally say something to someone, we make it official.”

Shane is quiet for a moment. “A few years?”

“Da. I need...I need little more time.”

“Okay.” Shane’s voice is understanding. But Ilya can hear the question underneath. Why?

Ilya takes a breath.

“My father is very sick,” he says quietly.

Shane goes still. “What?”

“Dementia. Has been getting worse for past years. Doctors say he does not have much longer. Maybe six months. Maybe year. Not more.”

“Ilya, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Ilya’s voice is flat. “I have no love for him. He was...he was terrible father. Terrible man. But he is still my father. And if I come out now—publicly—I can never go back to Russia. Not even when he is dead. Maybe not ever.”

Shane shifts. Props himself up on one elbow. Looking at Ilya in the darkness.

“And you want to be able to go to his funeral,” Shane says softly.

“Da. Is stupid, maybe. But—”

“It’s not stupid.” Shane cups Ilya’s face. “It’s not stupid at all. Family is complicated. Even terrible family.”

“He would never forgive me. If I come out. Never speak to me again. And I know I should not care. But I do. Little bit. Enough that I want to be able to go home. Say goodbye. Even if he was bad father.”

“Ilya.” Shane kisses him. Soft. Gentle. “I understand. Completely. Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You are sure? Because it might be year. Or more. And you will have to hide. We will have to be careful. And I know you deserve someone who can—”

“Stop.” Shane kisses him again. “I don’t want someone else. I want you. And if that means we wait a year or two years or five years before we can be public about it, then we wait. Okay?”

Ilya’s eyes are burning. “Okay.”

“I love you.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

They lie there in the darkness. Holding each other.

And Ilya thinks: This. This is enough. This is everything.

Shane. Lily. This family they’ve built.

Even if they have to hide it. Even if they have to wait.

It’s enough.

-----

### Practice The Next Day ###

Morning practice.

The team is running drills. Ilya is on the ice, going through the motions.

Shane is behind the bench with Morrison. Clipboard in hand. Watching. Taking notes.

They’re running a power play setup. Ilya’s position is slightly off.

“Rozanov!” Shane calls. “Two feet to the left! You’re clogging the passing lane!”

Ilya adjusts. Rolls his eyes where Shane can see.

Shane glares at him.

Ilya grins.

They run the play again. Better this time.

“Good!” Shane calls. “That’s it! Again!”

After drills, Shane is on the ice, picking up cones. Bent over. Focused on his task.

Ilya skates past.

Times it perfectly and slaps Shane’s ass as he bends down.

Hard enough that Shane yelps and nearly drops the cones.

Ilya keeps skating, but glances back.

Shane’s face is bright red. He’s looking around frantically to see if anyone noticed.

No one did. Ilya made sure of it.

Their eyes meet across the ice.

Shane’s expression is half-mortified, half-furious.

My angry kitten, Ilya thinks fondly.

He skates over to the bench. Grabs his water bottle. Tries not to laugh.

Shane finishes picking up cones. Skates over to where Ilya is standing.

Gets very close.

“You’re going to pay for that,” Shane mutters. Low enough that only Ilya can hear.

“Looking forward to it,” Ilya murmurs back.

Shane’s eyes darken. “Tonight.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Shane skates away.

Ilya watches him go.

Can’t wait for tonight. Can’t wait to see what Shane does in retaliation.

Can’t wait to spend the rest of his life like this—trading touches and glares and promises across ice rinks and kitchen counters and bedrooms.

Forever, Ilya thinks.

He’s going to spend forever with Shane.

With Lily.

With this family.

And maybe in a year or two, they’ll make it official. Tell the world. Stop hiding.

But for now—

This is everything.

-----

###  About one year later ###

Ilya’s father dies on a Tuesday in March 2017.

Ilya flies to Russia for the funeral. Shane and Lily stay home. It’s safer that way.

The funeral is small. Cold. His brother Alexei is there, looking older, harder. They don’t speak beyond the necessary pleasantries.

Ilya stands at the grave. And feels nothing. Relief, maybe. That it’s over. That he’s free.

He flies home the next day.

Shane and Lily are waiting at the airport. Lily runs to him. Shane watches from a distance, careful not to touch, not to give anything away.

But their eyes meet.

I love you, Shane’s expression says.

Ya tebya lyublyu, Ilya thinks back.

A few months later Ilya calls a press conference.

Shane is in the audience. Sitting with Morrison and the rest of the coaching staff.

Lily is with Shane’s parents. Safe. Away from cameras.

Ilya takes a breath.

And tells the world.

I’m bisexual. I have a male partner. We have a daughter together.

His name is Shane Hollander.

The media explodes.

But Ilya doesn’t care.

Because Shane is looking at him with tears in his eyes and love written all over his face.

And Lily is at home, waiting for both her dads to come back.

And they’re a family.

Finally.

Publicly.

Forever.

Chapter 21: Epilog: “Perfectly Imperfect”

Chapter Notes

### March 2027 ###

Shane sits in his office long after everyone else has gone home.

The building is quiet. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the occasional creak of the old arena settling for the night.

His laptop is open in front of him, showing game footage from tonight’s win against Toronto, but he’s not really watching it. His eyes keep drifting to the photo on his desk.

It’s from last summer. The three of them at the lake. Lily is fourteen in the photo, caught mid-laugh, hair wild from swimming. Ilya has his arm around Shane’s shoulders. Shane is looking at the camera, but Ilya is looking at Shane.

They look happy.

They are happy.

Shane picks up the photo. Runs his thumb over the glass.

Sixteen years since that fateful night in Vegas.

Nearly fifteen years since Lily was born.

Ten years since they came out.

Eight years since they got married.

Two years since Ilya retired.

Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago. Sometimes it feels like yesterday.

Shane was twenty when this all started. Pregnant and terrified and convinced he was doing the right thing by keeping Lily secret.

He’s thirty-six now. Head Coach of the Ottawa Centaurs. Fifth season. The team respects him—really respects him. Not just because he played, but because he’s good at this. Just as good as he was at playing, if he’s honest with himself.

He’s found his calling.

Ilya took Shane’s last name when they got married. Ilya Hollander. It still makes Shane’s chest warm every time he sees it on official documents.

Ilya became a Canadian citizen two years after that. Cried during the ceremony. Spoke in Russian to the citizenship judge about what it meant to finally have a home.

They’re married. Public. Out.

The whole world knows about them now. About Lily. About their family.

It wasn’t easy. The coming out in 2017 was—intense. Media frenzy. Speculation. Questions. Some support. Some hate.

But they survived it.

More than survived. They thrived.

Ilya played for 8 more years after coming out. Retired younger than most, but his body was telling him it was time. Too many hits. Too many injuries. Too many nights icing his knees and shoulders and back.

He could have pushed for another season. Maybe two.

But he didn’t want to.

“I want to be there,” he’d said. “For Lily. For you. I don’t want to miss any more. Not one more game, not one more school play, not one more—anything.”

So he retired.

Now he’s...what? Stay-at-home dad doesn’t quite fit. He does more than that.

He volunteers at Lily’s school. Coaches her rec league hockey team (because of course Lily plays hockey). He’s taken online courses in sports psychology. He does guest commentary sometimes for Canadian sports networks.

He’s busy. Active. Happy.

But mostly, he’s just...there.

Every morning. Every evening. Every dinner. Every bedtime.

Present.

In a way he couldn’t be when he was playing.

Shane’s eyes drift to another photo on his desk. This one from their wedding. A Small ceremony. Just family and close friends. Shane’s parents. Lily was their flower girl. Seven years old. So proud in her little dress.

Shane in a gray suit. Ilya in navy. Both of them crying through their vows.

Best day of my life, Shane thinks. Tied with the day Lily was born.

His phone buzzes on the desk.

He glances at it. Text from Johnson, his assistant coach. Just a thumbs up emoji in response to Shane’s game plan for tomorrow’s practice.

Shane sets the phone back down.

His mind drifts to a conversation from a few years ago.

They’d been lying in bed. Lily was ten. Already asleep down the hall.

Shane had been quiet for a while, Ilya’s fingers tracing idle patterns on his shoulder.

“I’ve been thinking,” Shane said finally.

“Dangerous,” Ilya teased.

“About…maybehavinganotherkid.”

Ilya’s hand stilled. “What?”

“I just...” Shane stopped. “You missed everything with Lily. The pregnancy, the birth. And I thought maybe if we had another baby, you could experience it from the beginning this time.”

Silence.

Then: “No.”

Shane turned to look at him. “No?”

“Shane.” Ilya sat up, turned on the bedside lamp. “Do you actually want another baby? Or is this about guilt?”

Shane opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I…” he started, then stopped. “I don’t know. I just thought you deserve to have that experience. To be there from the start.”

“And you?” Ilya asked. “You want to give up coaching? Take two years off? Start over with diapers and sleepless nights?”

“I…” Shane trailed off.

Because no. He didn’t. Not really.

He loved Lily. Would do anything for her. But another baby? Another pregnancy? Another two years away from coaching?

“No,” Shane admitted quietly. “I don’t think I do.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because I feel guilty,” Shane whispered. “I took all of that from you. And I thought maybe I could give it back.”

Ilya cupped his face. “A child is not consolation prize, lyubov moya. Is not way to fix past.”

“I know.”

“And I will not let you give up coaching,” Ilya interrupted. “Not for me. Not for guilt. You are too good at it. You love it too much.”

Shane’s eyes burned. “But you missed so much.”

“I know what I missed.” Ilya’s voice was firm but gentle. “And yes, it hurt. But I am also at fault for that. We cannot change past. We can only live with what we have now. And what we have—” he gestured around them, toward Lily’s room, “—is enough. More than enough.”

Shane nodded slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You do not sound OK.”

“No, I am. You’re right.” Shane managed a small smile. “I’m not sure about another baby. I just felt like I should want to give you that.”

“Well, I do not want you to,” Ilya said firmly. “One perfect daughter is enough. And one brilliant coach husband who does not resent me for making him give up his career.”

Shane huffed a quiet laugh. “I could never resent you.”

“I will remind you of this when next time I do dishes ‘wrong’.” Ilya says with a smile and pulled him back down. “So we stop talking about this. One child. One family. Perfect already.”

“Perfect already,” Shane echoed.

And he meant it.

Sometimes he wonders what it would be like. Another baby. Another tiny person with Ilya’s eyes or Shane’s smile.

But then he thinks about coaching. About his team. About the career he’s built.

And he knows Ilya was right.

This is also what he loves.

Shane’s phone buzzes again.

This time it’s Ilya.

Ilya: You coming home or sleeping at office again?

Shane smiles.

Shane: On my way. 30 minutes.

Ilya: Good. I made dinner. For two hours ago. Is cold now.

Shane: As if ;)

He shuts his laptop. Grabs his coat.

Heads home.

-----

Shane pulls into the driveway just after 8 PM after getting stopped multiple times on his way out he is now a solid 60 mins late.

Still, the house lights are on. Warm. Inviting.

But something feels...off.

He can’t quite put his finger on it. Just a sense that something happened while he was at work.

He grabs his bag from the passenger seat. Locks the car and heads inside.

“I’m home!” he calls, opening the front door.

Silence.

Then, from the kitchen: “In here.”

Ilya’s voice. Tight. Controlled.

Shane hangs up his coat. Drops his bag by the door. Heads toward the kitchen.

Ilya is at the counter, arms crossed, jaw set. Not looking at Shane.

“Hey,” Shane says carefully. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Ilya doesn’t look at him.

“You seem...tense?”

“I am fine.”

“Ilya?”

“I said I’m FINE, Shane.”

Definitely not fine.

Shane crosses to the stove. Leans against the counter. Tries to catch Ilya’s eye.

“What happened?”

“Ask your daughter.”

Your daughter. Not our daughter.

Your daughter.

Which means Lily did something. And Ilya is pissed.

“Where is she?” Shane asks.

“In her room. Where she will STAY until she is thirty.”

Despite the situation, Shane almost smiles. “That bad?”

“Worse. She broke curfew. Came home forty-five minutes late. No text. No call. Nothing.”

Shane winces. “Okay. That’s...that’s not great.”

“Not great? She is GROUNDED. Two weeks.”

Shane’s stomach drops. “What happened?”

“Curfew was seven. She came home at 7:45. No text. No call.” Ilya’s voice is dangerously calm. “And when I asked her about it, she told me she hates me.”

Shane winces. “Ilya...”

“I know she didn’t mean it.” Ilya finally looks at him. His eyes are red. “But she said it. And it still—” his voice cracks, “—it still hurt.”

Shane crosses to him immediately. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You weren’t even here.”

“I’m sorry because I know how much that hurt.” Shane crosses to him immediately. Wraps his arms around Ilya from behind. Feels him trembling.

Ilya leans back into Shane’s embrace. Just slightly. “I just want her safe. Is that so terrible? Wanting to know where my daughter is?”

“No. It’s not terrible. It’s being a parent.”

“Then why does she act like I am villain?”

“Because she’s fourteen. Almost fifteen. And testing boundaries is what teenagers do.” Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder. “She doesn’t think you’re a villain. She thinks you’re overprotective. Which you are. A little.”

“I am NOT!”

“A little,” Shane repeats gently. “But that’s because you love her. Because you’re terrified of something happening to her.”

Ilya is quiet.

“I want my printsessa back,” he says finally. Voice small. “My sweet little girl who thought I was hero. Who wanted me to read her stories and teach her Russian words. Now I’m just the bad guy who won’t let her do anything fun.”

Shane tightens his arms around Ilya. “You’re not the bad guy. You’re her papa. And she loves you. Even when she’s mad at you. Even when she says things she doesn’t mean. She loves you.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

-----

### Flashback Earlier this Evening - 7:45 PM ###

The front door opens.

Closes.

Footsteps in the entryway.

Ilya is sitting on the couch, arms crossed, watching the clock on the wall tick past 7:46.

Lily appears in the living room doorway. Casual. Relaxed.

“Hey, Papa.”

“You’re late.” Ilya’s voice is calm. Too calm.

Lily glances at her phone. “Only like forty minutes.”

“Forty-five minutes,” Ilya corrects. “Your curfew is seven. Not 7:30. Not 7:45. Seven.”

“I know, but we were just hanging out and—”

“Did you text me?”

“I forgot.”

“Did you call?”

Lily shifts her weight. “No, but Papa, it’s not a big deal. I was just at Emma’s.”

“Not a big deal.” Ilya stands slowly. “I spent forty-five minutes not knowing where my daughter was. That is big deal to me.”

“But I was at Emma’s! You know Emma!”

“I don’t care if you were having tea with Prime Minister,” Ilya says exaggeratingly. “You broke curfew. You didn’t communicate. That is unacceptable.”

Despite everything, Lily almost smiles at the Prime Minister comment. But she catches herself. “Papa, you’re overreacting.”

“Am I?” Ilya tilts his head. “Please, explain to me how worrying about my daughter is overreacting.”

“Because nothing happened! I was fine!” Her voice is getting louder now.

“This time.” Ilya’s voice doesn’t rise, but there’s steel in it. “But I didn’t know that. Because you didn’t tell me.”

Lily crosses her arms. Mirrors his stance exactly. “It was forty-five minutes. Not exactly a crime spree.”

“Oh, good. We’re negotiating now. Should we change your curfew to eight? Nine? Midnight? Where exactly would you like to draw the line?”

“Somewhere reasonable!” She stomps her foot.

“Seven PM on a school night is reasonable for a fourteen year old.”

“No, it’s NOT! All my friends—”

“I don’t care what your friends’ curfews are,” Ilya interrupts calmly. “This is ours.”

Lily’s jaw tightens. “This is so UNFAIR!”

“Life is unfair. You’re grounded.”

“WHAT?!” Her voice goes up an octave. “Are you SERIOUS?!”

“Two weeks. No going out after school. No phone after 8 PM.”

“That’s INSANE! For being forty-five minutes late?!” She’s practically shouting now.

“For breaking rules and not communicating,” Ilya corrects, still maddeningly calm. “Now go to your room.”

“This is RIDICULOUS!” Lily throws her hands up. “You’re being completely unreasonable!”

“I’m being a parent. Room. Now.”

“I can’t BELIEVE you! You’re IMPOSSIBLE!”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I BET!” Lily spins toward the stairs. “You’re the WORST!”

“Noted.”

“UGH!” She stomps up the stairs, each step loud and deliberate.

Reaches her room.

“I HATE YOU!”

SLAM.

The entire house shakes.

Ilya sits back down on the couch. Doesn’t even flinch.

“You break that door, you pay for it!” he calls up calmly.

From upstairs: A muffled scream of frustration into a pillow.

Ilya allows himself the smallest smile.

Definitely my daughter.

Then the smile fades.

Because she said she hates him.

And even knowing she didn’t mean it, even knowing it was just teenage anger…

It still hurt.

He puts his head in his hands.

-----

### PRESENT – Lilys Room ####

Shane knocks on Lily’s door.

“What.”

He opens the door. Lily is on her bed, face-down, phone in hand.

“Lily.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, we’re talking about it anyway.” Shane sits on the edge of her bed. “What happened?”

“Papa is being ridiculous,” Lily mumbles into her pillow. “That’s what happened.”

“You were forty-five minutes late.”

“So? I was at Emma’s! It’s not like I was doing anything bad!”

“But Papa didn’t know that. Because you didn’t text.”

Lily rolls over, glaring at the ceiling. “I forgot! It’s not the end of the world!”

“Lily, look at me.”

She doesn’t.

“Lily.”

With a dramatic sigh, she turns her head.

“You know why Papa is the way he is, right?” Shane asks gently.

Lily’s expression shifts. “Because he’s overprotective.”

“Because he missed three and a half years of your life,” Shane corrects. “He didn’t get to see you as a baby. Didn’t get to watch you learn to walk or talk. Missed your first day of daycare, your first everything.”

Lily is quiet now.

“So when you don’t come home on time and don’t text,” Shane continues, “his brain goes to the worst possible places. Because he already lost years with you. The thought of losing more, of something happening to you, that terrifies him.”

“I know that,” Lily says quietly. “I just…forgot.”

“I know you did. But that’s why there are consequences. Because Papa needs to know you’re safe. That you’ll communicate. That he won’t lose you.”

Lily’s eyes are getting wet. “I didn’t mean what I said. About hating him.”

“I know. But he doesn’t know that yet. You need to tell him.”

“He probably doesn’t even want to talk to me.”

“Lily.” Shane’s voice is firm but kind. “He’s downstairs right now, devastated, thinking his daughter hates him. Trust me. He wants to talk to you.”

Lily sits up slowly. Wipes her eyes. “Okay.”

“And Lily?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still grounded.”

She groans. “Dad!”

“Two weeks. Your papa was right about that.”

“This is so unfair.”

“Life is unfair. Come on. Let’s go downstairs.”

-----

Ilya is on the couch. Staring at nothing.

He looks up when Shane and Lily come down the stairs.

Lily hesitates at the bottom step.

“Papa?” Her voice is small.

“Da?”

“I’m sorry.” She comes closer. “For being late. For not texting. And mostly for…for what I said.”

Ilya is very still.

“I didn’t mean it,” Lily continues, tears streaming now. “I don’t hate you. I was just mad and I said something stupid. But I don’t hate you. I love you. So much.”

Ilya’s eyes close briefly. When they open again, they’re wet.

“Come here, printsessa.”

Lily runs to him. Ilya pulls her into a tight hug.

“I love you too,” he murmurs into her hair. “Always. Even when you’re terrible teenager who breaks curfew.”

Lily gives a watery laugh. “Even when you’re overprotective and dramatic?”

“Especially then.” He pulls back to look at her. “But you’re still grounded.”

“I know.” She wipes her eyes. “Two weeks is still ridiculous though.”

“Noted. Still happening.”

“Worth a shot.”

Ilya almost smiles. “Go wash your face. Then homework. Then bed.”

“It’s only 8:30!”

“Then you’ll have lots of time for homework.”

Lily groans but heads upstairs.

Pauses halfway. Looks back. “Love you, Papa.”

“Lyublyu tebya, printsessa.”

She disappears upstairs.

Ilya and Shane sit in silence for a moment.

“That was rough,” Shane says finally.

“Da. Very rough.” Ilya leans into Shane’s side. “But we survived.”

“We always do.”

“Because we do it together.”

Shane kisses his temple. “Together.”

Shane shifts. Leans against Ilya. Ilya’s arm comes around him automatically.

“Sixteen years,” Shane says. “Since Vegas. Since everything started.”

“Nineteen years since we met,” Ilya corrects. “World Juniors, 2008.”

“Right. Nineteen years since we met. Nearly fifteen since Lily was born.”

“And three since I retired and became full-time stay-at-home parent who gets told ‘I hate you’ by teenager.”

Shane laughs. Presses a kiss to Ilya’s jaw. “Do you miss it? Playing?”

Ilya considers. “Sometimes. I miss being on ice. Miss the competition. Miss the team.” He pauses. “But I love this more. Being here. Being with you and Lily every day. Watching her grow up. Even when she is, how did you say...age appropriate disaster.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You should have. Is accurate.”

Shane grins. Then, quieter, “You’re a good dad. The best.”

“We are good dads. Together.”

They sit in comfortable silence. The TV playing something neither of them is watching.

“Ilya?” Shane’s voice is soft.

“Yeah?”

“If you could go back—knowing everything—would you do it again?”

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Every second.”

“Even the three and a half years?”

Ilya turns to look at him. “Even that. Because it brought us here. To this. To Lily upstairs doing homework while grounded. To us—married, public, happy. I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

Shane’s eyes are bright. “Not even the hard parts?”

“Especially not hard parts. They made us appreciate this more. Made me fight for it.” Ilya cups Shane’s face. “Made us who we are.”

Ilya kisses him. Soft and slow.

“Ya tebya lyublyu, lyubov moya.”

“I love you too.”

They stay on the couch until they hear Lily’s door close upstairs. Until the house settles into nighttime quiet.

Then they head up to bed.

-----

### That Night ###

They get ready for bed in comfortable silence.

Shane brushes his teeth. Ilya changes into sleep pants. They move around each other with the ease of people who’ve been doing this for years.

Climb into bed. Shane’s head on Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s arm around Shane’s shoulders.

“Today was hard,” Shane murmurs.

“Da. But me and the door survived.”

Shane smiles against Ilya’s skin. Then, quieter: “I’m sorry. Again. For keeping Lily from you. For those three and a half years.”

“I know.” Ilya’s fingers card through Shane’s hair. “And I’m sorry too. For making it impossible for you to tell me. For saying it was ‘just fun’ when it wasn’t. For making you feel like you had no choice.”

“We’ve said this before.”

“Da. Many times. But sometimes…” Ilya’s voice is soft, “sometimes we need to say it again.”

Shane lifts his head. Looks at Ilya in the darkness. “I’m sorry I lied.”

“I’m sorry I threatened you. That was—” Ilya stops, “—that was cruel.”

“We both made mistakes.”

“Big mistakes.”

“Terrible mistakes,” Shane agrees. Then, smaller: “But we’re here now.”

“We are here now.” Ilya pulls him closer. “And I wouldn’t change it. Not for anything.”

Shane presses his face back into Ilya’s neck. “Me neither.”

Ilya kisses him. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me, Hollander.”

“Best place to be stuck, Mr. Also-Hollander.”

They settle back down. Shane’s head on Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s fingers in Shane’s hair. Ilya’s arm tightens around him.

They fall asleep like that.

Tangled together.

Home.

-----

Shane wakes to the smell of coffee and blini.

He stretches. The bed beside him is empty. Ilya’s side already cold meaning that he’s been up for a while.

Shane pulls on sweatpants and a t-shirt. Heads downstairs.

The kitchen is warm. Ilya at the stove, flipping blini with practiced ease. Lily at the table, checking her phone she apparently got back now, looking half-asleep.

“Morning,” Shane says.

“Morning,” Lily mumbles without looking up.

“Dobroye utro, lyubov moya,” Ilya says, glancing over his shoulder.

Shane crosses the kitchen. Kisses Ilya good morning. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Decided to make breakfast.”

“Lucky us.”

Shane pours himself coffee. Sits at the table with Lily.

Ilya brings over a plate of blini. Sets it in the middle of the table.

They eat together. Lily still half-asleep. Ilya reading something on his phone. Shane just watching them.

His family.

Perfectly imperfect.

“What are you smiling about?” Lily asks.

“Nothing. I’m just happy.”

“You’re weird.”

“Thanks.”

Ilya’s foot finds Shane’s under the table. Presses gently.

I love you, the touch says.

After breakfast, Shane has to leave for practice. Lily has school. Ilya will drop her off—still grounded, so no hanging out after.

Shane kisses Lily goodbye. “Have a good day. Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Then to Ilya. A longer kiss. Less appropriate for in front of their teenager, simply out of spite.

“Ugh, GROSS,” Lily says. “Get a room.”

“This is our room,” Ilya points out. “Our house.”

“Well, I live here too and I don’t want to see THAT.”

Shane grins. Kisses Ilya again with tongue just to annoy her.

Lily makes exaggerated gagging sounds.

“Alright, alright.” Shane grabs his keys. “I’m going.”

“Good,” Lily says. “Before I vomit.”

“So dramatic,” Ilya mutters. “Wonder where she gets it from.”

“Not from me,” Shane says innocently.

Both Ilya and Lily look at him.

“Definitely from you,” they say in unison.

Shane laughs. “Fair enough. Love you both. See you tonight.”

He heads out to his car.

Sits in the driveway for a moment before starting the engine.

Looks back at the house. Through the kitchen window, he can see Ilya and Lily. Ilya is saying something, gesturing. Lily is rolling her eyes but smiling.

His family.

His life.

Everything he never thought he could have.

They’ve made mistakes. So many mistakes.

Shane kept Lily from Ilya for three and a half years.

Ilya threatened custody.

They’ve fought. Hurt each other. Struggled.

But they’re here.

Together.

Public. Married. Happy.

Lily is almost fifteen. Trilingual. Brilliant. Stubborn. Everything Shane and Ilya are, combined.

And Shane—

Shane wouldn’t change a single thing.

Not the hard parts. Not the painful parts. Not the mistakes.

Because all of it, every moment, every fight, every tear, every laugh, brought them here.

To this.

To home.

Perfectly imperfect.

And absolutely everything.

THE END.

Chapter End Notes

It has been an absolute honor to share this with you.<3

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