The Whole Game

Thank you so much for all the love on Part 1 of this AU.

For those of you who have read the Heated Rivalry book, you might remember that scene where Ilya is playing with the kids at the resort? If you know, you know! Hehe. I hope it’s included in the next episode.

Seeing Ilya with kids was the moment I knew he was destined to be a father. Despite his rough upbringing and tough exterior, Ilya has such a soft heart. He was always meant to break the cycle.

Hope you love Part 2 of this AU :)

Shane wakes up to the sound of crying. It takes him a second to orient himself. The hospital room is dark except for the pale glow of the monitors and the dim light filtering in from the hallway. His abdomen throbs every now and then.

The bassinet next to the bed is empty. Panic spikes through him before his brain catches up. He turns his head—slowly, because any sudden movement sends fire through his incision—and sees Ilya standing by the window, shirtless in the gray dawn light, bouncing gently with their tiny bundle pressed against his bare chest.

“Shh, shh,” Ilya is murmuring in Russian, his voice low and soothing. “Papa has you. You are okay, little one. Your Daddy needs sleep.”

He watches Ilya sway, the muscles in his back shifting, his massive hands cradling Wyatt with all his gentleness. Their son is making those angry, newborn grunts that aren’t quite cries but threaten to become them.

“I’m awake,” Shane croaks.

Ilya turns, his expression guilty. “I was trying to let you rest.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two hours.” Ilya walks over. “He is hungry again. Your body… it is making the food, but he eats like a hockey player. Every ninety minutes, he wants more.”

Shane pushes himself up with his elbows, biting back a groan as the movement pulls at the stitches. The compression binder around his middle is the only thing holding him together.

“Bring him here.”

“You should rest—”

“Ilya.” Shane holds out his arms. “Give me my son.”

Ilya concedes and lowers Wyatt into Shane’s waiting arms, supporting the weight until Shane has him secure against his chest. The baby immediately roots, his tiny mouth seeking, his face scrunching with determination. Shane fumbles with the hospital gown, wincing as the fabric catches on his tender nipples. Everything is sore. Everything is swollen. But the moment Wyatt latches—better this time, more confident—the discomfort fades.

“There you go,” Shane says, looking down at the dark head nestled against his chest. Wyatt’s eyes are closed, his little fist curled against Shane’s collarbone. “That’s it, buddy. You’ve got it.”

Ilya sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that his thigh presses against Shane’s hip. He doesn’t say anything. He just watches, his hand coming to rest on Shane’s knee.

Shane has spent his entire life calculating risk. He knows how to read a play developing, how to anticipate where the puck will go, how to position his body to make the percentages work in his favor. But this? This is entirely outside his control.

This tiny human is completely dependent on him. If he fails, if he makes the wrong call, there’s no backup. There’s no coach to bench him and fix the mistake.

“What if I’m bad at this?” Shane suddenly asks. He keeps his eyes on Wyatt’s profile, the impossibly small nose, the delicate curve of his ear.

“You won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Ilya says firmly. He reaches out and rubs his thumb over Wyatt’s cheek. “You will learn. And when you don’t know something, you will ask. You are not too proud for that.”

Shane swallows hard. He knows Ilya is thinking about his own father—the man who was too proud, too angry, too broken to ask for help. The man who left scars that Ilya still carries.

“I’m going to screw up,” Shane says. “I’m going to make mistakes.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees easily. “So will I. But we will not give up. That is the difference.”

Wyatt pulls off with a small, satisfied sigh, milk drunk and drowsy. Shane shifts him to his shoulder, patting his back gently. The burp is loud for someone so small.

“Strong lungs,” Ilya says proudly.

“Your genetics,” Shane says.

Getting discharged is a production. Between the paperwork, the prescriptions, and the fussing of the nurses who all seem a little bit in love with Ilya, it takes an hour just to get out the door.

Hospital policy dictates Shane has to leave in a wheelchair. He doesn’t want it—he feels helpless, sitting there—but the bundle in his arms makes the indignity worth it.

“Okay, Hollander. Smile.”

Shane looks up to find Ilya walking backward down the hospital corridor, his iPhone held up horizontally, recording them.

“Ilya, put that away,” Shane groans, but he instinctively tries to smooth his hair, which he knows is a disaster. “I look like I got hit by a Zamboni.”

“You look like a champion,” Ilya corrects him, not lowering the phone. He grins that crooked, arrogant grin that Shane wants to kiss off his face. “Say hi to your son in the future.”

Shane blinks, tired and slow. “The future?”

“For Wyatt,” Ilya says. “For thirty years from now. So he knows how happy we were. How cool his papas were.”

Shane stops fussing with his hair. He looks at the phone, and then up at Ilya’s actual face. Thirty years. It seems impossible to imagine Wyatt as a grown man, older than Shane is right now, watching this video.

The annoyance drains out of him, replaced by a surge of affection. He looks into the camera lens, intending to make a joke, but what comes out is a soft, unguarded smile. It’s the look he usually saves just for Ilya in the dark—open, vulnerable, and completely besotted.

“Hey, buddy,” Shane says to the phone, and then he looks down at the sleeping infant in his arms. He adjusts the blanket, tilting Wyatt slightly so the camera can capture the tiny, perfect face. He runs a finger over the shell of Wyatt’s ear, then nuzzles the soft, dark fuzz of hair.

“Look at him, Ilya,” Shane murmurs, unable to look away from their son. He strokes Wyatt’s cheek with his thumb, showing him off to the lens like he’s the Stanley Cup and the Hart Trophy rolled into one. “He’s perfect. We actually did it.”

“I know,” Ilya says from behind the camera, smiling proudly. “We made him.”

Ilya stops recording and slips the phone into his pocket. He leans down, bracing his hands on the arms of the wheelchair, and kisses Shane quick and hard on the mouth.

“Let’s go home.”

The house feels different when they return. Shane stands in the doorway of the nursery, Wyatt asleep in his arms, and tries to reconcile this space with the rest of his life. Three days ago, this room was just a project, a plan, a thing they were preparing for. Now their baby is here.

“You want me to put him down?” Ilya asks from behind him. He’s carrying the bags from the hospital, the absurd amount of paperwork, the flowers from Hayden and Jackie.

“No,” Shane says immediately. Then, more reasonably, “I mean, I’m good. I’ve got him.”

Ilya sets the bags down with a soft thump and crosses the room. He stands next to Shane, looking down at the crib that’s been waiting empty for weeks. It’s beautiful—the vintage piece Ilya restored himself, sanded and stained and made safe.

“He can sleep in the bassinet tonight,” Ilya offers. “In our room. He is too small for the big bed.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, not really wanting to put their son down. “Okay.”

The first two weeks of Wyatt’s life are measured in three-hour increments of milk, diapers, and a level of exhaustion that makes the triple-overtime game against Tampa feel like a spa nap.

Shane sits in the nursery rocker, the room dim except for the warm glow of the salt lamp Ilya insists on buying. It is 3:14 a.m.

Wyatt is latched onto him, drinking with a rhythmic, determined focus that Shane respects immensely. His tiny hand, the size of a postage stamp, is splayed flat against Shane’s pectoral muscle, kneading softly.

My son.

It is a drug. It has to be. There is no other explanation for why Shane, who treats his sleep hygiene with the seriousness of a monk, doesn’t want to close his eyes.

“You’re a good eater,” Shane murmurs. His voice is hoarse from disuse. “That’s good. You’re going to need the calories. Especially if you get your Papa’s metabolism.”

Wyatt doesn’t respond. Obviously. But his eyes seem to track toward Shane’s voice, and Shane feels a ridiculous surge of pride.

“You’re probably going to be huge,” Shane continues, falling into the one-sided conversation. “You’re going to need custom skates.”

He cannot help but imagine a tiny version of Wyatt, maybe three or four years old, wobbling on the ice with a miniature stick. He wants to teach him to skate backward, to stop on a dime, to read the play.

And then he pictures the other things. The hits. The fights. The injuries. The pressure.

“You don’t have to play hockey,” Shane says quietly. “I mean, I’m going to teach you. Obviously. But if you want to do something else, that’s… that’s okay. You can do whatever you want. Papa and Daddy will always have your back.”

The door creaks open. A massive shadow detaches itself from the hallway darkness and pads into the room.

Ilya.

He is shirtless, wearing low-slung flannel pajama pants, his hair a riot of curls. He looks like he’s been hit by a truck, his eyes puffy and red-rimmed, but the moment he sees Shane, his expression softens into that gooey, terrifying love that Shane still isn’t used to.

“Water,” Ilya whispers, holding out a tumbler with a straw.

Shane leans forward, careful not to dislodge Wyatt, and takes a long drink. He doesn’t realize his throat is like sandpaper until the cold liquid hits it.

“Did you change him?” Shane whispers back, pulling away from the straw.

“Yes. It was a disaster. Projectile situation. I won, but it was close.” Ilya sits on the ottoman at Shane’s feet, his knees knocking gently against Shane’s shins. He reaches out and strokes Wyatt’s back with one large finger. “How is the eating?”

“He’s a machine. He eats like you.”

“Good. He needs to get big. Defenseman big.”

Shane snorts, then winces as the laugh tugs at his stitches. “Forward big. We talked about this.”

Ilya doesn’t argue. He just rests his cheek against Shane’s knee, his eyes drifting shut. They sit there in the quiet, the only sound the rhythmic huff-swallow-huff of their son.

This is their new reality. There are burp cloths scattered like debris in a war zone. They haven’t had a conversation that isn’t about poop or latching in ten days. And yet, looking at the top of Ilya’s head and the curve of Wyatt’s cheek, Shane feels a rush of dopamine so potent it makes him want to cry again. Happy tears.

The anxiety arrives on day four, and it decides to move in permanently.

Wyatt is so small. He is healthy—Dr. Aris says he is perfect—but he seems impossibly fragile. His neck wobbles. His breathing is irregular, terrifyingly fast and then terrifyingly slow.

Shane becomes obsessed with the Owlet monitor. It is a little sock that tracks Wyatt’s heart rate and oxygen levels, beaming the data to an app on Shane’s phone. It is supposed to provide peace of mind. For Shane, it is a scoreboard he can’t look away from.

Heart rate: 124. Oxygen: 99%.

Good.

Two minutes later.

Heart rate: 118. Oxygen: 98%.

Why does it drop? Is he suffocating? Is the blanket too high?

Shane is lying in bed, the bassinet pulled right up to his side of the mattress. It is 2:00 p.m. Ilya is downstairs making lunch. Wyatt is asleep.

He stares at the app. Then he leans over the bassinet, putting his hand on his baby’s chest just to feel the rise and fall. Wyatt lets out a soft sigh, twitching in his swaddle.

Shane exhales. Okay. He’s breathing.

He lies back down. Ten seconds pass.

What if he spits up and chokes?

Shane sits up again. He peers over the mesh side. Wyatt is fine.

“Shane.”

Shane jumps, wincing as his abs protest. Ilya is standing in the doorway, holding a plate of grilled chicken and avocado toast. His face is stern.

“You are staring at the baby again.”

“I’m checking him,” Shane defends, though his voice is thin. “His breathing is weird, Ilya. It’s like… stuttery.”

“It is periodic breathing. The doctor says it is normal for newborns.” Ilya walks over and sets the plate on the nightstand. He takes the phone out of Shane’s hand and locks it.

“Hey!”

“No stats,” Ilya says firmly. “He is not a power play percentage. He is a baby. If the sock turns red, it will yell at us. Until then, you eat.”

“I just…” He runs a hand over his face. “I keep imagining it. Something happening. I close my eyes and I see… I see him stopping. It’s like an intrusive thought loop.”

Ilya’s expression crumbles. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls Shane into his side. He smells like coffee and comfort.

“I know,” Ilya murmurs. “I check the monitor too. When you are in the shower. I stare at him for twenty minutes yesterday just to make sure he didn’t… poof.”

“It’s terrifying,” Shane says. “I love him so much it makes me sick.”

“Yeah,” Ilya agrees, tightening his arm around Shane’s shoulders. “It is the worst. And the best. But you have to sleep. You are healing. If you do not sleep, you will crash, and I don’t want that.”

Shane looks at the bassinet one more time. Heart rate: steady.

“Okay,” Shane concedes, leaning his weight against his husband. “I’ll eat. Then maybe twenty minutes.”

By the third week, Shane is mobile enough to walk around the house comfortably. He wears Ilya’s sweatpants because the waistband is loose on his incision, and he carries Wyatt in a soft wrap carrier that ties around his torso.

He knows he should put Wyatt down. They have the expensive swing. They have the crib. They have the bouncer.

But Shane physically can’t do it.

Every time he unstraps Wyatt or lowers him into the bassinet, he feels a physical ache in the center of his chest. Wyatt has been inside him for nine months. They have shared blood, oxygen, a heartbeat. Being separated by even three feet feels unnatural. It feels wrong.

So he just… doesn’t.

He is standing in the kitchen, swaying gently side-to-side—a movement that has become his permanent state of being—while Wyatt sleeps against his chest. The baby’s head is tucked under Shane’s chin, his tiny breaths puffing warm against Shane’s collarbone.

Ilya walks in from the garage; he stops when he sees them. “You have been holding him for four hours,” he notes, though there is no judgment in his voice, only a soft, fond amusement.

“He likes it,” Shane whispers.

“You have a sixty-thousand-dollar nursery upstairs.”

“The nursery is for sleeping at night. This is… daytime bonding.”

Ilya walks over, wrapping his cold arms around Shane and the baby sandwich. He presses a kiss to Shane’s temple, then leans down to sniff the top of Wyatt’s fuzzy head.

“You are obsessed,” Ilya diagnoses.

“I’m not obsessed. I’m attentive.”

“You are in love.”

Shane looks down at the top of Wyatt’s head. He traces the shell of his son’s tiny ear with his thumb.

“Yeah,” Shane admits, his voice cracking slightly. “I am. I didn’t know… Ilya, I didn’t know it would feel like this. I thought I loved hockey. I thought I loved winning.”

He looks up at Ilya, his eyes burning.

“This isn’t like that. This is… terrifying. It’s like someone reaches into my chest, rips my heart out, wraps it in a blanket, and hands it to me. And now I have to walk around carrying it, knowing that if I drop it, I die.”

Ilya’s hazel eyes is filled with understanding. He reaches out and covers Shane’s hand where it rests on Wyatt’s back.

“I know,” Ilya whispers. “I feel it too. Every time I look at him. Every time I look at you holding him.” He moves his hand to cup Shane’s cheek, turning his face up. “But you have good hands, Hollander. Best hands in the league. You will not drop him.”

Shane leans into the touch, closing his eyes. The weight of Wyatt against his chest is growing heavier every day, but it is the only weight Shane ever wants to carry.

“I’m never putting him down,” Shane mumbles. “He’s going to be eighteen and I’m going to be carrying him to his prom in this wrap.”

Ilya laughs, a low rumble that Wyatt seems to recognize even in his sleep, shifting closer to the sound.

“We will get a bigger wrap,” Ilya promises. “Now. Let me hold my heart for a little bit? Your back needs a break.”

Shane hesitates. His instincts scream mine, mine, keep him close. But then he looks at Ilya—his husband, his mate, the other half of this beautiful equation.

“Okay,” Shane says, carefully passing their son to Ilya’s waiting arms. “But be careful. He’s… everything.”

“I know,” Ilya says solemnly, rocking Wyatt gently. “He is us.”

Ilya stands over the changing table, staring down at the small, wriggling creature that has effectively held him hostage for the last five weeks.

“You are ridiculous,” Ilya murmurs in Russian, running a finger over the baby’s stomach. The baby kicks his legs, his face scrunching up in a way that suggests he is either about to cry or poop. Possibly both. “Yes, you are. You are the most handsome boy in the world. Look at this face. You get this from me, obviously. Your Papa has a very nice face, but this?” He taps the baby’s nose. “This is perfection.”

The baby gurgles. Ilya takes this as agreement.

“Ilya, are you almost done?” Shane’s voice drifts in from the hallway. “Everyone is going to be here in twenty minutes.”

“We are perfecting the look,” Ilya calls back. He turns his attention to the pile of clothes on the rocking chair.

Shane appears in the doorway a second later. He is wearing a dark blue button-down that fits his chest perfectly and the expensive jeans Ilya bought him last Christmas. As usual, he always looks good.

Shane stops, eyeing the garment in Ilya’s hand. “No.”

“What?” Ilya holds up the tiny, soft cashmere cardigan with the elbow patches. “Is chilly today. He needs layers.”

“He’s going to spit up on it in five seconds. It’s dry clean only.”

“He will not spit up. He has manners.”

Shane snorts, walking over to inspect their son. He leans down, planting a kiss to the baby’s forehead, his hand automatically coming up to cup the back of the baby’s head. It is a reflex now, Shane constantly checking, constantly touching.

“He literally just pooped up his own back an hour ago. Put him in the sleeper. The one with the bears.”

“The bears are tacky.”

“The bears are practical.”

Ilya ignores him. He deftly maneuvers the baby’s flailing limbs into a soft white bodysuit and then, ignoring Shane’s sigh, pulls the cashmere cardigan on over it. He adds a pair of tiny gray trousers that make the baby look like a very small, very drunk accountant.

“There,” Ilya says, lifting him up. “Look at him. He is a heartbreaker.”

Shane crosses his arms, trying to look stern, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “He looks like he’s about to deny a loan application.”

“He looks expensive. Like his Papa.” Ilya kisses the baby’s cheek, smelling the milk and soap scent that seems to have permanently settled into his own pores. “Ready to meet the peasants, little bear?”

“They’re our friends,” Shane says, reaching out to fix the collar of the baby’s sweater. His fingers linger, brushing against Ilya’s hand. “You okay?”

Ilya looks at him. The house is about to be full of people. Loud, chaotic people. It is the first time they are hosting a real gathering since the baby arrived. Most of the time, Ilya would be looking for an exit strategy, a way to retreat to a quiet corner.

But he looks at Shane, who is nervous and proud and exhausted, and he looks at the baby in his arms, who is currently chewing on his own fist with intense focus.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I am good.”

The living room is a disaster zone, but a happy one. It has been exactly five minutes since the first guests arrived, and the noise level is already rivaling a playoff game. The Pike family arrived like a hurricane, the twins immediately demanding to hold the baby while Hayden started unloading a bag of gifts that looked suspiciously like it contained a hockey net.

“He cannot stand yet, Hayden,” Ilya says, watching Hayden prop a mini-stick against the fireplace. “He has no neck control.”

“Never too early to work on the grip strength,” Hayden says, grinning. “Besides, you gotta get a stick in his hands before he realizes goalie pads are cooler.”

“Goalie pads are cooler,” Wyatt Hayes says from the kitchen, where he is currently destroying a plate of appetizers.

Ilya adjusts the baby in his arms, shifting him to his other side. Yuna and David are currently sitting on the sofa, looking like they have won the lottery. Yuna has been vibrating with the need to hold her grandson since she walked in the door, but she is being polite, letting the friends say hello first.

“Give him to me,” Yuna says finally, her patience snapping. “I need to inspect his cheeks.”

Ilya hands the baby over to his mother-in-law. It is strange, how easy it is. A year ago, Ilya guarded his space like a wolf. Now, watching Yuna coo over the baby, watching David lean in to tickle the baby’s feet with a finger, Ilya just feels... warm.

“He looks like Shane,” David decides. “Around the eyes.”

“He has Ilya’s attitude,” Shane says, coming up beside Ilya and handing him a sparkling water. “He screamed at my boob for ten minutes this morning because the flow wasn’t fast enough.”

“A man who knows what he wants,” Ilya says, taking a sip. “I respect it.”

The room is full. Troy and Harris are on the floor playing with the Pike kids. Bood is arguing with J.J. about music near the stereo. The coffee table is buried under a mountain of tissue paper and gift bags—clothes, toys, books, a stuffed centaur that Ilya is pretty sure came from the team store.

It is loud. It is chaotic. It is perfect.

“Okay,” Shane says, his voice cutting through the chatter. He steps into the center of the room, rubbing his hands on his jeans. He looks nervous again.

Everyone quiets down. Even the twins stop trying to braid the rug fringe.

“So,” Shane starts, clearing his throat. He looks at Ilya, seeking an anchor. Ilya steps closer, pressing his shoulder against Shane’s arm. I am here. We are here.

“We haven’t really told anyone the name yet,” Shane says. “We wanted to wait until we were... settled. Until we knew him a little bit.”

Yuna is rocking the baby, looking up at Shane with expectant eyes.

“We talked about a lot of names,” Shane continues. “Ilya wanted to name him ‘Stanley’ for a while.”

“Is a good name,” Ilya defends. “Strong.”

“We vetoed Stanley,” Shane says dryly. He reaches out and takes the baby’s tiny hand, rubbing it between his fingers. “But we wanted something that meant something to us. Something that represented... family. And loyalty.”

Shane takes a deep breath. He looks across the room, his gaze landing on the goalie leaning against the kitchen island.

“We named him Wyatt,” Shane says.

The room goes silent.

Wyatt Hayes freezes, a half-eaten pig-in-a-blanket halfway to his mouth. He blinks.

“What?”

“Wyatt Ilyich Hollander-Rozanov,” Shane says, his voice steady now, proud.

Hayes drops the pig-in-a-blanket. He stares at Shane, then at Ilya, his face crumpling in that sudden, intense way it does when they lose a bad game, or win a big one.

“You...” Hayes chokes out. “You named him after me?”

“Don’t cry, Hazy,” Bood says, slapping him on the back, though Bood looks pretty misty-eyed himself.

“I’m not crying,” Hayes says, tears immediately spilling over his cheeks. He wipes them away aggressively with his sleeve. “Fuck you guys. Seriously. Fuck you.”

Ilya grins. “We thought about naming him after Bood, but we wanted him to be good at hockey.”

The room erupts in laughter, breaking the tension. Hayes comes stumbling over, looking like he wants to tackle them both but remembering just in time that there is a fragile infant in the vicinity. Instead, he grabs Shane in a headlock-hug, then pulls Ilya in by the neck.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Hayes mumbles into Ilya’s shoulder. “That’s... that’s awesome.”

“He is going to be a goalie, probably,” Ilya says, patting Hayes’s back. “He likes to just lie there and scream until people do things for him. It is very goalie energy.”

Hayes laughs, a wet, ragged sound, and pulls back. He looks at the baby in Yuna’s arms with a sudden, terrifying intensity. “I’m gonna buy him so much shit. He’s gonna have the best pads. I’m gonna teach him the poke check.”

“Oh god,” Shane says. “What have we done?”

Ilya wraps an arm around Shane’s waist, pulling him into his side. He looks around the room—at his friends, his teammates, his family. He looks at his son, who is currently grabbing Yuna’s nose with a surprising amount of grip strength.

He thinks about the empty condo in Moscow. He thinks about the silence that used to fill his life, the way he used to think he had to be alone to be strong.

Shane leans his head on Ilya’s shoulder, letting out a long breath. “He seems okay with it.”

“He is happy,” Ilya says. He kisses Shane’s temple, right there in front of everyone. “We are happy.”

“Yeah,” Shane drawls. “We are.”

Across the room, baby Wyatt lets out a loud, demanding wail.

“Your turn,” Ilya says.

“I changed him last!”

“I am hosting. I am pouring drinks.” Ilya grins, detangling himself from Shane. “Go. Your son is calling, Daddy.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he walks over to take their son from Yuna. Ilya watches them—his husband, his son—and thinks that everything turned out exactly the way it was supposed to.

Ilya is nodding along to whatever story Boodram is telling—something about a poker game on the charter flight to Winnipeg—but his attention is, as always, a few degrees separated from the conversation. He is tracking.

It is a subconscious habit now. A low-level program running in the background of his operating system: Where is Shane? Where is Wyatt? Are they okay?

He spots them near the patio doors. Shane is rocking their son side to side, that perpetual motion that has become his new baseline, but there is a tension in his shoulders that Ilya recognizes instantly. Shane looks down at his chest, his face flushing a deep, telltale crimson.

Ilya narrows his eyes.

He steps a little to the right, peering around Boodram’s shoulder. Shane’s light blue button is marred by two distinct, darkening circles.

He is leaking.

Ilya feels a jolt go straight to his groin—electric, and completely inappropriate for a room full of teammates and in-laws.

He watches as Shane says something to David. David nods, smiling easily, and reaches out to take Wyatt. Shane passes the baby over with a quick, apologetic smile and immediately turns, heading for the stairs. He keeps his arms crossed tight over his chest, shoulders hunched.

“So I told him, if you’re gonna bluff, you gotta commit, right?” Boodram laughs, looking at Ilya for validation.

“Yes,” Ilya says, clapping Boodram on the shoulder. “Good advice. Excuse me. I have to… check the ice.”

“The ice?” Boodram looks at his drink, confused. “We don’t have ice.”

“Exactly,” Ilya says, already moving.

He slips through the crowd, dodging a very drunk Troy and a very loud game of mini-sticks the Pike twins have started in the hallway. He takes the stairs two at a time, his heart beating a heavy, anticipating rhythm against his ribs.

The door to the master bedroom is open a crack. Ilya pushes it open and slips inside.

Shane is standing by the dresser, his back to the door. He has already shucked the ruined shirt; it lies in a crumpled heap on the floor. He is digging frantically through a drawer, muttering curses under his breath.

Ilya stops. He just looks.

His husband’s body has changed. Of course it has. He has grown a human life inside of him. The scar from the C-section is hidden by the waistband of his jeans, but the rest of him…

Shane is softer, yes. The razor-sharp definition of his obliques is blurred. But it is his chest that steals the breath from Ilya’s lungs. Shane’s pecs, usually slabs of hard muscle, are swollen. Heavy. They look plush, the skin stretched taut over the new glandular tissue the pregnancy has forced into existence. The nipples are larger, darker, and currently glistening with white drops of milk that track slowly down the curve of the muscle.

It is the most erotic thing Ilya has ever seen.

Ilya reaches back and turns the lock on the door. The click is loud in the quiet room.

Shane jumps. He spins around, clutching a fresh black T-shirt to his chest like a shield.

“Hey!” Shane hisses. “You fucking scared me.”

“You are making a mess, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs. He leans against the door, crossing his arms, letting his gaze drag slow and heavy down Shane’s body.

“I know,” Shane snaps, though his ears are turning pink. “I forgot the pads. I thought I’d be fine for a couple of hours, but then Wyatt started crying and my body just… betrayed me. I’m just changing. Go back downstairs. I’ll be down in a second.”

“No.”

“No?” Shane says, frowning. “Rozy, we have guests. My parents are downstairs. Your coach is eating all the shrimp.”

“They are fine. They have shrimp.” Ilya pushes off the door. He walks toward Shane slowly. “I am not fine.”

Shane swallows. He doesn't back away, but he grips the T-shirt tighter. “Ilya. Not now.”

“Yes. Now.”

Ilya stops right in front of him. The scent in the room is driving him crazy—it is that sweet, creamy milk smell mixed with the underlying spike of Shane’s arousal. Because Shane is aroused. Ilya can smell it. He can see it in the way Shane’s pupils are dilated.

“Put the shirt down, Shane.”

“Ilya, I’m leaking. It’s gross.”

“It is food.” He reaches out, his hand wrapping around Shane’s wrist. He tugs, gentle but firm. “It is sustenance. And it is mine.”

He knows Shane’s resistance is crumbling. Shame lets him pull the shirt from his grasp and toss it onto the bed. Now there is nothing hiding his husband. Ilya steps into his space, crowding him against the dresser. He raises both hands and cups Shane’s chest.

Shane hisses, his head falling back. “Sensitive. Be careful.”

“I am always careful.”

Ilya’s thumbs brush over the damp, pebbled skin of the areolas. The tissue underneath is firm, engorged. It is fascinating. He kneads the muscle gently, feeling the weight of them in his palms.

“Fuck,” Shane breathes, his hips bucking forward involuntarily to press against Ilya’s thigh.

“You are so full,” Ilya murmurs, watching the milk bead up faster under his ministrations. It drips onto his thumbs. “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah,” Shane gasps. “A little. It’s… tight. Pressure.”

“I can help.”

“We can’t… Ilya, we haven't… Dr. Aris said six weeks.”

“It has been five weeks and four days,” Ilya counters. He leans down, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of Shane’s pectoral muscle. He tastes the salt of Shane’s skin and the sweetness of the milk. “And I am not going to fuck you. Not yet. I am just… relieving the pressure.”

“Bullshit,” Shane groans, his fingers tangling in Ilya’s hair. “You’re just hungry.”

“Starving.”

It is true. It has been an agony of a wait. Every night, sleeping beside Shane, smelling him, touching him but stopping at the waistband—it is a test of endurance that rivals any playoff run. Ilya is a patient man when he has to be, but he is done waiting.

“You look beautiful,” Ilya says against Shane’s skin. “So fucking beautiful like this. Swollen for me. Making milk for our son.”

“Ilya…” Shane’s voice wrecks. “Please.”

He crowds in closer, pressing Shane back against the wood of the dresser. He doesn't go for the cock that is straining against Shane’s jeans, though the temptation to rip the denim open is nearly overwhelming. Instead, he wraps his arms around Shane’s waist, burying his face in the center of Shane’s chest.

He licks a stray drop from Shane’s sternum, humming at the taste. Then he turns his head and captures the left nipple in his mouth. Shane cries out and quickly tries to stifle with a hand over his mouth.

He starts gentle, swirling his tongue, teasing the sensitive nub, but as the milk begins to flow freely, instinct takes over. He latches on properly, his cheeks hollowing, drawing the liquid out with a heavy pull.

“Oh god,” Shane pants above him. His legs are shaking. “Oh my god, Ilya. That feels… fuck, that feels too good.”

Ilya busily swallows the sweet, warm fluid, his hand coming up to massage the other side, working the tissue to encourage the letdown.

He can feel Shane’s hands gripping his shoulders. He is bucking his hips against Ilya’s chest in a slow, helpless rhythm.

Ilya pulls back with a wet pop. His lips are slick, his chin shining. He looks up at Shane through his lashes.

“Better?” Ilya asks.

Shane looks down at him, eyes glazed and heavy-lidded. “You missed a spot.”

Ilya grins, a wicked, wolfish thing. He shifts to the other side, and Shane groans, his head falling back as Ilya claims him again. This time, Ilya lets his hand drift down. He palms Shane’s crotch through the denim, squeezing the hard length he finds there.

“Ilya,” Shane warns, his voice tight with the edge of an orgasm. “I can’t—if you keep doing that, I’m gonna—”

“Good,” Ilya mumbles around the nipple. “Come for me. Ruin your jeans. I don’t care.”

He sucks harder, and rubs his palm firmly against the seam of Shane’s pants. Shane shouts, a broken, desperate noise, and bucks hard against Ilya’s hand, spilling himself into his jeans while Ilya drinks him dry.

When it is over, Shane slides down the dresser until he is sitting on the floor, legs sprawled. Ilya follows him down, resting on his knees and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

They stare at each other, panting in the quiet of the room. The sounds of the party downstairs—the laughter, the music—seem a million miles away.

“We have to go back down there,” Shane says, looking horrified. “I just came in my pants. You have milk on your face.”

Ilya snickers. He crawls forward and kisses Shane—a deep, sticky, tasting kiss that lingers.

“Go shower,” he says against Shane’s lips. “Put on new pants. I will go down and tell them you spilled something on yourself. It is true, mostly.”

Shane lets out a breathless laugh and leans his forehead against Ilya’s. “I love you. You’re a menace.”

“I am helpful husband,” Ilya corrects. He stands up and offers Shane a hand. “Now hurry. Before I decide to finish the job properly.”

Shane reappears from the bathroom five minutes later, scrubbed pink and smelling aggressively of soap, though it barely masks the underlying smell of sex and distress pheromones. He has changed into a dark gray button-down, fastened all the way to his collarbone, as if the fabric can physically contain the evidence of what Ilya has just done to him.

He glares at Ilya as he shoves his feet into his socks.

"You are smirking," Shane accuses, grabbing his shoes.

"I am smiling," Ilya corrects, pushing off the doorframe, his own Alpha scent rolling off him in satisfied waves. "I am a happy host returning to his party."

"You're a menace. I look like I’ve been...occupied."

"You look healthy. You look like you have been running up and down the stairs." He smooths out the collar of Shane’s shirt, and lets his knuckles graze the scent gland on Shane’s neck. He feels the rapid flutter beneath the skin, the way Shane’s pulse jumps at the contact. "You look perfect. You look like mine."

Shane swats his hand away. "Let's go. Before my mom organizes a search party."

They go downstairs, descending back into the noise, and Shane goes straight to David, who is rocking Wyatt near the window.

"Everything okay?" David asks, handing the sleeping bundle back to Shane.

"Yeah," Shane says, tucking Wyatt against his chest. "Just... spilled some water. Clumsy."

David doesn't look like he buys it but he smiles anyway. Ilya catches Shane’s eye from across the room. Shane is adjusting the blanket around Wyatt’s head, looking every inch the responsible, put-together father figure. Ilya winks at him.

Shane averts his gaze, busying himself with Wyatt’s hat, but Ilya sees the small, secret smile tuck itself into the corner of his mouth.

Shane holds the teaser position, his legs extended at a forty-five-degree angle, his arms reaching for his toes. His core trembles—a deep, burning vibration that radiates outward from his center—but he doesn’t drop.

"Hold it," commands Chloe, his Pilates instructor. She is small, terrifying, and the only person Shane trusts to put him back together. "Five more seconds. Breathe, Shane. Don't hold your breath."

He sucks in air through his nose. His abs scream. It has been four months since the C-section, four months of feeling like his body—the machine he has tuned and perfected for thirty years—had been dismantled and reassembled by someone without the instruction manual.

"And... release," Chloe says.

Shane collapses onto the mat, sweat dripping into his eyes. He stares at the ceiling of the home gym, panting.

"That was better," Chloe says, standing over him with a water bottle. "Your transverse abdominals are waking up."

"They were in a coma," Shane gasps, taking the water. "They were dead."

"They were traumatized. There's a difference."

Shane wipes his face with a towel. The doctors have cleared him. Chloe has cleared him. He is skating again, training again, preparing for a season that feels both miles away and right around the corner.

But his body isn't the only thing that needs convincing. His phone buzzes on the floor next to his yoga mat. Shane picks it up, expecting a text from his mom or maybe a chirpy update from the team group chat.

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

Leaving the facility. Home in an hour.

Shane stares at the screen, and the exhaustion in his limbs instantly evaporates.

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

Unless traffic is shit.

Then maybe an hour and five minutes.

Shane Hollander-Rozanov:

Drive safe. See you soon.

He stands up, wincing only slightly as his muscles protest. He feels strong today. Capable.

He feels ready.

For weeks, it has been a dance. A frustrating, tender, maddening dance. Ilya touches him like he is made of spun sugar. They fool around—hands, mouths, friction—but every time Shane pushes for more, every time he guides Ilya’s hand to his hip or arches into him with clear intent, Ilya pulls back.

“I can wait,” Ilya always says, kissing Shane in the forehead. “You are healing. There is no rush.”

But there is a rush. Shane needs it. He needs to feel Ilya inside him.

He knows that Ilya still sees the hospital room, the blood, the monitors. He knows that for Ilya, the birth of their son wasn’t just a miracle; it was a trauma.

But Shane isn’t broken. He isn’t glass. And tonight, he is going to prove it.

"I'm done for today," Shane tells Chloe. "Same time Thursday?"

"Yep. Good work."

As soon as she’s gone, Shane heads upstairs. He checks on Wyatt in the nursery. The baby is in his crib, engaged in a very serious conversation with a stuffed bear. He is four months old now, sturdy and alert, with eyes that are starting to look suspiciously hazel.

"You good, hun?" Shane says, leaning over the rail.

Wyatt kicks his legs and blows a spit bubble.

"Yeah. You're good."

Shane checks the time. Forty-five minutes.

He showers quickly, scrubbing away the sweat of the workout. He dries off and stands in front of the mirror. He traces the scar with his thumb. It’s healed. It’s part of him now, just like the scars on his knees.

He walks into the walk-in closet and bypasses the sweatpants. He bypasses the jeans. He goes to the back drawer, the one he hasn’t opened in a year.

The jockstrap is black, sleek, and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Shane pulls it on. He feels ridiculous and powerful. He adds a harness—simple leather straps that frame his chest—that Ilya bought him as a "joke" a year ago. It fits a little tighter across the chest now, thanks to the changes in his body, but it fits.

Shane looks at himself.

He looks like he’s ready to headline a club in West Hollywood. He puts on his black silk robe, tying the sash tight, and goes back to the nursery. Wyatt has fallen asleep. Shane smiles, turns on the monitor, and heads downstairs to wait.

He is sitting on the couch, pretending to read a book, when he hears the garage door open. His heart hammers like a drumroll. The door opens and Ilya breezes in, bringing a gust of cold October air with him. He is carrying three large shopping bags and looking impossibly handsome in a pea coat and a beanie.

"I am home," Ilya announces. He drops the bags on the floor and sighs. "Traffic was shit. It was an hour and ten minutes."

"Tragic," Shane says, marking his page. "You survived?"

"Barely." Ilya toes off his boots and walks over to the couch. He leans down and kisses Shane—a soft, chaste press of lips."Where is our boy?"

"Napping."

"Good. He needs his rest. He is growing too fast." Ilya straightens up and gestures to the bags. "I went shopping."

"I see that. What did you buy? Please tell me it’s not another car."

"No cars. Just... things." Ilya looks pleased with himself. He starts pulling items out of the bags. "Look at this."

He holds up a tiny denim jacket lined with faux shearling.

"Ilya," Shane says, fighting a smile. "He’s a baby. He doesn't need denim."

"He needs to look cool," Ilya argues. He tosses the jacket onto the chair and pulls out more. A pair of miniature Nikes. A sweater with a bear on it. A hat that looks exactly like the one Ilya is wearing. "He grew out of the sleepers. I checked this morning. His toes were... scrunched. It is unacceptable."

"So you bought out the store?"

"I bought essentials." Ilya holds up a onesie that says MY DAD CAN BEAT UP YOUR DAD.

Shane laughs. "Which dad?"

"Both. Obviously." Ilya looks at the pile of clothes, his expression softening into that gooey fondness that still catches Shane off guard. "He is getting so big, Shane. Yesterday he rolled over. Tomorrow he will be driving."

"Let's hope he drives better than you."

Ilya abandons the bags and walks back to the couch. He stands between Shane’s knees, resting his hands on the back of the sofa. "And I got something for you."

Shane looks up. "Yeah?"

"Yes." Ilya reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small paper bag. "I went to that bakery you like. The one with the gluten-free bullshit."

He hands Shane a cookie. It’s chocolate chip. It looks dense and expensive.

"You bought me a cookie?" Shane asks.

"You worked out today. You deserve a treat." Ilya brushes a stray hair from Shane’s forehead. His hazel eyes are warm, safe. "You look tired."

"I'm okay."

"You should rest. We can watch a movie."

Shane stands up. He puts the cookie on the coffee table. The robe is heavy, hiding everything, but he feels naked underneath it.

"Thank you," Shane says. He steps closer, sliding his hands up Ilya’s chest, gripping the lapels of his coat. "For the cookie. And the baby clothes."

He kisses him. This time, it isn’t chaste. Shane opens his mouth, inviting Ilya in, and nips at his bottom lip. He presses his body against Ilya’s, letting the friction do the talking.

Ilya makes a low noise in his throat and his hands settle on Shane’s waist, instinctively pulling him closer. But then, as always, he pulls back. Just an inch.

"Shane," he murmurs, his voice rough. "Careful."

"I'm done being careful.” He steps back, out of Ilya’s reach. "Come upstairs."

Ilya blinks, looking confused. "Upstairs? The baby is sleeping."

"We'll be quiet." Shane starts walking backward toward the stairs. "I have a gift for you, too."

Ilya’s brow furrows. "You bought something?"

"Not exactly." Shane turns and heads up the stairs, not waiting for an answer. He walks into their bedroom. The curtains are drawn. The room is dim, quiet. Shane stands by the side of the bed. He waits until Ilya steps into the doorway.

He hears the heavy tread of boots on the stairs, and his body reacts violently. His hole clenches, weeping slick into the black jockstrap, and his nipples contract, sending a fresh wave of warm milk trickling down his ribcage.

Ilya stops. He looks around the room, as if expecting a wrapped box or a new piece of furniture. "Shane? What is—"

Shane unties the sash of his robe.

He lets the silk slide off his shoulders. It pools on the floor around his feet.

Ilya goes dead silent.

Shane stands there, chest heaving, wearing nothing but the black jockstrap and the leather harness. The scar on his stomach is visible, a thin silver line bisecting his abs, but Shane doesn't try to hide it.

He watches Ilya’s eyes. They go wide. They drag down Shane’s body, over the leather straps, the flat stomach, the bulge in the black pouch, the strong legs.

Ilya’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. "Shane."

"I'm healed, Ilya," Shane says firmly, though his hands are fidgeting. "I'm strong. I'm ready."

He climbs onto the bed. He lies back against the pillows, watching Ilya watching him.

And then, slowly, deliberately, Shane spreads his legs wide.

"Come here," Shane commands. "And don't you dare be gentle."

He bites down on his lower lip, hard enough to sting, as he watches Ilya freeze. The look on his husband’s face isn’t just hunger; it’s a starving man finally being presented with a feast.

Ilya’s gaze is fixed on the V of Shane’s spread thighs and the black leather harnessing his chest.

“Fuck.”

Ilya moves with a sudden, frantic energy. The expensive pea coat is discarded on the floor, followed immediately by the beanie. Ilya’s fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt—a rare loss of dexterity for the best stickhandler in the league—and buttons fly, pinging against the hardwood. He shoves the fabric off his shoulders, revealing the Bear tattoo, the broad expanse of muscle that Shane has memorized with his tongue.

Then the jeans. Ilya kicks off his boots and shoves his pants down, hopping on one foot to rid himself of the denim. When the boxer briefs go, Shane’s breath hitches in his throat.

Ilya is magnificent. He is fully hard, his shaft thick and long, jutting out with an arrogant, heavy curve that makes Shane’s mouth water. The head is dark and swollen, weeping a clear drop of arousal that gleams in the dim light. It’s been months—months of cautious touches and doctor’s orders—and seeing him like this, unleashed and ready, hits Shane like a cross-check.

Shane feels a phantom ache in his ass, a desperate, hollow throbbing that demands to be filled. He is slick with his own arousal, his body practically weeping for the invasion. His hole misses the stretch.

“Baby,” Shane whimpers, the sound embarrassing and needy. He flips onto his stomach and crawls across the mattress, the leather straps of his harness digging pleasantly into his skin. He moves like a predator, or maybe prey offering itself up, until he reaches the edge of the bed where Ilya stands.

Ilya reaches out, his large hands trembling slightly as they hover over Shane’s shoulders, but Shane ignores them. He reaches out and wraps his hand around the base of Ilya’s cock. It is hot velvet steel, pulsing against his palm.

“Shane,” Ilya groans, his hips snapping forward.

Shane leans forward and runs his tongue up the underside of the shaft, tasting salt and skin and Ilya. He swirls his tongue around the sensitive ridge of the head, savoring the shudder that runs through Ilya’s massive frame, before opening his mouth wide and taking him in.

He takes just the head at first, sucking hard, reacquainting himself with the taste. He takes an inch, then two, then three, pushing himself until Ilya is fully seated in his throat.

“Blyat,” Ilya swears, his voice a ragged growl above him.

Shane hums around the invasion, his eyes fluttering shut. He tightens his throat, massaging the length of him, and begins to bob his head. He uses his hand to stroke the base, working in tandem with his mouth, trying to overload Ilya’s senses.

“You do this for me?” Ilya rasps, sounding dazed.

Shane can’t answer, but he moans, the vibration travelling straight to Ilya’s cock. Yes. Always. I am yours.

Ilya’s hands land heavy on Shane’s ass. He grips the cheeks, kneading the muscle with bruising force. Then, he pulls one hand back and smacks Shane’s ass—a sharp, stinging slap that echoes in the quiet room.

Shane whimpers around Ilya’s cock, the sting sending a fresh jolt of arousal straight to his groin. He sucks harder in response.

“Good boy,” Ilya growls, slapping him again, harder. “Take it. Take your husband. You are so greedy, Shane. So fucking perfect.”

Shane gasps into the vacuum of his own throat as Ilya’s hips snap forward. It’s a violent, beautiful intrusion that Shane has been craving for months. He chokes, eyes watering, but he doesn't pull back. He clamps his hands onto the backs of Ilya’s thighs, digging his fingers into the muscle, anchoring himself as Ilya begins to fuck his face in earnest.

The sound of Ilya’s heavy balls slapping against Shane’s chin is loud in the quiet room, a wet, rhythmic percussion that sends heat scorching through Shane’s veins. He missed this—the sheer, overwhelming size of him, the animalistic scent of Ilya’s arousal filling his nose, the taste of his husband.

Ilya groans. He weaves his fingers through Shane’s hair, making a fist, and holds Shane in place, dictating the pace. He pulls out slowly, dragging the thick ridge of his head over Shane’s tongue, before slamming back in, stretching Shane’s jaw until it aches.

“So hungry,” Ilya growls, looking down at him. “Look at you. Eating me like a meal.”

He forces his throat to open wider, taking the abuse, loving the way Ilya’s heavy sack presses against his lower lip, the coarse hair brushing his skin. He needs to taste everything.

Ilya pulls out abruptly, leaving Shane’s mouth empty and cold. A string of saliva connects Shane’s lip to the weeping head of Ilya’s cock.

“Don’t stop,” Shane pleads. He leans forward and presses his face into Ilya’s groin. He inhales deeply, drunk on the musk, before dragging his tongue along the sensitive seam of Ilya’s balls.

Ilya hisses through his teeth. His knees buckle slightly. Shane uses his nose to nudge the heavy weight of them, reveling in the texture, the heat. He opens his mouth and sucks one testicle inside, swirling his tongue over the delicate skin, humming as he feels Ilya’s entire body shudder above him. He uses his hand to jerk Ilya’s shaft in a slow, tight rhythm while he works his mouth, licking and sucking, treating Ilya with the same adoration Ilya has always shown him.

“Yes,” Ilya grunts. “Like that. Suck it.”

Shane switches to the other one, teasing the skin with his teeth, careful but firm. He loves the weight of them on his tongue, the way they tighten and shift as Ilya gets closer to the edge. It makes Shane feel powerful, knowing he can reduce the most arrogant man in the NHL to a shaking mess just by using his mouth.

But Shane is suffering, too. He pulls back, spitting Ilya’s cock out of his hand, and looks up. Ilya’s head is thrown back, his neck corded with tension, his chest heaving, then looks down at him hungrily.

He scrambles back onto the mattress, his breath hitching as Ilya looms over him. The air in the room is heavy with the scent of an aroused Alpha. Shane barely has time to brace himself before Ilya descends.

There is no finesse. Ilya’s large hands hook into the waistband of the jockstrap. Fabric shrieks and the black cotton is ripped away, leaving Shane bare, exposed, and aching.

"Mine," Ilya growls.

Shane shudders, his thighs falling open, offering everything. "Yes. Yours. Ruin it."

Ilya crawls up Shane’s body, and pins Shane’s wrists above his head with one hand, his grip bruising and possessive. His eyes are fixed on Shane’s chest—on the swollen, heavy pecs harnessed in leather, the nipples weeping white drops of milk in anticipation.

"Leaking for me," Ilya murmurs, entranced. He smears a drop of milk across Shane’s pectoral with his thumb, spreading the slickness. "So full."

"Hungry," Shane gasps, arching his back, thrusting his chest upward. The pressure in his ducts is a sweet, throbbing ache. He needs release. He needs to be drained. "Take it."

Ilya lowers his head and latches on.

The sensation is electric. It arcs from Shane’s nipple straight to his groin. Ilya sucks hard, his cheeks hollowing, his tongue swirling expertly around the sensitive nub. He draws the milk out, swallowing audibly.

Shane whimpers, his hips bucking against Ilya’s thigh. It’s perverse. It’s holy. He spends his days feeding their son, holding Wyatt’s tiny body against his chest, being a source of life. But this is dark and purely for them.

He is feeding his husband. He is sustaining the beast that claims him.

"That's it," Shane praises. "Drink it all. You like that? You like the taste of me?"

Ilya groans against his skin, the vibration buzzing through Shane’s sensitive tissue. He switches to the other nipple, biting down lightly before sucking with renewed fervor. Shane watches the way Ilya desperately gulps him down.

"Greedy," Shane whispers, his free hand tangling in Ilya’s hair, urging him closer, harder. "My greedy husband. Drain me dry, Ilya. Empty me out."

Ilya pulls back for a second, his lips slick with milk and saliva. He looks wild, his hazel eyes are almost black.

"Sweet," Ilya rasps, licking a stray drop from his own lip. "You taste like cream and sugar. Better than anything."

"It's yours," Shane breathes, his hole clenching empty and desperate. "All of it. Just take it."

He drags himself down Shane’s body, his heavy balls pressing against Shane’s thigh. He grabs Shane’s knees and forces them wide, exposing the pink, glistening entrance that is already fluttering with need.

"Look at you," Ilya whispers, tracing the wet rim. "Gaping for me. Drooling slick. You are disgusting, Shane. You are perfect."

"Put it in," Shane sobs, feeling the emptiness like a physical wound. "Put it in deep. Fill me up."

Ilya grabs a bottle of lube from the nightstand, popping the cap with his teeth. He dumps a generous amount into his palm, the cold slick hitting Shane’s hole with a shock.

"Open," Ilya commands.

He pushes two fingers in. Shane cries out, his hips lifting off the mattress. It’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough. He needs the stretch. He needs the fullness.

"More," Shane begs, pushing back against the fingers. "Please, baby. I’m so hollow. I feel... I feel empty without you."

Ilya withdraws his fingers, lining up his massive, weeping cock and drives it home in one brutal thrust.

Shane screams, his eyes rolling back. He feels every ridge, every vein, the sheer density of Ilya filling the void inside him, putting him back together.

"Look at you," Ilya growls. "Dripping slick. Begging to be bred."

"Oh god," Shane sobs, his head thrashing on the pillow. "Yes. Yes. There."

"So tight," Ilya grunts, slamming his hips against Shane’s ass. "My greedy boy. You swallow me whole."

"Deeper," Shane cries, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist, locking his ankles to trap him there. "Hit it. Hit the womb. Breed me."

His husband starts hitting that deepest, sweetest spot inside him. Ilya roars, taking the invitation. He pounds into Shane, ruthless and messy, the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin filling the room. He leans forward, latching onto Shane’s breast again, sucking and fucking him in a perfect, devastating rhythm.

Shane shatters. The orgasm rips through him, a white-hot explosion that starts in his prostate and fries his nervous system. He shoots his own load onto his stomach, mixing with the milk and sweat, messy and forgotten.

"Ilya!"

Ilya follows him a second later, driving deep and holding it there, pouring his rut-warm cum into Shane, flooding him, marking him from the inside out.

Shane floats in the aftermath, limp and boneless, feeling the twitch of Ilya’s cock inside him, the drip of milk drying on his skin, the absolute, crushing weight of his husband on top of him.With a trembling hand, Shane reaches out and cups Ilya’s jaw, tilting Ilya’s chin up.

"You're not done," Shane whispers, and crashes his mouth down on Ilya’s. He pushes his tongue into Ilya’s mouth, sweeping the cavern. Ilya growls low in his throat and fights back, his tongue wrestling Shane’s for dominance, sucking hard on Shane’s lower lip until it stings.

And then Shane feels it.

Deep inside him, buried in the wet, ravaged heat of his canal, Ilya is stirring. The thick ridge of Ilya’s cock twitches, swelling, hardening again.

He’s still hungry, Shane thinks, a jolt of pure, electric lust shooting down his spine. He’s insatiable for me.

"Hard again," Shane gasps against Ilya’s mouth, breaking the kiss just to nip at Ilya’s jaw. "You monster. You want to ruin me completely?"

"Always," Ilya rumbles, his hips bucking up, driving the revitalized erection deeper, hitting that bruised, sweet spot that makes Shane curse.

Shane leverages his weight, and Ilya follows his lead, rolling them over until Shane is straddling his waist. He never breaks the seal. The movement twists Ilya’s cock inside him, grinding against his prostate in a way that makes Shane whine, high and needy.

Now, he is on top. He is the king of the castle.

Shane sits up, his chest heaving. The harness is gone, ripped away, leaving his torso bare and flushed. He looks down at his husband. Ilya is sprawled beneath him, pinned by Shane’s thighs, looking up with a gaze of absolute, devout worship.

"Beautiful," Ilya breathes, reaching up to ghost his fingers over Shane’s hip bones.

Shane smirks, a feral, broken thing. He lifts his hips, sliding almost all the way up the length of Ilya’s shaft—the friction of the withdrawal sending shivers through his skin—and then slams back down.

"Fuck!" Ilya hisses, his head throwing back into the mattress.

Shane bounces, impaling himself on his husband’s length, taking every inch, forcing Ilya to bottom out against his opening. He watches his Alpha’s face—the way Ilya’s lips part in a silent plea, the way he looks completely ruined by the sight of Shane riding him.

"Look at you," Shane pants, grinding his hips in a circle, churning the cum and slick inside him. "You look like you're dying. Do you like this? Do you like seeing me take it?"

"Yes," Ilya chokes out. "Yes. Ride it. Use me."

Shane is lost in the sensation. He is just getting into a rhythm, his eyes rolling back, when Ilya moves. Ilya sits up slightly, crunching his abs, and reaches out with both hands. One hand wraps around the back of Shane’s thigh, sliding up to cup his ass cheek, fingers digging into the soft flesh, massaging the muscle to help it open further.

The other hand goes for his chest.

Ilya captures Shane’s right nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching hard, before latching his hot, wet mouth onto the breast.

Shane freezes. The sensation stops him dead in his tracks.

"Oh—oh my god," Shane stammers, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs.

It’s sensory overload. The suction on his nipple is fierce, demanding, drawing out a fresh trickle of milk. At the same time, Ilya’s hand is kneading his ass, spreading him wider, forcing him to take the girth of the cock even deeper.

The sight of Ilya’s dark head buried in his chest, drinking him in, while being buried deep inside his body makes him go delirious.

"Baby... Baby...!" Shane babbles, his hands flailing until they find purchase in Ilya’s thick, sweaty hair. He fists his fingers into the dark curls, gripping tight, anchoring himself to the storm.

"Nghh," Shane sobs, bucking his hips erratically.

Ilya growls against his skin, sucking harder, his finger slipping to tease the entrance of Shane’s hole where they are joined.

It’s too much.

Shane slams his ass down, burying Ilya to the root, the impact knocking the breath out of both of them. He doesn't pull up this time. He just grinds, bearing down, trying to fuse their skeletons together. He yanks Ilya’s head back by the hair, forcing him to unlatch from the nipple—leaving it wet, red, and weeping—and smashes their mouths together in a torrid kiss.

He rocks himself against Ilya’s hips, frantic and messy, sobbing into Ilya’s mouth as the second wave of pleasure builds. He feels the first jet of hot seed strikes him deep inside. It’s a torrent, a scalding flood that fills the deepest recesses of his body.

He smiles, a wild, glorious thing, as he feels the base of Ilya’s cock flare. The knot swells rapidly, expanding inside him, stretching his rim to its absolute limit and locking him in place.

“Yes," Shane breathes, peppering frantic kisses over Ilya’s sweat-slicked face—his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks. "I love you. I love you, I love you."

His hole relaxes completely, surrendering to the invasion, hugging the massive knot as it pulses, pumping wave after wave of thick rut-cum into him. He feels heavy with it, bloated and claimed.

Ilya’s chest heave beneath Shane. His large hands come up to cradle Shane’s head, his thumbs stroking Shane’s temples with trembling tenderness.

"My Shane," Ilya pants. "My heart."

Shane loses the strength to hold himself up and slumps forward, his weight settling entirely on Ilya. He buries his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of their sex—musk, milk, and fresh seed.

He drifts in a haze of endorphins, aware only of the solid presence of his husband and the comforting fullness stretching him open. It must be twenty minutes, maybe thirty, before Shane feels the pressure begin to recede. The rock-hard swelling of the knot softens, the lock disengaging.

"Mmm," Shane hums, lifting his head. His limbs feel like lead. "I think... I think you're letting me go."

Ilya looks up at him, his hair a damp mess against the pillow, a lazy, satisfied smirk curling his lips. "Never letting you go. Just... reloading."

“Come here.” Shane chuckles and kisses his husband once more.

The next morning, Shane grabs the plate of cold grilled chicken Ilya made last night and leans against the kitchen island. He eats standing up—a habit he hasn’t been able to break since the baby arrived—shoving protein into his mouth because he knows he needs the calories to keep the milk production up.

A melody suddenly drifts in from the living room. A piano instrumental. Shane recognizes it instantly. So This Is Love. It must be coming from the smart speaker on the mantle; Ilya has curated a "Sleepy Time" playlist that is ninety percent Disney instrumentals, a fact he defends with surprising aggression.

Shane stops chewing. He swallows the dry chicken and turns to watch.

Ilya stands in the center of the living room, bathed in the afternoon light filtering through the sheer curtains. He holds Wyatt high against his chest, one large hand splayed securely over the baby’s diapered bottom, the other cradling the back of his head. He steps right, dipping his knees slightly, swinging his hips with a fluid grace that looks jarringly elegant on a man of his size. His chin rests on the top of Wyatt’s head, eyes closed, body moving with the music like he’s on skates, carving the perfect edge.

His husband is completely lost in it.

Shane puts his fork down. The food is forgotten. He’d been sure he had already seen Ilya at his happiest. He had seen Ilya lift the Stanley Cup, screaming at the rafters with a joy so raw it looked like pain. He had seen Ilya on their wedding day, looking at him with a soft, devastating wonder.

But he’s proven wrong again.

Fatherhood brings out a different smile, a different laughter, a different Ilya Rozanov. There is a peace radiating off him that Shane has never witnessed before, a quiet, contented wholeness that makes Ilya look younger, and somehow, infinitely older all at once.

Ilya turns in his slow dance, catching Shane staring. He doesn't stop moving. He just smiles, and it starts in his eyes, softening every harsh line of his face.

"He likes it," Ilya says over the music, not breaking the rhythm of his sway. "He is settling."

Shane feels a lump form in his throat. He leans his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest to hold all the emotion inside.

"Yeah," Shane manages. "He loves it. You've got the magic touch, Rozanov."

Ilya hums, a low vibration that Wyatt probably feels in his tiny bones. He turns again, continuing his path around the rug, shielding Wyatt from the sunbeams.

"He is out," Ilya murmurs a moment later, glancing at the small, slack face pressed against his neck. "Fast asleep. My little bear."

Shane watches them and he realizes he isn't just watching his husband hold their baby. He is watching Ilya heal himself, one sway, one lullaby, one tiny heartbeat at a time. He abandons the meal and crosses the room on silent feet, drawn into the orbit of the two most important people in his universe.

He slides his arms around his husband's waist, then presses his chest against that broad back, hands locking them together. “Room for one more?” he whispers against the back of Ilya’s neck.

Ilya leans back into Shane’s embrace without missing a beat of his slow sway. “Always room.”

Shane shifts his head, peering over Ilya’s shoulder to look at their son. Wyatt is deeply asleep, his tiny mouth slightly open, a small fist curled against Ilya’s collarbone. Shane’s heart swells, a painful, wonderful expansion that makes his throat tight. He leans forward and presses the softest possible kiss to the top of Wyatt’s fuzzy head, breathing in that new-baby smell that is better than any drug.

Then he kisses Ilya’s cheek, feeling the scratch of stubble against his lips. “I’m happy,” he says, the words feeling too small for the enormity of the emotion filling him. “I’m so happy.”

Ilya turns his head, catching Shane’s mouth in a gentle, lingering kiss. He smiles against Shane’s lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Me too, solnyshko,” Ilya murmurs. “Me too.”

Shane used to think holding the Stanley Cup was the best feeling in the world.

No.

This is better.

This is the whole game.

End.

Afterword

End Notes:

Hello!

I am absolutely over the moon. We are getting both RWRB and HR Season 2! Aaaaaah!

“All I Do Is Win” is officially the motto for 2026!

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed reading Ilya/Shane as husbands and parents!

Love,

Azi 💜