The Hows of Us

“Papa, what’s your job?”

Ilya opens his mouth. Closes it. He looks at Shane, who is suddenly very interested in his coffee.

“My job,” Ilya says slowly, “is to take care of you.”

“That’s not a job,” Wyatt says matter-of-factly. “That’s just being a papa.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “It is.”

In September 2030, Ilya Rozanov is newly retired, newly restless, and learning the hard way that staying home with their three-year-old son is more exhausting than any playoff run. Shane Hollander is back on the ice, chasing another season while missing things he can’t get back.

After more than a decade together, Ilya and Shane must relearn the hows of their relationship—what comes after happily ever after.

Author's Note:

Regret

Chapter Notes:

Thank you so much for all the love you’ve given this series. I’ve always loved imagining what comes after happily ever after, so this fic is my little dive into what life might look like for Ilya, Shane, and Wyatt as they grow, change, and figure things out together. I hope you’ll enjoy spending a bit more time with them as much as I do. Hehe.

Ottawa, Ontario
1 September 2030

It is 6:47 a.m. Ilya knows this without opening his eyes because Wyatt Ilyich Hollander-Rozanov operates on an internal clock more precise than any alarm. Every morning, between 6:45 and 6:50, their son launches himself out of his toddler bed—the one shaped like a race car that Ilya and Shane assembled—and stampedes toward the master bedroom with all the subtlety of a zamboni.

The door crashes open.

“Papa! Papa! Papa!”

Ilya cracks one eye. Their son is standing in the doorway, backlit by the hallway nightlight, wearing nothing but a diaper and one sock. His dark hair—Shane’s hair—sticks up in wild tufts. His hazel eyes—Ilya’s eyes—are bright with the manic energy of a child who has been awake for approximately forty seconds and has already made seventeen decisions.

“Wyatt,” Ilya groans, and tries to cover his face with a pillow. “Is early.”

“No early!” Wyatt announces, climbing onto the bed. He uses Ilya’s stomach as a stepping stone, which hurts, and collapses onto Ilya’s chest with the full weight of his thirty-two pounds. “Papa. Wake up. I hungry.”

“You are always hungry,” Ilya mutters, but he wraps his arms around the solid warmth of his son. “Where is other sock?”

Wyatt tilts his head innocently. “I dunno.”

“You do not know?”

“It gone.” Wyatt says this with the finality of someone delivering a eulogy. The sock is dead. Long live the sock.

Ilya sighs. He runs a hand through his son’s hair—God, he needs haircut, Shane keeps saying they should take him to barber, but Ilya likes the curls—and glances at the other side of the bed.

Empty.

The sheets are cool. Shane has been up for hours.

Of course he has.

Ilya sits up carefully, settling Wyatt on his lap. “Where is Daddy?”

“Gym,” Wyatt says, picking at a loose thread on Ilya’s t-shirt. “He doing the running. The loud running.”

“The treadmill.”

“Yeah. That.” Wyatt looks up at him with Shane’s serious expression—the one Shane uses when he’s calculating passing lanes or analyzing penalty kill formations. “Papa, can I have pancakes?”

“You had pancakes yesterday.”

“I want pancakes today.”

“Every day is not pancake day, Wyatt.”

Wyatt’s face crumples. His lower lip juts out in a pout that is one hundred percent Ilya Rozanov, and his eyes go wide and wounded. It is a look that has gotten him out of trouble more times than Ilya can count, and it is completely, devastatingly unfair.

“Please?” Wyatt bats his eyelashes. “Please, Papa? I be good. I eat all the pancake. I not throw them.”

Ilya’s resolve, which was never particularly strong to begin with, shatters.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But you eat fruit too. And you do not throw anything.”

“Yay!” Wyatt launches himself off Ilya’s lap and races toward the door. “I tell Daddy! Daddy! We having pancakes!”

“Wyatt, do not—”

But he is gone, his little feet slapping against the hardwood as he barrels toward the basement stairs. Ilya drags himself out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and heads downstairs.

The kitchen is bright and clean, because Shane cleaned it last night after Wyatt went to bed. Everything is in its place: the coffee maker, the fruit bowl, the ridiculous collection of protein powders that Shane treats like a pharmacy. There is a note on the counter in Shane’s tidy handwriting: Morning. Went to train. Wyatt probably already begged for pancakes. Don’t give in.

Ilya crumples the note and tosses it in the recycling bin because he is absolutely giving in.

The basement gym is a shrine to Shane’s neurosis. Wall-to-wall mirrors, a Peloton, a squat rack, a bench press, resistance bands in every color, and a very expensive treadmill. It is Shane’s church, the place he goes to exorcise his demons and chase perfection. His husband is on the treadmill, running. Shane’s shirt is off, his chest slick with sweat, his headphones in. He is locked in, his gaze fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance, his breathing controlled. He looks exactly like he did when he was twenty-two and captaining the Montreals to their first Cup: lean, focused, untouchable.

Wyatt is sitting on the mat near the squat rack, playing with a foam roller like it is a train. “Daddy!” their son yells. “Papa say we can have pancakes!”

Shane doesn’t hear him. The treadmill is too loud, and he is in the zone. Ilya walks over and taps Shane’s shoulder. Shane jolts, grabbing the treadmill rails to steady himself. He pulls out one earbud and glares at Ilya. “Jesus, Rozy. Don’t sneak up on me.”

“I did not sneak. I walked.” Ilya nods toward Wyatt. “He wants pancakes.”

Shane looks at their son, who is now standing up and waving the foam roller like a sword. “I left a note.”

“I saw.”

“I specifically said not to give him pancakes.”

“I know.”

“And you’re giving him pancakes anyway.”

“Yes.”

Shane hits the button on the treadmill to slow it down, stepping off with the kind of controlled grace that makes Ilya want to pull him back to bed. “You’re a pushover.”

“I am good papa.”

“You’re spoiling him.”

“He is three. He is supposed to be spoiled.”

Shane wipes his face with a towel, shaking his head. But Ilya can see the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“You love me, yes?”

“Unfortunately.”

Wyatt abandons the foam roller and runs over, crashing into Shane’s legs. “Daddy, you done? You done running?”

Shane picks him up, settling him on his hip despite the fact that he’s covered in sweat. Wyatt doesn’t care. He wraps his arms around Shane’s neck and presses his face into Shane’s shoulder, smearing toddler drool all over Shane’s collarbone.

“Yeah, buddy,” Shane says, kissing their son’s forehead. “I’m done. You want to help me make pancakes?”

Wyatt pulls back, his eyes wide. “I can help?”

“You can crack the eggs.”

“I crack them good!”

“I know you do.”

Ilya watches them. Shane is a good father. Better than Ilya expected. Shane is patient. He explains things. He never yells. He gets down on Wyatt’s level and talks to him like he’s a person, not a burden. And Wyatt worships him. Wyatt follows Shane around the house like a duckling, parroting his words, copying his mannerisms, trying to do everything Shane does.

It is perfect.

It is terrifying.

Because in six weeks, Shane is going back to the Centaurs.

The pancakes are a disaster, as predicted. Wyatt cracks the eggs with too much enthusiasm, sending shell fragments into the batter. He insists on stirring, which results in flour everywhere—the counter, the floor, Wyatt’s hair. Shane is patient through all of it, guiding Wyatt’s small hands, praising him when he pours the batter into the pan without spilling too much.

Ilya makes coffee and stays out of the way.

They eat at the kitchen table, Wyatt in his booster seat, syrup smeared across his cheeks. He is talking a mile a minute, a stream-of-consciousness monologue about a dream he had involving dinosaurs and a firetruck and “the big dog from the park.”

“And then the T-Rex, he go ROAR, and the firetruck go WEE-OOH WEE-OOH, and the dog, he…” Wyatt pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, his face scrunching in concentration. “He jump.”

“Wow,” Shane says, cutting Wyatt’s pancakes into smaller pieces even though Wyatt insists he can do it himself. “That’s a big adventure.”

“Yeah. Big.” Wyatt shoves a piece of pancake into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Papa, you have dreams?”

Ilya looks up from his coffee. “Sometimes.”

“What you dream about?”

“Hockey,” Ilya says.

“Hockey boring,” Wyatt declares.

Shane chokes on his coffee.

Ilya grins. “You are your Daddy’s son.”

“Hey,” Shane protests. “I never said hockey was boring.”

“You said it was stupid.”

“I said your obsession with Pavel Datsyuk was stupid.”

“Is not obsession. Is respect.”

“You have a shrine.”

“One poster.”

“In the garage.”

“Where Wyatt cannot see it and be influenced by inferior hockey.”

Shane rolls his eyes fondly. He reaches over and wipes syrup off Wyatt’s chin. “Finish your pancakes, darling. And then we need to get you dressed.”

“No,” Wyatt says automatically.

“Yes,” Ilya shoots back.

“No! I stay naked!”

“You can’t stay naked. We have to go to store.”

“Can I wear the dinosaur shirt?”

“Dinosaur shirt is in the wash.”

“The truck shirt?”

“Sure. Truck shirt works.”

“Okay.” Wyatt shoves another piece of pancake into his mouth. “Daddy, you come to the store?”

Shane’s smile falters. Just for a second. But Ilya sees it. “Not today, honey,” Shane says. “Daddy has to go to the rink.”

“Why?”

“I have practice.”

“But you already do the running.”

“That was my workout. Practice is different. That’s where I skate with the team.”

Wyatt pouts. “You skate every day.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s my job.”

“Oh.” Wyatt looks at Ilya. “Papa, what’s your job?”

Ilya opens his mouth. Closes it. He looks at Shane, who is suddenly very interested in his coffee.

“My job,” he says slowly, “is to take care of you.”

“That’s not a job,” Wyatt says matter-of-factly. “That’s just being a papa.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “It is.”

By noon, Ilya is ready to sell Wyatt to circus.

The trip to the grocery store was a negotiation worthy of international diplomacy. Wyatt did not want to wear shoes. He did not want to sit in the cart. He did not want to hold Papa’s hand. He wanted to run. He wanted to touch everything. He wanted to open every box of cereal and inspect the contents.

“Wyatt, no,” Ilya said approximately six hundred times.

“But Papa—”

“No.”

“But—”

“Wyatt Ilyich, I swear to God—”

“You can’t say God, Papa. Daddy says that’s bad.”

“Daddy is not here. And I can say what I want.”

“I tell Daddy.”

“You are snitch.”

“What’s a snitch?”

“You.”

At checkout, Wyatt threw himself on the floor and screamed because Ilya would not buy him a chocolate bar. Ilya bought him one yesterday. People stared. One woman smiled sympathetically. Another looked at Ilya like he was committing child abuse.

Ilya picked Wyatt up, carried him out of the store like a sack of potatoes, and strapped him into his car seat while Wyatt wailed about the injustice of it all. Now they are home. Wyatt is in his room for “quiet time,” which is Ilya’s polite way of saying “Papa needs a fucking break before he drives into a lake.”

He collapses on the couch. The house is silent except for the distant sound of Wyatt talking to his stuffed animals.

Retirement is a trap.

Everyone tells you it is freedom.They tell you that you will finally have time to relax, to travel, to do all the things you couldn’t do when you were playing. They do not tell you that you will feel like ghost. They do not tell you that you will watch your husband lace up his skates every morning and feel like you are watching him leave for war. They do not tell you that your three-year-old will ask what your job is, and you will not have an answer.

Ilya’s phone buzzes.

Hayden Pike:

Yo. You alive?

Ilya stares at the message. He considers ignoring it. But Hayden will just keep texting, and eventually he will show up at the house with beer and concerned eyebrows.

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

Unfortunately.

Hayden Pike:

That bad, huh?

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

Wyatt threw a tantrum in the grocery store. I am broken.

Hayden Pike:

Lmao. Welcome to parenthood.

You want to come over? Jackie’s at work.

We can day drink and pretend we have our lives together.

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

I have a child.

Hayden Pike:

Bring him. He can trash my house instead of yours.

Ilya considers this. Wyatt is probably destroying his room right now. And Hayden’s house is child-proofed within an inch of its life. More importantly, Ilya needs to be around another adult before he loses his mind.

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

Fine.

Hayden Pike:

Fuck yeah. I’ll make sandwiches.

He drags himself off the couch and heads upstairs. His son’s room is, predictably, a disaster. Every toy has been removed from its designated bin and scattered across the floor. Wyatt is sitting in the middle of the chaos, and Anya is right there with him. The dog—a shaggy, multi-colored Australian Shepherd mix they’d brought home five years ago—is currently lying on her side, serving as a makeshift sofa for their son. Her long, mottled fur is dusted with plastic glitter from a craft project, and she has a blue block resting precariously on her head.

“And then you go in the rocket,” Wyatt is saying, gesturing wildly with a plastic astronaut, “and you fly to the moon, and you eat the moon cheese. But you can’t eat too much, Anya, because you get a tummy ache and then Daddy has to give you the yucky medicine.”

Anya lets out a heavy, long-suffering sigh, her tail thumping once against a pile of wooden blocks. She looks up as Ilya enters, her pale eyes bright with relief at the prospect of being rescued from the moon mission.

“Wyatt.”

His son looks up, completely unbothered by the destruction around him. “Hi, Papa. Anya is the moon dog. She likes cheese.”

“Anya is a saint,” Ilya mutters, reaching down to scratch the dog behind her ears. She leans into his hand, her long hair soft under his fingers. “We are going to Uncle Hayden’s house.”

“Okay.” Wyatt stands up, using Anya’s sturdy shoulder to steady himself. He steps over the toys like they are part of the floor. “Can I bring Bear? And Anya?”

“Bear can come. And Anya is already by the door,” Ilya says, nodding toward the dog who had scrambled up the second she heard the word house. She was already pacing the small clear patch of floor, her hips wiggling with excitement.

“Yes! Anya, we go to see Ruby!” Wyatt cheers.

“First,” Ilya says, pointing to the floor. “You must help me clean this up.”

“Why?”

“Because you and the moon dog made the mess.”

“But I playing.”

“You can play at Uncle Hayden’s. Right now, we clean.”

Wyatt sighs, a deep, put-upon sigh that sounds exactly like Shane. “Fine.”

It takes fifteen minutes, several threats, and Ilya having to pry a rogue tennis ball out of Anya’s mouth to get the room back to a semi-acceptable state. By the time they are at the car, Ilya is exhausted. He loads Anya into the back first; she jumps in easily, her long tail sweeping the upholstery. Then he buckles Wyatt into his seat.

Wyatt, of course, is fine. He is already singing a song about a spider, kicking his feet against the back of Ilya’s seat, while Anya rests her chin on the edge of the car seat, her ears perked for the sound of the engine.

“Papa, why we go to Uncle Hayden’s?”

“Because Papa needs to talk to an adult.”

“I’m a adult.”

“You are three.”

“I’m a big boy.”

“Yes. You are very big boy. But you are not adult.”

“When I be a adult?”

“In forty years.”

“That’s a looooong time!”

“Yes.”

A two-hour drive with a toddler is usually a death sentence. It is a trap of screaming, snacking, and the desperate search for a rest stop bathroom. But Ilya does not mind the drive today. He is driving the SUV—the "dad car"—because the Maserati does not hold the necessary amount of snacks required for a cross-provincial journey.

The highway stretches out before them, gray and monotonous under the September sky. In the backseat, Wyatt is singing. “Baby shark, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo…”

He remembers a time, not so long ago, when this song would have made him drive into a bridge abutment. He used to be annoyed by everything: loud chewing, bad pop music, Shane’s breathing when Shane was trying to sleep. He used to value silence above all else.

“Mommy shark, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo…”

Wyatt’s voice is high and slightly off-key. He kicks his feet in time with the rhythm, thumping against the seat.

“Daddy shark!” Wyatt shouts.

Ilya checks the rearview mirror. Wyatt is looking at him expectantly in the reflection.

“Sing, Papa!”

Ilya sighs. He checks his blind spot, changes lanes, and then, in his deep, gravelly baritone that has terrorized referees for fourteen years, he begins to sing. “Daddy shark, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo…”

Wyatt squeals with glee. “Grandpa shark!”

“Grandpa shark, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo,” Ilya sings, committing fully. He even does the little chomping motion with one hand on the steering wheel, which makes Wyatt lose his mind with joy.

They sing the entire song. Then they sing it again. By the time they hit the outskirts of Montreal, Ilya has sung about the sharks, the bus wheels going round and round, and a very specific song about a duck that walked up to a lemonade stand. He should be annoyed. He should be turning up the volume on a podcast. But he isn’t. He is singing about a duck, and he is happy.

They pull up to Hayden’s house just after noon. Hayden’s house is a sprawling historic manor in Westmount. It is a trek from Ottawa, but Ilya made good time, the Range Rover eating up the highway miles. Anya had spent most of the trip with her head resting on the edge of Wyatt’s car seat, her long, shaggy ears flapping in the breeze from the cracked window.

This neighborhood always makes him feel like he has driven into a different century. The streets are lined with ancient trees that form a canopy over the road, and the homes are not just houses—they are estates. And Hayden’s house looks like it should belong to a Prime Minister or a vampire, not a winger who once drank a beer out of a shoe on a dare.

There are no tricycles or scattered toys anymore. Instead, the dignified stone facade is currently serving as the backdrop for a beat-up Jeep Wrangler that definitely belongs to a teenager who just got a driver's license and does not understand parallel parking. There is a hockey net in the driveway that has seen serious abuse, its mesh torn and fluttering in the wind, and a lacrosse stick abandoned on the manicured front lawn.

Thumping bass shakes the air, vibrating from the open garage door where a drum kit is visible. Anya lets out a sharp, excited woof at the sound, her tail thumping wildly against the seat.

The contrast makes Ilya smirk. Hayden has taken a museum and turned it into a frat house for teenagers.

He kills the engine.

“We here?” Wyatt asks from the back.

“We are here,” Ilya confirms. He glances back at Anya, who is already pacing the backseat, her long, multi-colored fur shimmering in the sunlight. “Remember, do not break the walls. And Anya, do not shed on the expensive rugs. Jackie will kill us all.”

Anya lets out a whimper of pure impatience.

Ilya gets out and opens the back door. Anya is out in a flash, a blur of shaggy mottled fur and wiggling hips, her nose immediately hitting the gravel to catch the scent of the Pike family’s chaotic yard. Ilya then unbuckles Wyatt. As soon as Wyatt’s feet hit the ground, the massive oak front door swings open.

It is Ruby, one of the twins. She is seventeen now, tall like Hayden, wearing a McGill University hoodie and holding a phone. She looks bored until she spots the toddler and the dog.

“Oh my god,” Ruby says, her face lighting up. She turns back into the house. “Guys! The baby and Anya are here!”

She hurriedly jogs down the steps. “Hi, Uncle Ilya,” she says, giving him a quick side-hug before dropping to her knees. Anya is on her immediately, licking Ruby’s face with practiced precision.

“Hi, Anya! Yes, I missed you too, you shaggy monster.” She then directs her attention to his son. “Hi, Wyatt. Look at your outfit. You look like a little skater boy.”

Wyatt grins, preening. “I have dinosaurs.”

“That is a truck, genius,” Jade says, appearing in the doorway. She is holding car keys. “Hi, Uncle Ilya. Dad’s out back.”

Arthur (fourteen) and Amber (twelve) wander out behind her. Arthur is lanky, awkward, and currently taller than Ilya remembers him being last month. Amber is wearing soccer cleats and eating an apple.

“Can we take him? And can I have the leash?” Amber asks, gesturing to Wyatt with the apple and then to Anya, who is currently trying to herd Ruby toward the door.

“Please,” Ilya says, handing over the diaper bag to Ruby and the leather leash to Amber. “Wyatt has been screaming about baby shark for an hour, and Anya has been trying to eat my headrest. They are your problem now.”

Arthur grins, scooping Wyatt up effortlessly. It is strange for Ilya to see. He remembers holding Arthur in one hand like a football. Now, Arthur is hoisting Ilya’s thirty-two-pound son onto his shoulders while Anya circles his legs, her tail waving like a flag.

“Let’s go show him the setup,” Arthur says to Wyatt. “I leveled up in FIFA. Anya can watch.”

“Fee-fa!” Wyatt cheers, grabbing Arthur’s hair. Anya lets out another happy bark, ready for the mission.

Arthur winces, trying to loosen slightly Wyatt‘s hold on his hair. “Ow. Dude. Watch the flow.”

Ilya watches them go—his tiny son and his shaggy, long-haired dog disappearing into a phalanx of teenagers who treat them both like living toys—and feels a distinct ache in his knees.

“They make you feel old, don’t they?”

Ilya turns. Hayden is standing by the garage. He looks exactly the same, just grayer. He is wearing mesh shorts and a t-shirt that says World’s Okayest Golfer.

“They are giants,” Ilya says, shaking his head. “I remember when Ruby was size of loaf of bread. Now she drives Jeep.”

“She drives it badly,” Hayden says, hugging Ilya. “Come on. Beer. The back deck is a teenager-free zone.”

They walk through the house. It smells different than it used to. No more diapers or baby powder. Now the high ceilings echo with the scent of Axe body spray, expensive perfume, and endless amounts of food. The furniture is still nice—Jackie wouldn’t allow otherwise—but the vibe is distinctly lived-in.

“How is the trophy wife life?” Hayden asks as they settle into chairs on the deck.

“House manager,” Ilya corrects automatically. He takes the beer Hayden offers.

From the deck, Ilya can see the yard. The trampoline is still there, tucked away near the rose garden, but now the teens are lounging on it, staring at their phones, while Wyatt bounces in the center, performing for his captive audience. Every time Wyatt does a "trick" (falling down), the teenagers cheer sarcastically but lovingly.

“I remember painting their nails,” Ilya murmurs, watching Jade film a TikTok of Wyatt bouncing. “They were so small. They wanted the purple glitter.”

“Jade still has that photo framed in her room, actually,” Hayden says. “Uncle Ilya and his manicure salon.”

Ilya smiles, but it feels wistful. “Now they are babysitting my son.”

“It’s good for them. Reminds them not to get pregnant,” Hayden jokes, but his eyes are warm. “Arthur loves him. He’s been asking when ‘Baby Thor’ was coming over all week.”

“Baby Thor?”

“Because he’s small but destroys everything.”

“He is structural engineer,” Ilya defends weakly.

“He threw a lamp at your TV.”

“It was accident.”

Hayden laughs. He leans back, looking at Ilya.“You okay, Rozy? You look… restless.”

Ilya sighs, peeling the label off his beer. “Shane goes back to camp in three weeks. He is running. He is drinking the sludge. He has the eyes.”

“The killer brown eyes?”

“Yes. And I am… here. I wake up, I make pancakes, I negotiate with terrorist about wearing pants. And then I come here and see your kids driving cars.” Ilya gestures to the yard. “It goes fast.”

“Too fast,” Hayden agrees. “One day you’re wiping their ass, the next day you’re paying their tuition.”

“Today Wyatt asked me what my job was.”

Hayden clutches his left chest, feigning a wince. “Ouch.”

“I did not know what to say.”

“You’re a dad. That’s the job.”

“Is not enough,” Ilya admits, the words feeling heavy. “I love him. I love Shane. But my brain… it need to do something. Something that is not just… existing.”

Hayden nods slowly. “You know, the community rink in Kanata is falling apart.”

Ilya blinks at Hayden. “The municipal one?”

“Yeah. Boards are rotting. Ice plant is dying. It’s a hazard.”

“I saw it,” Ilya says slowly. “I drove past it last week.”

“Just saying. Someone with time, money, and a frightening amount of hockey knowledge could probably turn that place around.”

Ilya looks at his beer. Then he looks at the yard, where Arthur is now letting Wyatt try to tackle him.

“I could fix it,” he says, the idea taking root. “I could pay for the renovation. And maybe… run a clinic. For the kids who cannot afford the camps.”

Hayden grins teasingly. “Coach Rozanov?”

“Not Coach. Consultant.”

“The Consultant. I like it.”

“Keeps me busy. While Shane is gone.”

“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” Hayden says and Ilya can see the sincerity in him. “But first, you have to go rescue your son. I think Ruby is trying to teach him a TikTok dance.”

Ilya looks. Sure enough, Wyatt is wiggling his hips while Ruby films him.

“He has rhythm,” he says proudly, standing up. “He gets it from me.”

“God help us all,” Hayden laughs.

Ilya walks down the steps toward the teenagers and his son, and for the first time in months, he doesn’t feel just like a retired hockey player. He feels like a man with a plan.

It is 1:30 p.m. at the Bell Sensplex—the Centaurs’ practice facility in Kanata. Main camp doesn’t officially start for another week, but the “optional” captains’ skates have never been optional. Not if you want to make the roster. Not if you want to stay on Shane Hollander’s good side.

“Again!” Shane barks, voice echoing off the empty stands. “Move your feet, Johnson! You’re gliding!”

He blows the whistle hard enough that it hurts his ears. Twenty guys turn at the blue line, gasping. Steam rises off their shoulders in the cold arena air. They’re tired. They’re sweaty. And they’re looking at Shane like he’s a tyrant.

Fine. Let them.

Shane digs his edges in and demonstrates the drill one more time. His hips twinge—they always do now, especially when he pushes off hard—but he ignores it. He’d done his PT this morning. He’s managing it. When he explodes off the hash marks, driving hard to the net, his body remembers what to do. The puck snaps top shelf past Hayes—who’s looking sharp today—and Shane allows himself half a second of satisfaction before circling back to center ice.

“Clean it up,” he orders. “Passes on the tape. If the puck is bouncing, you’re doing it wrong. Let’s go.”

He watches them run it. Critiques. Pushes.

But in the quiet moments between drills, when it’s just the sound of heavy breathing and skates cutting ice, Shane’s hand drifts to his chest without thinking. Even when he’s not holding Wyatt, he feels the weight of him. The ghost of a tiny hand gripping his collar. The smell of milk and baby shampoo that used to cling to everything he owned.

Now he smells like sweat and ice. His arms feel wrong. Too light.

He looks toward the bench, half-expecting to see Ilya there, leaning on his stick with that lazy, arrogant grin, ready to chirp Shane about something. But the bench is empty except for the trainer.

Ilya’s gone. Not gone-gone—retired. Twenty minutes away, probably trying to get Wyatt to nap or losing a battle against lunch time. But here, on the ice, the absence of number 81 feels like a hole in the universe. For the first time in his professional career, Shane’s skating without his shadow.

He blows the whistle again, harder than necessary.

“Alright, bring it in!” Shane yells. “Stretch it out.”

The boys gather at center ice. Shane scans the faces while they catch their breath. Troy Barrett, his alternate captain, looking steady and reliable as always. Boodram is there, grinning despite the grueling skate. Luca Haas is trying not to look like he’s dying. And then there are the kids—rookies who were in middle school when Shane won his first Cup.

He skates toward the gate. Standing on the other side of the glass, tapping furiously on a tablet, is Harris. He’s wearing a fitted Centaurs polo and holding up an iPhone as Shane approaches.

“Don’t frown,” Harris calls out through the gap in the glass. “It’s for the Instagram story. We need ‘Determined Captain’ energy, not ‘Homicidal Captain’ energy.”

Shane stops, spraying a little snow against the boards. “Put the phone away, Harris.”

“Can’t. Content machine never sleeps.” Harris lowers the phone, flashing his sunny, unshakeable smile. “Troy looks good out there. You guys are flying.”

“We’re okay,” Shane says, taking a squirt from his water bottle. It’s never enough. “How’s the social engagement?”

“Through the roof. People miss you.” Harris grins. “Though, to be fair, the engagement on the video Ilya posted of Wyatt eating spaghetti is higher than anything I’ve posted about hockey in six months.”

“Yeah,” he says proudly. “My son is cute.”

“He’s a star. Ilya’s basically running a mommy blog at this point. It’s genius, actually. The algorithm loves it.”

“Get out of here,” Shane quips.

“Aye aye, Captain.” Harris wanders off toward the locker room tunnel, presumably to bother Troy.

The locker room is loud—the snap of tape, the thud of equipment hitting the floor, the crude, easy banter of hockey players who’ve known each other too long. Shane sits in his stall—the corner stall, the captain’s spot. The stall used to be Ilya’s.

Shane stares at the empty space a beat too long before he starts stripping off his gear. Skates first. Then shin pads. Socks. As soon as his hands are free, he reaches for his phone.

One new message from Ilya. A video.

Shane taps it instantly. The video loads. It’s Wyatt, bouncing on a trampoline that is definitely at Hayden’s house. He’s surrounded by the Pike children—Amber, Arthur, and the twins. Wyatt looks tiny and fragile and impossibly happy.

“I fly!” Wyatt screams in the video, his curls wild. “Look Papa! I FLY!”

Shane watches it three times. Zooms in on Wyatt’s face, checking for—what? Signs of danger on a toddler trampoline? He’s being ridiculous. He knows he’s being ridiculous.

He watches for the fourth time. A pang of something—jealousy? guilt?—hits him square in the chest. He should be there. Now he’s missing a Tuesday afternoon trampoline session.

This is what you signed up for, he reminds himself. This is the deal.

It doesn’t help.

“Cute kid.”

Shane looks up. Troy is standing there, buttoning his dress shirt.

“Yeah,” Shane says. He clears his throat. “He’s at Pike’s place.”

“Brave man,” Troy laughs. “Pike’s kids are feral. Arthur nearly took my head off with a lacrosse ball last time we were there.”

“Ilya’s with him.”

“Even braver.” Troy sits on the bench next to Shane to tie his shoes. “How’s the adjustment? Being back full-time?”

Shane sighs. He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, grimacing when he realizes how disgusting it is. “It’s… weird. My body feels okay. Better than I thought it would.”

“You were flying out there, Cap. Honestly. I think you’re faster than before.”

“Maybe.” Shane almost smiles. “I’ve been chasing a toddler for eight months. It’s good cardio.”

Troy chuckles, then his expression shifts. More serious. “What about the other part? The…” He gestures vaguely at the empty stall next to Shane.

Shane looks at it again. The bare hooks. The blank nameplate space. “It’s quiet,” he says finally. “The ice feels different. Quieter, I guess.”

“Yeah. It’s gonna take some getting used to.” Troy follows his gaze to the empty stall. “You guys good, though? He’s actually okay with the whole house-husband gig?”

“He says he is.” Shane looks back at the phone, at the thumbnail of the video frozen on Wyatt’s laughing face. “He drove two hours to Hayden’s today because he was losing his mind. I think he’s bored. He needs something to do.”

“He should come coach the power play,” Boodram chimes in from across the room, pulling a t-shirt over his head. “Seriously. Our power play sucked last year without him.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Shane warns. “He’ll show up with a whistle and start running you into the ground.”

“Would it help?” Boodram asks, grinning.

“Probably,” Shane admits.

He finishes undressing and hits the showers. Quick. Efficient. He just wants to get home. He throws on his street clothes—jeans and a soft grey sweater that he knows Wyatt likes to rub his face against—and packs his bag in record time. The drive home is forty minutes of traffic and guilt. Did Wyatt nap? Did he eat lunch? Did he ask for Daddy? Did Shane remember to text Ilya about the diaper rash cream?

It’s a constant splitting of the self. Shane Hollander, the hockey player, wants to watch game tape and analyze his team’s footwork. Shane Hollander-Rozanov, the father, wants to know if the dinosaur shirt got stained and whether Wyatt’s molluscum is getting better.

When he finally pulls into the driveway, the sun is starting to dip lower in the sky. Ilya’s Range Rover is there. The house looks peaceful. Normal.

Shane unlocks the front door and toes off his shoes.

Silence.

“Hello?” Shane calls out, keeping his voice low just in case.

“Shh!”

Ilya appears at the top of the stairs, looking disheveled. His hair is a mess, and there’s a suspicious orange stain on his grey t-shirt that definitely looks like Cheeto dust. But he’s smiling.

“He is sleeping,” Ilya says, padding down the stairs soft-footed. “The trampoline. It drained his battery. He fell asleep in the car on the way home.”

Shane lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “How long ago?”

“Twenty minutes. Maybe I can move him to his bed when he is deeper asleep.”

“Don’t risk it.” Shane meets Ilya at the bottom of the stairs. “Where is he now?”

“The car seat. In the living room. I did not want to chance it.”

Shane feels the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. “Smart.”

Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s waist, pulling him in.

“Hey,” Shane drawls, leaning into him.

“How was practice?” Ilya asks, kissing Shane’s forehead.

“Good. Hard.” Shane closes his eyes. “Johnson’s lazy. Troy looks sharp. I might have pushed them too hard, but—” He stops himself. “I missed you.”

Ilya hums, rubbing Shane’s back in slow circles. “I missed you too. And Wyatt asked for you. Three times.”

Shane’s heart clenches. “Yeah?”

“Yes. But he had fun. He played with Hayden’s kids. Ruby taught him a dance.”

“Oh god.”

“Is very cute. I have video.”

Shane pulls back slightly to look at Ilya. Studies his face for signs of… what? Regret? Boredom? But Ilya looks good. Tired, but good. “Hayden said you have a plan. Something about buying a rink?”

Ilya’s eyes light up. It’s the spark—the same one he used to get before a big game. Shane hasn’t seen it in weeks.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I am going to buy the Kanata rink.”

“The one with the—” Shane makes a vague gesture. “The broken boards? That place is a disaster.”

“I know. That is why is cheap.” Ilya’s grin widens. “The summer camp is two weeks, Shane. Two weeks is nothing. I cannot build something real in two weeks.”

“Build something real,” Shane repeats slowly. “Like what?”

“A headquarters. A permanent home for the Irina Foundation.” Ilya gestures grandly, and Shane can already see him doing this in front of investors or journalists. “Right now, we rent ice. We beg for ice time from the city. It is undignified. So I am going to buy the broken rink. I will gut it. New pipes. New glass. New everything. And I will run a year-round academy.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “Year-round?”

“Yes. After-school programs. Weekend leagues. For the kids who cannot afford the AA fees. I will give them the best ice in Ontario, and I will coach them myself. Every day.”

“Every day?” Shane asks, and he can’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re going to coach kids every day?”

“Yes. While you are at practice with the Centaurs, being fancy captain, I will be in the trenches. Molding the youth of tomorrow.”

Shane laughs. Actually laughs. “You just want a place to skate where no one can tell you what to do.”

“That is a bonus. But mostly, I want to yell at children about their edge work on a Tuesday in November. Not just in July.”

“An empire,” Shane muses. “That sounds… expensive.”

“Is investment. I have money.”

“I know, but—” Shane stops himself. This is what Ilya needs. Purpose. A project. Something that isn’t just watching Wyatt eat snacks and waiting for Shane to come home. “Okay. Tell me more. What’s the timeline on this?”

“Maybe six months to buy? Then renovation. I want to open next September.”

“That’s ambitious.” Shane can already see the stress of it—the permits, the contractors, the insurance headaches. But he can also see the light in Ilya’s eyes. The certainty. “You’ll need contractors, permits, insurance—”

“I know, I know. I will hire people. Harris can help with the business things. He is good at organizing.”

Shane softens. Reaches up and cups Ilya’s face with both hands. “You really want to do this.”

“Yes.” Ilya’s hazel eyes are bright, alive. Shane wants to stay it that way, forever. “I need to do this.”

“Okay.” Shane strokes his thumb along Ilya’s cheekbone. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

“We?”

“Yeah. We.” Shane kisses him, soft and quick. “You think I’m letting you renovate a rink without project management? You’ll bankrupt us in three months.”

“I would not—”

“You absolutely would.” Shane kisses him again. “It’s a good idea, though. Really good.”

Ilya’s smile is smug. Triumphant. “I know.”

“And humble, as always,” he says.

Ilya winks. “One of my best qualities.”

Shane is about to respond when he hears a soft whimper from the living room. They both freeze.

“Shit,” Shane whispers.

Another whimper. Then a cranky little voice: “Papa?”

“I’ll get him,” Ilya says, but Shane’s already moving.

He finds Wyatt in the car seat, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists. His curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his cheeks are flushed pink. He looks up at Shane with bleary, unfocused eyes.

“Hey, my heart,” Shane says softly, crouching down. “Did you have a good nap?”

“Daddy.” Wyatt reaches for him, making grabby hands.

He unbuckles Wyatt carefully—the straps are always too tight when Ilya does it—and lifts him out. Wyatt immediately burrows into Shane’s neck, hot and heavy and perfect.

“Daddy got you,” Shane murmurs, standing up. “You’re okay.”

Ilya appears in the doorway, watching them with an expression Shane can’t quite read.

“What?” Shane asks.

“Nothing.” Ilya steps closer, reaching out to smooth down Wyatt’s wild curls. “You are both very cute. It makes me… Emotional.”

“Don’t go getting soft on me now,” Shane says, but his voice is gentle.

“Too late.” Ilya kisses Shane’s temple, then Wyatt’s. “I am very soft. Like marshmallow.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, and he means it in every possible way. “My idiot.”

Wyatt lifts his head from Shane’s shoulder, looking between them with sleepy confusion. “Papa idiot?”

Ilya gasps, mock-offended. “No! Daddy is idiot.”

“Hey—”

“Both idiot,” Wyatt declares, and drops his head back down.

Shane and Ilya look at each other and start laughing, trying to keep it quiet so they don’t fully wake Wyatt up. It doesn’t quite work. Wyatt squirms, making protesting noises, and Shane has to bounce him a little to settle him back down.

“Come on,” Ilya says, nodding toward the stairs. “Let’s try to get him into the bed before he wakes up all the way.”

“Good luck with that,” Shane mutters, but he follows Ilya upstairs anyway.

They manage—barely—to get Wyatt into his red Lightning McQueen bed without a full meltdown. It takes fifteen minutes of careful maneuvering, gentle shushing, and strategic placement of the stuffed bear that Wyatt can’t sleep without. By the time they tiptoe out of the nursery, Shane’s back is aching and he needs a shower.

“That was a nightmare,” Shane says as they head back downstairs.

“That was successful,” Ilya corrects. “A nightmare is when he wakes up screaming and stays awake for three hours.”

“Fair point.”

They end up in the kitchen. Shane leans against the counter, suddenly exhausted. Ilya opens the fridge, peers inside, and closes it again without taking anything.

“Are you hungry?” Shane asks.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Ilya turns to face him. “I ate Cheetos and Hamburgers at Hayden’s house. And drank beer. And played with children. It was…” He trails off, frowning slightly.

“What?”

“I don’t know. Strange. To be the one at home while you are at practice.”

There it is. The thing Shane’s been worried about since Ilya made this decision.

“Do you hate it?” Shane asks carefully.

“No.” Ilya says it quickly, firmly. “No, I don’t hate it. I love being with Wyatt. But I also spent ten minutes today watching him eat a cheese stick, and I thought, this is my life now. This is what I do.”

Shane nods slowly. “And the rink thing? The academy?”

“Will help. Yes. I think it will help.” Ilya crosses the space between them, crowding into Shane’s personal space the way he always does. “I do not regret retiring, Shane. I don’t. My knee was fucked, and I was tired, and I wanted to be here. With you. With him.” He gestures upstairs. “But I also need… something. You understand?”

“Yeah.” Shane does understand. More than Ilya probably realizes. “I get it.”

“Good.” Ilya’s hands slide under Shane’s sweater, warm palms against Shane’s stomach. “Now. We have maybe one hour before he wakes up again. What should we do with this time?”

Shane’s brain, exhausted and overstimulated, takes a moment to catch up. “I should take a bath.”

“Good idea.”

“I still smell like the rink.”

“I know.” Ilya’s voice drops lower. “It makes me horny.” His hands are already sliding further up under Shane’s shirt, and Shane’s body is already responding in ways that make rational thought difficult.

“What if he wakes up?” Shane asks, even as he’s leaning into Ilya’s touch.

“He won’t. Hayden’s children destroyed him.”

“We should probably—”

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice is low, serious. “We have maybe thirty minutes. Don’t waste it thinking.”

Shane’s resolve crumbles. It’s been three days since they’ve had time alone—actually alone, not stolen kisses in the kitchen or hurried groping in the garage—and his body is making executive decisions without consulting his brain.

“Okay,” Shane says. “Fast, though. And we’re keeping our ears open.”

“Always so romantic,” Ilya teases, but he’s already pulling Shane toward the stairs.

“One of my best qualities,” Shane shoots back.

They make it to the bedroom. Barely. Shane’s already pulling his sweater over his head when Ilya’s phone buzzes on the dresser.

They both freeze.

“Ignore it,” Ilya says.

It buzzes again. And again.

“Goddammit,” Shane mutters. He grabs Ilya’s phone and glances at the screen. “It’s Harris. He’s sent you, like, six texts.”

“What does he want?”

Shane scrolls through the messages. “Something about… Instagram engagement metrics? And a sponsorship opportunity? Jesus, does this guy ever stop working?”

“No.” Ilya takes the phone and tosses it onto the bed. “But I am stopping. Right now.” He reaches for Shane again, but Shane’s already stepping back, the moment broken.

“We should probably respond to him,” Shane says. “It might be important.”

“Shane.”

“What? It might be!”

Ilya stares at him for a long moment, then huffs out a laugh. “You are impossible.”

“I’m practical.”

“You are a mood killer.”

“I’m being responsible,” Shane protests, but he’s smiling now too. The tension has shifted into something lighter, more familiar. “We can still—”

A cry from down the hall.

“Fuck,” they say in unison.

Shane drops his head back and stares at the ceiling. “I’m going to kill Hayden for giving him Cheetos.”

“The Cheetos are not the problem,” Ilya says, already heading toward the door. “The trampoline was the problem. Too much excitement.”

“Then I’m going to kill Hayden for having a trampoline.”

“Get in line.”

Shane follows Ilya to the nursery, where Wyatt is standing in his bed, crying and reaching for them. His hair is a disaster and his blanket is twisted around his legs.

“Oh, buddy,” Shane says, lifting him out. “You’re okay. We’re here.”

Wyatt clings to him, still crying, and Shane can feel the heat radiating off his little body. He glances at Ilya, who’s already pulling out his phone—the one they keep for the baby monitor and emergency contacts.

“Is he hot?” Ilya asks. “Should we check his temperature?”

“He’s just sweaty from the nap. He’s fine.” Shane bounces Wyatt gently, rubbing his back. “You’re fine, right? Just confused?”

Wyatt’s cries are already tapering off into hiccupping whimpers. He rubs his face against Shane’s shoulder, leaving a trail of snot and tears on the grey sweater.

“There we go,” Shane murmurs. “That’s better.”

Ilya reaches out and smooths Wyatt’s hair back from his forehead. “Do you want Papa or Daddy right now?”

Wyatt lifts his head and looks between them, considering. Then he reaches for Ilya.

“Traitor,” Shane says mildly, handing him over.

“He likes me best,” Ilya says smugly, settling Wyatt on his hip.

“He likes whoever he hasn’t seen all day,” Shane corrects. “Give it ten minutes.”

As if to prove Shane’s point, Wyatt starts squirming immediately, reaching back for Shane. “Daddy. Want Daddy.”

“See?” Shane takes him back, trying not to look too pleased about it. “Fickle.”

They end up downstairs in the living room. Shane sits on the couch with Wyatt in his lap, and Ilya sprawls out next to them, one hand on Shane’s thigh. Wyatt is still groggy and clingy, content to just sit and exist between his parents.

“We should probably start thinking about dinner,” Shane says eventually.

“I will order something,” Ilya offers.

“Healthy something.”

“I will order healthy something,” Ilya amends, pulling out his phone. “Thai? Vietnamese?”

“Vietnamese. That place with the good pho.”

“The one that forgot the chopsticks last time?”

“Yeah, but the food was good.”

Ilya nods and starts scrolling through the menu on his phone. Shane watches him, noting the way his tongue sticks out slightly when he’s concentrating, the way his free hand is absently rubbing circles on Shane’s knee.

“What are you thinking about?” Ilya asks without looking up from his phone.

“Nothing,” Shane lies.

“Liar.”

Shane adjusts Wyatt in his lap, who’s getting heavier by the second as he starts to doze off again. “I’m thinking that I’m glad you have the rink thing. The academy.”

Ilya finally looks up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Shane meets his gaze. “I was worried. About you being bored. About you regretting—” He stops, glancing down at Wyatt. “Everything.”

“I don’t regret everything,” Ilya says softly. “I regret nothing.” He reaches over and touches Shane’s face, gentle. “Okay?”

Shane smiles. “Okay.”

To be continued…

Chapter End Notes:

Hello lovies!

I hope you enjoyed meeting this family again, and meeting three-year-old Wyatt, who is very much Ilya and Shane’s little lesson on this earth—teaching them patience and keeping them humble.

I’ve adjusted the timeline, so in this fic it’s 2030 and Shane and Ilya are both thirty-five years old.

See you! 💜

Love,

Azi 💜

P.S I tried writing hockey scenes in this fic. If you don’t know hockey, you’ll be fine. If you do, you won’t. Sorry in advance!

Oxygen

The next morning, Shane is elbow-deep in scrambled eggs when Wyatt announces, “Papa gone.”

“I know, honey.” Shane keeps his focus on not burning breakfast. The pan is too hot. He should have turned it down thirty seconds ago, but Wyatt was asking about his socks and Shane got distracted trying to remember which drawer has the matching pairs versus which drawer has become a sock graveyard.

“Where Papa go?”

“To look at the rink. Remember? We talked about this last night.” Shane slides the eggs onto a plate, then immediately second-guesses the portion size. Too much? Wyatt ate a lot yesterday. But he also didn’t finish dinner. Shane should have written it down. He’d meant to write it down.

“I want Papa.”

“Papa will be back tonight.” Shane sets the plate on the table, then realizes he forgot the fork. He turns back to the drawer. Which drawer? The one by the sink. No, the one by the stove. He opens three drawers before he finds the utensils.

“I want Papa NOW.”

“I know you do.” Shane puts the fork on the table, then stares at the plate. Something is missing. Fruit. Wyatt is supposed to have fruit with breakfast. Ilya always gives him fruit. Shane opens the fridge and stares at the contents. Blueberries? Strawberries? Grapes need to be cut. Does Wyatt even like grapes?

“Daddy, I HUNGRY.”

“I’m getting it. Just—hold on.” Shane grabs the strawberries because they’re already washed and in a container. He dumps some on the plate.

Wyatt is already climbing into his booster seat, which is good. That’s one less thing Shane has to manage. But then Wyatt looks at the plate and his face does something complicated. “I don’t want eggs.”

Shane closes his eyes. Breathes. “You had eggs yesterday. You liked them.”

“I don’t like them today.”

“Wyatt—”

“I want pancakes.”

“We had pancakes yesterday.”

“I want them TODAY.” Wyatt’s voice is climbing into a register that makes Shane’s ears hurt.

“You can’t have pancakes every day.” Shane is trying to stay calm, trying to remember what Ilya does in these situations. Ilya would probably give him the pancakes. Ilya would say something about picking battles. But Shane made the eggs, and they’re already on the plate.

“Please?” Wyatt puts on his best puppy eyes. The one that works on Ilya every single time.

It’s not going to work on Shane.

“You’re eating the eggs,” he says firmly.

Wyatt’s face screws up.

“No!” his son shouts. Wyatt shoves the plate away and it slides across the table. A strawberry rolls off and lands on the floor.

“Wyatt Ilyich Hollander-Rozanov—”

“I WANT PAPA!”

Shane’s jaw tightens. He picks up the strawberry from the floor, rinses it in the sink, puts it back on the plate. He’s trying to keep his hands busy because if he stops moving, he’s going to start yelling, and he doesn’t want to yell at his three-year-old son over scrambled eggs.

“Papa isn’t here,” Shane says, setting the plate back in front of Wyatt. “I’m here. And I made you breakfast.”

Wyatt crosses his arms. His chin wobbles. “I don’t WANT breakfast.”

“You said you were hungry.”

“I’m not hungry now.”

Shane stares at him. His son stares back, defiant in ways that remind Shane of himself at that age, which doesn’t help.

“Fine.” Shane picks up the plate. “Don’t eat.”

He walks to the counter and sets the plate down harder than he means to. The fork clatters. Wyatt flinches.

Shit.

Shane braces his hands on the counter, staring down at the eggs that are already congealing, already ruined. He should have made pancakes. Why didn’t he just make pancakes? It would have taken ten extra minutes and saved him this entire fight. But he didn’t, because he thought—what? That Wyatt needed to learn he can’t have dessert for every meal?

He hears a sniffle behind him. When he turns around, Wyatt is crying. “Hey.” He crosses the kitchen in three strides and crouches beside the booster seat. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“I want Papa,” Wyatt sobs.

“I know.” Shane reaches out and wipes a tear from Wyatt’s cheek with his thumb. “I know you do, darling.”

“Why he leave?”

“He didn’t leave. He’s just working. He’ll be home later.”

“I want him NOW.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say to that. He wants Ilya now too. Wants him to walk through the door and take over, to know instinctively what Wyatt needs in a way Shane can’t seem to figure out.

“How about this,” Shane says slowly. “You eat three bites of eggs and one strawberry, and then we’ll do something fun. Whatever you want.”

Wyatt sniffles, considering. “Anything?”

“Within reason.”

“What’s reason?”

“It means I’m not buying you a pony.”

Wyatt’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “I don’t want a pony.”

“Good. So what do you want?”

Wyatt thinks hard, his face scrunching up in concentration. “Can we go to the park?”

The park. Shane glances at the clock. It’s 7:15 a.m. He’s never taken Wyatt to the park alone. Ilya always does park trips.

“Sure,” Shane hears himself say. “We can go to the park.”

“And I can go on the swings?”

“Yes.”

“And the slide?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll push me really high?”

“Yes.” Shane is making promises he’s not sure he can keep, but Wyatt is smiling now, and that feels like a win.

“Okay.” Wyatt picks up his fork. He stabs at the eggs and eats three bites. Then he eats a strawberry. Then, because he’s three and unpredictable, he eats the rest of the eggs without being asked.

Shane slumps against the cabinet, watching his son eat, and feels like he’s just run a marathon.

The park is a disaster. Not objectively. Objectively, the park is fine. It’s a beautiful September morning, cool and clear, and the playground is empty except for one tired-looking dad with a baby strapped to his chest. The equipment is clean, the wood chips are fresh, and there’s a giant climbing structure that Wyatt immediately runs toward with the kind of feral enthusiasm that makes Shane’s anxiety spike.

“Baby! Careful!” Shane calls, jogging after him.

Wyatt doesn’t slow down. He hits the climbing structure at full speed, grabbing onto the lowest rung and hauling himself up. He’s fearless. He’s always been fearless, and Shane doesn’t know where he gets it from. Not from him, who spent his entire childhood afraid of disappointing people. Not from Ilya, who was cocky but never reckless.

“Wyatt, wait—”

But Wyatt is already three rungs up, his little sneakers slipping on the metal. Shane’s heart leaps into his throat. He moves without thinking, positioning himself directly under Wyatt, hands outstretched like he’s trying to catch a pass.

“I got it, Daddy!” Wyatt yells.

“I know you do. Just—slow down, honey.”

Wyatt doesn’t slow down. He climbs higher, faster, and Shane is tracking every movement, calculating the distance to the ground, the angle of the fall, the likelihood of a broken bone. His brain is doing what it always does—running worst-case scenarios on a loop, preparing for disaster even when disaster isn’t imminent.

Wyatt reaches the top of the climbing structure and grins down at Shane, triumphant. “Look! I’m so high!”

“I see you. Good job.” Shane’s voice sounds strangled. “Now come down. Carefully.”

“I want to go down the slide!”

The slide. Shane looks at the slide, which is attached to the climbing structure by a narrow platform that Wyatt will have to navigate. The platform has railings, but they’re low. Too low. A three-year-old could absolutely slip through those railings if he wasn’t careful.

“Okay,” Shane says, trying to keep his voice calm. “Just—hold onto the rail. Don’t let go.”

Wyatt lets go immediately, because of course he does, and starts walking across the platform like he’s strolling down a sidewalk. Shane moves with him, tracking his every step, hands still outstretched. The other dad at the playground glances over, probably wondering why Shane looks like he’s trying to prevent a hostage situation.

Wyatt reaches the slide. He sits down at the top, legs dangling, and looks at Shane expectantly.

“You watch me, Daddy?”

“I’m watching.” Shane positions himself at the bottom of the slide, ready to catch Wyatt if he comes down too fast, even though that’s ridiculous. Kids go down slides. It’s what slides are for.

Wyatt pushes off. He slides down, giggling, and Shane catches him at the bottom, hands gripping Wyatt’s waist.

“Again!” Wyatt shouts.

“Okay,” he says tiredly. “One more time.”

They do it six more times.

By the seventh time, Shane’s shirt is soaked with sweat despite the cool air. His shoulders are tense, his jaw is tight, and he feels like he’s been playing a triple-overtime playoff game.

“Daddy, push me on the swings now!” his son yells.

He walks Wyatt over to the swing set and lifts him into the seat. Wyatt’s legs dangle, not quite reaching the ground. Shane makes sure the chains are secure, then steps back and gives the swing a gentle push.

“Higher!” Wyatt demands.

Shane pushes harder.

“HIGHER!”

“This is high enough.”

“No! I want to go really high! You PROMISED!”

Shane did promise. He pushes harder. Wyatt squeals happily, his curls flying, his little hands gripping the chains. And Shane is watching him, tracking the arc of the swing, making sure he doesn’t lean too far back, doesn’t let go, doesn’t—

“DADDY, LOOK! NO HANDS!”

“Wyatt, don’t—”

But Wyatt has already let go of the chains, arms outstretched like he’s flying. The swing is still moving, still high, and Shane’s brain short-circuits. He lunges forward, grabbing Wyatt around the waist and pulling him off the swing mid-arc.

They both stumble. Shane catches himself, holding Wyatt against his chest. Wyatt is laughing, completely oblivious to the fact that Shane’s heart is trying to claw its way out of his ribcage.

“That was FUN!” Wyatt shrieks.

“That was dangerous,” Shane says sternly, the frown lines set deep on his forehead. “You don’t do that again.”

Wyatt’s smile fades. “I wasn’t gonna fall.”

“You could have.”

“But I didn’t, Daddy.”

He sets Wyatt down, then immediately regrets it because Wyatt’s lip starts to wobble.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says quickly. “I didn’t mean to—I just got scared, okay? You’re not supposed to let go of the swing, baby.”

“Papa lets me,” Wyatt says, pouting.

Shane doubts that. Ilya is reckless with himself, not with Wyatt. But he doesn’t argue. “Well, I don’t. Because it’s not safe.”

Wyatt crosses his arms, he looks more like Ilya now with his little glare. “You’re mean.”

“I’m not mean,” he says. “I’m trying to keep you from breaking your neck.”

“I want Papa,” Wyatt demands, stomping his feet.

And there it is again. The refrain of the day. Shane closes his eyes, breathes, and tries to remember what the parenting books said about redirection.

“Do you want to play on the other stuff?” Shane asks. “There’s a tunnel over there.”

“No.”

“We could go on the seesaw.”

“No.”

“Wyatt—”

“I want to go HOME.”

Shane glances at his watch. They’ve been here twenty minutes. Twenty minutes. He’d promised Wyatt fun. He’d promised himself he could handle this.

“Okay,” Shane says. “Let’s go home.”

The car ride is silent. Wyatt stares out the window, arms crossed, radiating three-year-old indignation. Shane drives, gripping the steering wheel too tight, replaying the park in his head. He overreacted. He knows he overreacted. Kids let go of swings all the time. It’s a thing they do. But the image of Wyatt falling, of his small body hitting the ground, of Shane failing to catch him—it loops in Shane’s mind like a highlight reel he can’t turn off.

They pull into the driveway, and Shane unbuckles Wyatt from the car seat. Wyatt doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t reach for him. Just slides out of the seat and walks toward the house, his little shoulders hunched.

Shane follows, unlocking the door. His son goes straight to the living room and sits on the floor, pulling out his bin of toys. He doesn’t ask Shane to play with him.

“Do you want a snack?” Shane asks.

“No.”

“Some juice?”

“No.”

Shane stands in the doorway, watching his son line up plastic dinosaurs with intense focus. He wants to fix this. Wants to sit down and explain that he wasn’t trying to ruin Wyatt’s fun, that he just loves him so much it makes him stupid sometimes. But Wyatt is three. He doesn’t want explanations. He wants Papa.

Shane goes to the kitchen. He stands at the sink, staring out the window at the backyard. His phone is on the counter. He could call Ilya. Should call Ilya. But what would he even say? I can’t handle our son for six hours without fucking it up?

He doesn’t call.

Instead, he opens the fridge and stares at the contents, trying to figure out what to make for lunch. Wyatt likes grilled cheese. Or he liked it last week. Does he still like it? Shane has no idea. Ilya would know.

He pulls out the cheese, the butter, the bread. His hands move on autopilot, assembling the sandwich, heating the pan. The sandwich is golden brown, perfectly toasted. Shane cuts it into triangles because that’s what Ilya does, then puts it on a plate with some apple slices.

He walks to the living room.

“Lunch is ready, baby.”

Wyatt doesn’t look up from the dinosaurs. “Not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

“I’m playing, Daddy.”

“You can play after lunch.”

“No.” Wyatt’s voice is rising. “I don’t WANT lunch. I want PAPA.”

“Papa’s not here,” Shane says, and he can hear the exhaustion in his own voice. “I’m here. And I made you food.”

“I DON’T WANT IT!” Wyatt grabs the nearest dinosaur and throws it. It bounces off the wall with a sharp crack.

Shane can feel he’s close to losing it. His sanity.

“Wyatt Ilyich, we do not throw things—”

“I HATE YOU DADDY!” Wyatt screams.

Shane’s whole body still. He knows Wyatt doesn’t mean it. He knows three-year-olds say things they don’t mean when they’re upset. But the words still fucking hurts.

“Okay,” he says quietly and sets the plate on the coffee table. “I’m going to give you some space.”

He walks out of the living room, and makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking. He braces himself against the counter, staring at the grilled cheese he made for himself that he has no intention of eating.

His phone buzzes. A text from Ilya.

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

How is my baby Thor?

Shane stares at the message. He could lie. Could say everything is fine. But his fingers move before his brain catches up.

Shane Hollander-Rozanov:

He hates me.

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

???

Shane Hollander-Rozanov:

He threw a dinosaur at the wall.

Told me he hates me. Won’t eat.

Won’t talk to me.

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

He does not hate you.

He is three. And he misses me.

Shane Hollander-Rozanov:

I can’t do this.

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

You CAN. You are doing it.

Shane Hollander-Rozanov:

I’m fucking it up.

The dots appear again, but this time they stay. Shane watches them, his chest tight, waiting for Ilya to tell him he’s overreacting, that he needs to calm down, that this is normal.

Instead, his phone rings.

Shane answers. “Hey.”

“Tell me what happened.” Ilya says calmly.

Shane tells him. The eggs. The park. The swing. The dinosaur. All of it tumbles out in a disjointed rush, and Ilya listens without interrupting.

When Shane finishes, there’s a pause.

“You did not fuck it up,” Ilya says finally.

“He threw a dinosaur—”

“He is three. I threw a dinosaur last week.”

“That’s different.”

“Not really.” Ilya’s tone is teasing. “Sweetheart. Listen to me. You are a good father. You are trying very hard. But you are also—how do I say this—you are making it harder than it needs to be.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Shane grumbles.

“It means you are thinking too much. You are trying to control everything. You cannot control a three-year-old. It is like trying to control the puck on bad ice. It will not go where you want.”

Shane huffs out a laugh despite himself. “That’s a terrible metaphor.”

“Is perfect metaphor.” Ilya’s voice softens. “He does not hate you. He is tired and confused and he does not understand why I am not there. But he loves you. So much. You know this.”

“I don’t know how you make it look so easy.”

“Is not easy for me either. You just do not see me when I am bad at it.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Shane says, letting out a long sigh.

“You stop trying to fix it,” Ilya says. “You sit with him. You let him be upset. And then, when he is ready, you give him a hug and you tell him you love him. That is all.”

“That’s all?”

“That is all.”

Shane hears a crash from the living room and winces. “I think he just knocked over the toy bin.”

“Good. Let him. He will clean up later.”

“Ilya—”

“Trust me. I will be home in four hours. You can survive four hours.”

“I don’t know—”

“You can.” Ilya’s voice is firm now. “You are Shane Hollander. You have won three Stanley Cups. You can handle one small boy.”

“Those things are not related,” he says.

“They are exactly related,” Ilya says. “You are tough. You are smart. And you love him more than anything. So go sit with him. Let him throw dinosaurs if he needs to. And breathe.”

Shane nods, even though Ilya can’t see him. “Okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“And Shane?”

“Yeah?”

“If he throws anything at your head, you have my permission to put him in time-out.”

Shane finally smiles. “Noted.”

He hangs up. Takes a breath. Then he walks back into the living room. Wyatt is sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by toys. The bin is overturned. There are blocks everywhere. Wyatt’s face is blotchy and tear-streaked, and he’s clutching Bear to his chest. Shane sits down on the floor next to him.

“I’m sorry I got scared at the park,” Shane says quietly.

Wyatt doesn’t respond. He hugs Bear tighter.

“I know you wanted to have fun, and I ruined it. I’m sorry, baby.”

Still nothing.

Shane picks up a dinosaur—the T-Rex, Wyatt’s favorite—and sets it in front of him. “You want to play?”

Wyatt glances at the dinosaur, then up at Shane. His chin wobbles, lips pressing together in a way that looks painfully like Ilya.

“I miss Papa,” he says.

“I know.” Shane reaches out slowly, carefully, and puts a hand on Wyatt’s back. “I miss him too.”

Wyatt leans into the touch. Just a little. Just enough. Shane takes his chance and pulls him closer, and suddenly Wyatt is scrambling into his lap, his stuffed bear squished between their chests. He tucks his wet face into the crook of Shane’s neck, and Shane wraps his arms around him, holding on tight.

"Sorry, Daddy," Wyatt mumbles into Shane’s shirt. "Sorry."

"I know. It's okay," Shane says softly, starting to rock them back and forth. "I’ve got you."

Wyatt pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes still glassy. "Are you mad at me, Daddy?"

"No. I’m not mad. Daddy could never be mad at you." Shane pushes a curl off Wyatt's forehead and presses a kiss there. "I love you so much."

Wyatt sniffles, resting his hand on Shane's cheek. "How much?"

Shane smiles, the expression softening the worry lines around his eyes. He touches the tip of his nose to Wyatt’s. "Bigger than the whole sky," Shane murmurs against him. "And definitely more than that T-Rex."

Wyatt’s eyes widen slightly, and he lets out a wet, hiccuping giggle. "That’s a lot."

"Yeah," Shane agrees, hugging him closer again. "It really is."

“Can I have the grilled cheese now?” Wyatt suddenly asks.

Shane laughs. Loud and genuine. “Yeah, buddy. You can have the grilled cheese.”

They eat lunch on the living room floor, surrounded by toys. Wyatt eats every bite of his sandwich and even asks for more apple slices. Then he announces he wants to build a tower, and Shane helps him stack blocks until they’re as tall as Wyatt’s waist. When the tower falls, Wyatt doesn’t cry. He just says, “Again!”

They build it again.

By the time Ilya’s Range Rover pulls into the driveway at 5:30 p.m., Shane is functionally a ghost. Wyatt is draped across his lap, thumb in his mouth, eyes glazed as he watches a cartoon about talking excavators for the fourth time. The living room is a tactical disaster: primary-colored blocks form a minefield across the rug, a fleet of plastic dinosaurs guard the coffee table, and a half-eaten crust of grilled cheese sits like a trophy on a paper plate.

Ilya stops in the doorway, his keys dangling from one finger. He takes in the carnage, then his gaze lands on Shane’s haggard expression. He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth quirks in that way that usually precedes a chirp.

“You survive,” Ilya says softly, dropping his gear by the door.

“Barely,” Shane croaks. He doesn’t move, terrified that any shift in posture will re-trigger the "Baby Thor" adrenaline.

Ilya crosses the room, stepping over a stray T-Rex, and crouches beside the couch. He leans in, kissing Shane’s temple first before ruffling Wyatt’s wild curls. “Hi, baby. Papa is home.”

Wyatt’s head snaps up. The lethargy vanishes instantly. “Papa!” He scrambles off Shane’s lap with a lack of coordination that makes Shane’s hands twitch instinctively to catch him. “Papa, you see the rink? Did you see the ice?”

“I saw rink,” Ilya says, scooping the boy up and settling him on his hip. “Is very dusty. Many spiders. You would love it.”

“Daddy took me to the park,” Wyatt says, burying his face in Ilya’s neck. “I went high. Really high. No hands!”

Ilya glances to Shane, reading the micro-fractures in his husband's composure. “No hands, yes? Sounds like you are being menace.”

“I missed you,” Wyatt mumbles, his energy finally flagging.

“I missed you too, solnyshko.” Ilya kisses the top of his head. “Go find Anya. Tell her about spiders. I talk to Daddy.”

Wyatt scampers off toward the kitchen, calling for the dog. Shane finally lets his head fall back against the cushions. “He told me he hated me, Ilya. Around two o’clock. He looked me right in the eye and said it.”

Ilya sits on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. “He also thinks potato is fruit today. Opinion is not reliable.”

“It was easier when he was a baby,” Shane says suddenly. He looks at his hands, still feeling the phantom weight of the infant Wyatt from those early months. “Remember? When we brought him home? I thought that was the hard part. The sleep deprivation, the lactation, the constant worrying if he was breathing.”

He huffs a bitter, exhausted laugh. “But back then, I could put him in a swaddle and he’d stay there. I could put him in the bassinet and know exactly where he was. He didn’t have opinions on eggs. He didn’t try to launch himself off moving swings. He just… fit in the crook of my arm.”

“You were king of four-month-olds,” Ilya agrees gently, reaching out to take Shane’s hand in his.

“Now, he’s a person,” Shane insists, his eyes searching Ilya’s for understanding. “With his own mind. He’s a person who can run faster than I can think and who has enough of your spite to use my own heart against me.”

Ilya moves from the table to the couch, sliding in close and pulling Shane into his side. Shane goes willingly, burying his face in Ilya’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of cold air and expensive coffee.

“You try to win game in first period, Shane,” Ilya murmurs, rubbing slow circles into Shane’s back. “Toddlers are not like babies. Babies are set play. Toddlers are scramble in crease. You cannot control. You just be there to cover puck when it stops moving.”

“I almost didn’t catch him on the swing,” Shane says into his shirt.

“But you do,” Ilya counters quickly. “You always do. Is why he is brave enough to let go of chains. Because he knows number 24 is behind him.”

Shane finally pulls back, looking at Ilya. The kitchen is loud again—Wyatt is trying to explain the concept of 'moon cheese' to Anya. “I’m going to be bad at this, aren't I? The older he gets, the more variables there are.”

“We will be bad at it together,” Ilya promises, leaning in to catch Shane’s mouth in a slow, grounding kiss. “Tomorrow, I stay home. You go to rink, yell at rookies. Then you come home, tell me I spoil him, and I tell you that you are boring. Is good system.”

Shane smiles, a genuine one this time, feeling the tension finally drain into the sofa. “It’s a terrible system.”

“Is our system,” Ilya says, standing up and reaching out a hand to pull Shane to his feet.

“Now, come. Wyatt tries to feed dog grilled cheese, and I am not cleaning up vomit tonight.”

“Okay.” Shane takes his hand, lacing their fingers together.

The next day, Ilya finds himself standing at center ice of the Kanata Community Arena—though there is no ice right now, just a slab of stained, cracked concrete—and takes a deep breath. The smell of a dying hockey rink is specific. It smells like wet cardboard, moldy rubber, and the ghost of a thousand unwashed jerseys.

“It is disgusting,” Ilya says, his voice echoing in the cavernous, empty space.

Beside him, the contractor, a man named Rob who looks like he has eaten a steady diet of Tim Hortons donuts since 1995, scratches his head. “It’s a teardown, Mr. Rozanov. Honestly. The boards are rotted at the kickplate. The glass is acrylic, not tempered, so it’s all scratched to shit. And don’t get me started on the ice plant. It’s an old ammonia system. City’s been trying to decommission it for five years because of the leak risk.”

Ilya waves a hand dismissively. “We rip it out. All of it.”

“The plant?”

“The plant. The pipes. The floor. We dig down. We put in new sub-floor heating so the permafrost does not heave the concrete. We put in CO2 system. Is better for environment, makes harder ice.”

“A CO2 system?” Rob asks cautiously. “That’s… that’s top-tier stuff. That’s NHL grade. For a community rink?”

“This will not be community rink.” He turns in a slow circle, looking at the rusted beams in the ceiling, the peeling paint on the stands that seat maybe three hundred people. “This will be the Academy.”

Ilya can see it. It is not a hallucination; it is a projection. Ilya has always seen the game differently—angles, velocity, opportunity—and now he sees the building the same way. He points to the north wall. “There. We knock out that wall. We build extension. Dryland training center. Weights, bikes, shooting lanes with synthetic ice. I want the kids to shoot five hundred pucks before they even put on skates.”

He points to the stands next. “New seats. Heated. Parents should not freeze to death while watching their children learn crossovers.”

He points to the far end, under the scoreboard that looks like it is from the Cold War. “Classroom. Video room. We teach them to see the ice. Not just chase puck like dog chasing squirrel.”

Rob is typing furiously his notes on his iPhone. “Okay. Okay. But Mr. Rozanov, the permits alone for the extension in Kanata… the zoning is recreational, but the setbacks…”

“I have lawyers,” Ilya says flatly. “They are very expensive. They are like pitbulls in suits. They will get permits. You just tell me how fast you can pour concrete.”

“If we start demo next week,” Rob says hesitantly, “maybe we get the slab poured before the deep freeze sets in. But you’re looking at a spring opening. Maybe.”

“September,” Ilya says. “Grand opening.”

“Next September?” Rob exclaims, his jaw dropping.

“Yes. But I need ice by July. For summer camp.”

Rob looks like he wants to cry. “Mr. Rozanov—”

“Ilya.” He flashes the smile. The one that charmed sponsors and terrified goalies for a decade. “We can do it. I pay bonus for speed. I pay bonus for perfection. But the ice? It must be perfect. If the puck bounces because concrete is not level, I will be very upset. And when I am upset, I am… loud.”

Rob swallows hard, wiping a sweat on his bald head. “July. Right. We’ll… we’ll get the excavators in on Monday.”

Ilya nods, satisfied. He walks toward the exit, his shoes echoing on the concrete. He pauses at the door, looking back at the ruin. It is a dump. It is a money pit.

It is exactly what he needs.

He gets into the Range Rover, blasts a Russian rap playlist that Shane hates, and drives home. His brain is humming. Not with the adrenaline of a game, but with something else—a different kind of strategy. He will not just teach them to skate. He will teach them to think. Canadian hockey is too robotic. It is system, system, system. Dump and chase. Grind in the corners. Boring.

Ilya will teach them flow. He will teach them that the puck is an extension of the soul, not a grenade to be thrown away.

He pulls into the driveway and sees Shane’s Jeep is already there. The house is quiet when he enters, but he knows exactly where to go.

He finds Shane in the home gym. His husband is down on the black rubber mats, shirtless in low-slung gym shorts, foam rolling his IT band with a grimace that suggests he is undergoing active torture. He’s staring at the ceiling, teeth grit, his breath hissing out in sharp, rhythmic bursts.

Ilya leans against the doorframe, just watching for a moment. Shane’s body is a map of his profession. At thirty-five, he is still in peak condition—lean, ripped, powerful—but under the harsh gym lights, the mileage is visible. There are fresh bruises blooming on his tricep, a mottled purple from a cross-check in practice. There is the faded, jagged line on his knee. The surgical scar on his stomach. It’s a body built for violence and endurance, and Ilya always love them.

He walks across the mats and stands over him, looking down.

“You look like pretzel,” Ilya observes.

Shane groans, rolling back and forth. “My hips are tight. Wiebe had us doing bag skates for forty minutes today. Forty. Minutes. On day three of camp.”

“Wiebe is sadist. This is known.”

“I’m old, Ilya. I’m feeling it this year.” Shane stops rolling and lies flat on his back, staring up at Ilya. His chest heaves with steady, deep breaths. He looks exhausted. He looks beautiful.

“You are not old. You are vintage.” Ilya nudges Shane’s ribs with his toe. “Get up. I need to tell you about the concrete.”

Shane groans again but reaches up a hand. Ilya pulls him to his feet effortlessly. Shane leans against him immediately, heavy and warm, smelling of sweat and that sharp, medicinal cream.

“Concrete?” Shane mumbles into Ilya’s shoulder.

“We are pouring it next month. CO2 system. The best.”

“You’re really doing it.”

“We are building an empire, Hollander. Wyatt will be prince of Kanata.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I can already imagine it,” he says, smiling.

The weeks blends into October. The rhythm of the house shifts. In the summer, they were a unit. A three-headed monster of Shane-Ilya-Wyatt. But as the season approaches, the monster splits. Shane belongs to the team now. He belongs to the schedule. Ilya wakes up at 6:00 a.m. to make Shane’s pre-practice breakfast—oatmeal, egg whites, fruit, specific ratio of carbs to protein. He packs Wyatt’s bag for daycare (a new development, just two mornings a week, so Ilya can go to the construction site without a toddler trying to drive the bulldozer). He manages the household logistics so Shane does not have to think about anything other than leading the Centaurs.

It is a role Ilya knows well, but from the other side. He used to be the one having his life managed. He used to be the one who just had to show up and perform. Now, he is the support staff. He tells himself he does not mind. And mostly, he does not. He likes taking care of Shane. He likes seeing Shane succeed.

But then there are the games.

The home opener is against Toronto. The energy in the city is electric. Ilya puts on his suit—a bespoke charcoal cut with a blue silk shirt unbuttoned to his sternum that screams I am rich and I am the best-looking person in this building—and drives to the arena.

He parks in the players’ lot out of habit, but he does not walk down the tunnel. He walks to the elevator. He goes to the suite. Watching the game from behind glass is… weird. He holds Wyatt, who is wearing giant noise-canceling headphones and eating popcorn one kernel at a time. Down on the ice, the Centaurs are flying. Shane looks fast. He looks dangerous. He centers the top line with Hayes and a new rookie winger who is fast but stupid.

“Pass it!” Ilya yells at the glass when the rookie holds onto the puck too long. “He is open! Shane is open!”

“Pass!” Wyatt echoes, spraying popcorn crumbs.

“Exactly. Tell him, bear.”

It is torture. Ilya’s legs twitch. His hands flex, wanting a stick. He sees the lanes opening up before the players see them. He sees the defensive breakdowns happening in slow motion. When Shane gets hit into the boards by a Leafs defenseman—a dirty hit, high and late—Ilya is on his feet, snarling something in Russian that makes Yuna cover Wyatt’s ears.

But then Shane gets up. He shakes it off. He circles back, takes a pass from Troy, and threads a needle through three defenders to set up Hayes for the goal. The red light goes on. The horn blasts. Ilya sits back down, his heart hammering. It is different, watching. It is helpless.

When you are on the ice, you can hit back. You can score. When you are in the suite, you can only pray.

“Daddy goal!” Wyatt cheers.

“Daddy assist,” Ilya corrects automatically. “But very good assist. Primary assist.”

After the game, he waits in the family lounge. It takes Shane forty-five minutes to come out. When he does, he has an ice pack taped to his shoulder and a cut on his chin. He looks gray with fatigue. But colors return to his face when he sees them.

“Hey,” Shane says, dropping his bag.

“You played well,” Ilya says, handing him a coconut water. “The rookie is idiot. You need to yell at him.”

“I yelled at him,” Shane assures him, drinking the water in one long gulp. He kisses Ilya, tasting of Gatorade and toothpaste. “Did you see the second period? The neutral zone trap?”

“I saw. It was messy. But you fixed it.”

“Yeah.” Shane leans his head on Ilya’s shoulder. “I’m tired, Rozy.”

“I know. Let’s go home.”

They drive home in separate cars. Ilya hates it. Then comes the schedule. The NHL schedule is a cruel document. It is eighty-two games compressed into six months. It is a map of absence.

Ilya stares at the calendar on the fridge. November.

Nov 10 @ Vancouver
Nov 12 @ Calgary
Nov 14 @ Edmonton
Nov 16 @ Seattle
Nov 18 @ San Jose

Ten days.

Shane has gone on road trips before, obviously. But usually, Ilya was with him. And now, Shane goes alone. The night before the West Coast swing, the mood in the house is miserable. Shane is packing. His suitcase is open on the bed, a perfectly organized Tetris game of suits, shirts, and workout gear. Ilya sits on the edge of the bed, watching him.

“You have enough socks?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah. I packed extra compression ones.” Shane folds a tie—the blue one Ilya likes—and places it carefully in the mesh pocket. He moves slowly. He doesn’t want to go. Ilya can see it in the set of his shoulders.

“Do not forget the melatonin,” Ilya says. “The time change will kill you.”

“I got it.”

Shane stops packing. He stands there, staring down at the suitcase. Then he looks at Ilya.

“This sucks,” Shane says.

“It is the job,” Ilya says, though his own chest feels tight.

“I’m going to miss you. I’m going to miss Wyatt.” Shane sits down next to him, their thighs touching. “Ten days is a long time. He’s going to grow three inches while I’m gone.”

“He might,” Ilya jokes weakly. “I will water him.”

Shane doesn’t laugh. He rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder. “I don’t like sleeping without you. I haven’t done it in… a long time. Not for ten days straight.”

“You will be busy. Games. Practice. Video. Dinner with the boys. You won’t have time to miss me.”

“Liar.”

“Okay. I am liar. You will be miserable.” Ilya wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. “But you will play great. You always play great when you are angry and lonely.”

“That’s true.” Shane sighs, looking up to him. “FaceTime? Every night?”

“Every night,” Ilya says. “Before Wyatt goes to sleep. And then again after, so I can tell you what you did wrong on the power play.”

Shane smiles against his neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Now finish packing. Or you will be naked in Vancouver.”

The next morning is a fire drill. The car service is coming at 8:00 a.m. to take Shane to the airport. And Wyatt is clinging to Shane’s leg like a barnacle.

“No Daddy go!” their son wails. “No work! Stay play!”

“I have to go, honey,” Shane says, crouching down. He looks heartbroken. He is wearing his travel suit—sharp, black suit, captain material—but his eyes are watery. “I’ll be back soon. You’re going to stay with Papa and Anya. You’re going to have so much fun.”

“No fun! Want Daddy!”

Shane looks up at Ilya, helpless.

This is it. This is the job now.

Ilya steps forward. He scoops Wyatt up, prying his little hands off Shane’s trouser leg. Wyatt screams, kicking his legs.

“Shh, shh, little bear,” Ilya soothes, holding him tight against his chest so he can’t squirm away. “Daddy needs to go catch the plane. He is going to bring you a present. From… the ocean.”

Wyatt stops screaming for a second. “Whale?”

“Maybe small whale,” Ilya lies. He looks at Shane. “Go. The car is here.”

Shane stands up. He kisses Wyatt’s tear-streaked cheek. “Be good for Papa. I love you.”

Then he kisses Ilya. It is a desperate, hard kiss.

“Call me when you land.”

“I will. Go.”

Shane grabs his bag. He walks out the door. He doesn’t look back, because if he does, he won’t leave. Ilya watches the black town car pull away from the curb. He stands in the doorway, holding his crying son, watching his heart drive away toward the airport.

The house feels instantly too big. Too quiet.

“Daddy gone,” Wyatt whispers, his lower lip trembling.

“Yes,” Ilya says, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Daddy is gone to work.”

He closes the door, locking out the cold November air. He turns back to the empty hallway. Ten days. Just him and the toddler.

“Okay,” Ilya says to the room. He shifts Wyatt to his other hip. “Okay. We have mission.”

Wyatt sniffles. “Mission?”

“Yes. While Daddy is gone, we are going to build the biggest Lego tower in history. And we are going to teach Anya to shake hands. And we are going to inspect the construction site.”

“Excavator?” Wyatt asks, perking up slightly.

“Yes. Big excavator.”

Ilya walks into the kitchen. He sees Shane’s coffee mug still on the counter, a half-drunk ring of dark roast at the bottom. He picks it up, puts it in the dishwasher.

He is Ilya Rozanov. He has won Stanley Cups. He has faced slapshots to the ankle and played through broken ribs.

He can handle ten days alone.

He hopes.

“Pasta?” Wyatt asks.

Ilya sighs. “Fine. Pasta.”

The house is not silent, but it is empty. This is a paradox Ilya is learning to live with.

It is 8:45 p.m. on the third day of the West Coast swing. The television in the living room is on, muted, showing the pre-game skate of the Centaurs in Calgary. Upstairs, the baby monitor hisses with the white noise machine that sounds like a continuous rainstorm. The dishwasher is humming. But there is no Shane.

There is no sound of Shane’s socks sliding on the hardwood. No warmth radiating from the other side of the couch. Ilya sits in the center of the sofa, his legs sprawled out, a glass of water on the coaster. He feels ridiculous. He is a grown man. He lived alone for a decade in condos that looked like showrooms. He is Ilya Rozanov, the terrifying Russian Captain who made rookies cry. He should be able to sit in his own living room without feeling like a limb has been amputated.

But he looks at the spot where Shane usually sits—the corner cushion that is slightly more worn than the rest—and he feels a physical ache in his chest. It is not just that he misses Shane. It is that the house does not make sense without him. The ecosystem is broken. Without Shane’s energy, Ilya has nothing to balance against. He has no one to tease, no one to calm down, no one to impress. He is just a man sitting in a very expensive house with a sleeping toddler and a ghost.

On the TV screen, the camera pans to the Centaurs' bench.

There is Shane.

He is chewing on his mouthguard, staring up at the jumbotron with that laser-focused expression that used to make Ilya’s blood boil and now just makes him want to crawl through the screen. Shane looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes that the HD cameras pick up mercilessly. He is leaning forward, tapping his stick against the boards, talking to Hayes.

Ilya moves closer to the TV, squinting. Is Shane favoring his left side? The hip flexor again? Or is he just stiff from the flight?

“Skate it off, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs to the empty room. “Do not be hero.”

Shane, of course, does not listen. The puck drops, and Shane is a blur of motion. He is everywhere. He is forechecking like a demon, hitting guys who are twenty pounds heavier, blocking shots with his shinpads. Ilya watches him and feels that familiar, heavy realization settle in his gut. He remembers the conversation they had years ago, back when they were sneaking around hotels.

Shane had said, I don’t know who I am without this.

Ilya had retired because he was finished. He had squeezed every drop of joy and rage out of the game, and when the tank was empty, he walked away to fill it with something else—Shane, Wyatt, and now the Academy. For Ilya, hockey was a thing he did. A thing he was a genius at, yes, but a thing.

For Shane, hockey is oxygen.

Ilya watches his husband take a cross-check to the lower back in front of the net. Shane doesn’t even flinch. He just spins, battles for position, and tips a point shot just wide of the net. Even when Shane was pregnant—swollen and soft and crying over grilled cheese sandwiches—Ilya knew this moment was coming back. He knew the hiatus was just a pause button. The ice always calls to Shane in a language only Shane understands, a frequency that Ilya can hear but cannot replicate.

Ilya could never ask him to stop.

To ask Shane Hollander to stop playing hockey would be like asking a shark to stop swimming. He would drown.

So Ilya retires, and Shane plays. Ilya builds the nest, and Shane goes out to hunt. It is the compromise. It is the balance.

But God, it is lonely.

Ilya picks up his phone. He opens their text thread.

8:12 PM EST

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

Wyatt ate broccoli. I bribed him with promise of new truck. Do not judge me.

8:14 PM EST

Shane Hollander-Rozanov:

I’m judging you a little. But good job. Miss you and Wyatt.

8:15 PM EST

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

Miss you. Play good. Do not die.

He reads the messages again. It is pathetic. He puts the phone down and watches the second period.

The loneliness hits hardest when the game ends. The Centaurs lose in overtime, 4-3. Shane gets an assist, but he is on the ice for the winning goal against. Ilya sees the slump of Shane’s shoulders as he skates to the bench. He sees the way Shane smacks his stick against the boards—once, sharp and angry.

Shane will be furious. He will be sitting in the locker room right now, staring at the floor, replaying the shift over and over in his head. He will blame himself. He will think he is too slow, too not enough.

And Ilya is two thousand miles away.

He cannot drive to the hotel. He cannot sneak into Shane’s room. He cannot pull Shane into bed and kiss the frustration out of him until Shane forgets what the score was.

He waits.

He waits forty minutes. He knows the rhythm. Shower. Media. Bus.

Finally, his phone buzzes. FaceTime.

Ilya answers instantly.

Shane’s face fills the screen. He is on the bus, wearing his black suit, AirPods in. The lighting is terrible—dark and grainy—but Ilya can see the tension in his jaw.

“Hey,” Shane says roughly.

“Hey,” Ilya says softly. “Tough bounce.”

“It was a shit bounce. I lost my edge. I should have had the lane.”

“The ice in Calgary is garbage. Everyone knows this.”

“I’m the captain, Ilya. I can’t blame the ice.” Shane rubs his face with his hand. He looks exhausted. “How’s Wyatt? Is he asleep?”

“He is out cold. He asked for you. We read the book about the sad tractor.”

“The sad tractor?” Shane manages a small, tired smile. “That one’s depressing.”

“He loves it. He likes the tragedy.”

Shane sighs, leaning his head back against the seat. “I miss you guys. This trip feels like it’s been a month.”

“It has been three days.”

“Don’t remind me.” Shane looks out the window at the passing streetlights. “It’s weird, Rozy. Being on the bus without you. I keep looking at the seat next to me, expecting you to be there with your weird Russian snacks.”

“They are superior snacks.”

“I’d kill for a weird Russian snack right now.” Shane looks back at the camera. His eyes are dark, vulnerable. “I just want to be home.”

Ilya feels a surge of protectiveness so strong it hurts. “Soon,” he promises. “Seven days. Then you are home. And I will make you steak. And I will massage your hip, because I saw you limping.”

“I wasn’t limping.”

“You were limping. I know your skate stride better than I know my own name.”

Shane chuckles softly. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe a little.”

“Go to hotel. Take melatonin. Sleep.”

“Okay.” Shane hesitates. He touches the screen, as if he can touch Ilya through the pixels. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Dream of me.”

The screen goes black.

He walks upstairs, checking on Wyatt, who is sleeping sideways in his crib, limbs sprawled in total abandon. Ilya fixes the blanket. Then he goes to their bedroom. He climbs into the massive, empty bed. He stays on his side, leaving Shane’s side perfectly made. He grabs Shane’s pillow and pulls it against his chest, burying his face in it. It smells like Shane—clean soap and sleep.

It is a poor substitute. But it is all he has.

Morning comes too early.

Ilya is awake at 6:00 a.m., dragged from a restless sleep by the internal alarm clock he cannot seem to turn off. He reaches out automatically, his hand seeking warm skin, and finds only cold sheets.

Right. Day four.

He rolls out of bed, his body stiff. He showers quickly, dresses in jeans and a hoodie, and goes to wake the beast.

Wyatt is not in a good mood.

“No!” Wyatt screams when Ilya tries to put on his pants. “No pants! Pants hurt!”

“Pants do not hurt,” Ilya argues, wrestling a wiggly toddler leg into denim. “Pants are society’s requirement.”

“I want Daddy!” Wyatt kicks Ilya in the chest. It is not a hard kick, but it is accurate.

Ilya catches the foot. “Daddy is at work. Daddy is in Calgary. We talked about this.”

“Go Calgary!”

“We cannot go to Calgary. It is far away.”

“Plane!”

“No plane. Today is school. You go see friends.”

“No school!” Wyatt rolls over, burying his face in the mattress. “No friends! Want Daddy!”

Ilya sighs. He sits on the edge of the bed and rubs the back of his neck. He is tired. He wants Shane too. He wants to throw a tantrum and refuse to wear pants until Shane comes home.

“Wyatt,” Ilya says firmly. “Look at Papa.”

Wyatt turns his head, glaring with one watery eye.

“If you put on pants, we can have… waffle.”

That instantly works on his son like magic. “Chocolate waffle?”

“Fine. Chocolate waffle.”

The pants go on.

Breakfast is a chaotic affair involving frozen waffles, syrup on the floor, and Anya trying to lick Wyatt’s face while he eats. Ilya drinks three espressos and packs Wyatt’s bag for daycare. The drive to the daycare center is usually easy. Wyatt likes daycare. He likes the teachers. He likes the little plastic kitchen they have. But today, Wyatt is quiet. He is clutching his stuffed bear, Bear, so tight.

“We are almost there,” Ilya says cheerfully, trying to break the tension. “You will paint today? Maybe make art for Daddy?”

“Maybe,” Wyatt mumbles.

Ilya pulls into the parking lot. He parks the Range Rover and unbuckles Wyatt. He lifts him out, carrying him toward the building. Wyatt wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist and buries his face in Ilya’s neck. He is trembling.

“Hey,” Ilya murmurs, rubbing his back. “What is wrong? You are shaking.”

“Don’t go,” Wyatt mumbles into Ilya’s hoodie.

“I have to go, little bear. Papa has to go to the rink. To fix it. Remember?”

“No!” Wyatt tightens his grip. “No rink! Stay!”

They enter the building. It is bright and loud, filled with the sound of children playing. Miss Sarah, Wyatt’s favorite teacher, waves from the door. “Good morning, Wyatt! Good morning, Mr. Rozanov.”

Ilya tries to peel Wyatt off him. It is like trying to remove a limpet from a rock.

“No!” Wyatt screams, the sound tearing through the hallway. “NO PAPA! NO GO!”

“Wyatt,” Ilya says, his heart cracking. “It is okay. You like school.”

“NO!” Wyatt is sobbing now, hysterical, gasping breaths. “Daddy gone! Papa stay! PAPA STAY!”

He thinks everyone is leaving him.

The realization hits Ilya like a check to the head. Wyatt is three. He does not understand calendars. He does not understand road trips. He just knows that Daddy disappeared three days ago, and now Papa is trying to leave him in a building with strangers.

Ilya stops pulling. He holds Wyatt tighter, pressing his cheek against the top of Wyatt’s head.

“Okay,” Ilya soothes. “Okay, shh. I am here.”

“Don’t go,” Wyatt begs, wet tears soaking Ilya’s collar.

Miss Sarah approaches cautiously. “Is he having a tough morning?”

“Daddy is away,” Ilya explains, his voice strained. “He is… sensitive.”

“We can take him,” she offers gently. “Usually, once you leave, they settle down in five minutes.”

Ilya knows this is true. He knows he should just hand Wyatt over and walk away. It is the right thing to do. It is what the books say. Rip the Band-Aid. But Wyatt is looking at him with same hazel eyes filled with absolute terror and betrayal. Daddy gone. Papa stay.

Ilya looks at Miss Sarah. “Give us a minute.”

He carries Wyatt over to a quiet corner of the hallway and sits down on a small bench meant for children. His knees come up to his chest. He settles Wyatt on his lap.

“Wyatt,” Ilya says, tilting his son’s chin up. “Look at me.”

Wyatt sniffles, his eyelashes wet and spiked. “Papa.”

“I am not leaving you,” Ilya says fiercely. “I am never leaving you. I have to go do work, just for a little bit. But I always come back. Daddy always comes back.”

“Daddy back?”

“Yes. In seven sleeps. Daddy comes back. And Papa comes back after lunch. I promise.”

Wyatt hiccups. “Promise?”

“I promise on the Stanley Cup.”

Wyatt does not know what that means, but he knows the tone. It is Ilya’s serious tone.

“Okay,” Wyatt whispers.

“Okay.” Ilya kisses his forehead. “Now. You go play with your friend. You eat snack. And then Papa is here. Okay?”

Wyatt nods slowly. He slides off Ilya’s lap. He takes a step toward the classroom, dragging Bear by the arm. Then he stops. He turns back and runs to Ilya, hugging his legs one last time.

“Love you, Papa.”

“Love you, bear.”

Ilya watches him walk into the classroom. He watches Miss Sarah greet him. He watches Wyatt pick up a red truck. Only then does Ilya stand up. He walks out of the daycare, gets into his car, and sits there for ten minutes, staring at the steering wheel, waiting for the pain in his chest to ease. He misses Shane. He misses him so much it feels like a sickness. He needs his husband to tell him he is doing the right thing. He needs his partner.

But Shane is in Calgary. And Ilya is here.

He starts the car. He drives to the rink. The construction site is loud. It is dusty. It is chaos. And it is exactly what Ilya needs. He puts on his hard hat. He walks into the skeleton of the arena. The old boards are gone. The concrete floor is being prepped for the trenching. It smells of dust and progress.

Rob, the contractor, walks over. He looks stressed. “Mr. Rozanov. We have a problem with the drainage in the north corner.”

“Show me,” Ilya says. He spends the next four hours arguing about pipes. He argues about the grade of the concrete. He argues about the insulation in the roof. He channels all of his frustration, all of his loneliness, all of his worry about Wyatt, into the details of the building. He is ruthless. He is precise. He is the Ilya Rozanov who won the Hart Memorial Trophy.

“This wall,” Ilya says, pointing to the framing for the new dressing rooms. “Move it two feet back.”

“But the blueprints—”

“The blueprints are wrong. If the wall is there, the goalie pads will not fit through the door. Have you ever seen goalie pads? They are enormous. Move the wall.”

“Okay. We move the wall.”

Ilya loses himself in the work. For a few hours, he is not the lonely husband or the worried father. He is the Architect. The Builder.

But then his phone buzzes.

It is a text from Shane.

1:30 PM EST

Shane Hollander-Rozanov:

Just finished practice.

Going to nap. My legs are dead.

How is the fort holding up?

Ilya stares at the screen. His mind conjures images of Shane in the hotel bed, hotel sheets, blackout curtains. He wants to be there. He wants to crawl into that bed and wrap himself around Shane and sleep for a week.

1:32 PM EST

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

Fort is standing. Wyatt cried at drop off. But he is brave. I am at rink. We are moving walls.

1:33 PM EST

Shane Hollander-Rozano:

You’re moving walls? Literally?

1:33 PM EST

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

Yes. I am Hulk.

Shane Hollander-Rozanov:

My strong man. I miss you. Call you tonight?

Ilya Hollander-Rozanov:

Yes. Sleep well.

Ilya puts the phone away. He looks around the empty, dusty arena. He imagines it finished. He imagines the ice gleaming under new LED lights. He imagines kids skating, laughing, learning. Wyatt skating here. And Shane standing next to him on the bench, coaching a power play, arguing about strategy.

It will be good. It will be worth it.

But right now, it is just dust.

Ilya checks his watch. 2:00 p.m.

He can pick Wyatt up early.

“I am leaving,” Ilya announces to Rob.

“But we need to decide on the tile for the showers.”

“Tomorrow,” Ilya says. “My son needs me.”

He drives back to the daycare. He walks in. Wyatt is sitting at a table, eating crackers. When he sees Ilya, his face lights up like a goal lamp.

“PAPA!”

Wyatt runs to him. Ilya catches him, lifting him high, burying his face in the sticky, cracker-crumb-covered neck.

“I came back,” Ilya whispers. “See? I came back.”

Wyatt hugs him tight. “You came back.”

They drive home. They play with trucks. They feed the dog. They wait for the sun to go down. They wait for the FaceTime call.

It is a long day. It is a lonely day.

But they survive it.

And there are only six more to go.

To be continued…

Chapter End Notes:

Hello!

Happy Christmas! 💜

I don’t actually know much about hockey. I’m just out here hoping it sounds convincing. If anything I wrote makes sense, please credit Google, TikTok, and dumb luck. If it doesn’t, please just close your eyes.

Thank you for reading! See you next year!

Have the best holiday! 😘

Love,

Azi 💜

What is your type, Rozanov?

Edmonton, Alberta
Rogers Place
14 November 2030

The ice in Edmonton has a reputation for being the best surface in the league. Hard and unforgiving, it allows the puck to move with a velocity that feels supernatural, and Shane hates it because Connor McDavid is a blur of orange and blue that defies physics, and Shane is the one responsible for shutting him down.

He skates to the faceoff circle for the opening draw of the third period, his breath coming in controlled bursts that fog his visor. The crowd is deafening, making his heart work harder than it should. Shane looks down at his jersey. The C stitched onto his left shoulder feels heavier today. For five years, that letter belonged to Ilya. It belonged to the most dominant, terrifying, electric player Shane had ever skated with.

Now it belongs to him.

And the Centaurs are down 3-1.

“Focus, Cap,” Hayes mutters beside him, tapping Shane’s shin pads with his stick.

Shane nods, shaking out his arms. The linesman drops the puck. He wins it back cleanly to Evan on defense, but the transition is sloppy. The Centaurs are tired—second half of a back-to-back, third game in four nights—and without Ilya’s explosive energy to ignite the offense, they look flat. Grinding but not flowing.

“Move it!” Shane yells, banging his stick on the ice as he breaks through the neutral zone. “Up! Up!”

He receives a pass on the wing, battling through a check from Nurse that rattles his teeth and sends a jolt of pain through his shoulder. He dumps the puck deep into the offensive zone, forcing the play, getting the line change they desperately need. It’s the right play. The smart play. The Shane Hollander play.

But as he cycles the puck behind the net, looking for a lane through three orange jerseys, he feels the absence of his husband. Ilya would have been there, planted in the slot like he owned it, screaming for a one-timer in that distinctive growl that could cut through arena noise. Ilya would have done something reckless and brilliant—a fake shot, a spin move—to draw the defenders away and create space.

Instead, Shane sees Troy Barrett, hesitating near the hash marks like he’s thinking instead of reacting. Shane threads the pass anyway. It’s perfect. Tape-to-tape.

Barrett bobbles it.

The puck bounces off his stick blade—that sickening little jump that every hockey player recognizes as the precursor to disaster—and suddenly the Oilers’ defense is collapsing. The puck is stripped, cleared with a desperation pass that finds McDavid at center ice, and then the man is flying the other way on a breakaway.

“Back! Get back!” Shane screams, turning on his edges and digging into the ice, pumping his legs until his lungs burn and his hip flexor sends a sharp warning signal up his spine.

He catches up—barely. His skating is still good, still reliable, the product of twenty years of conditioning and ten thousand hours of stride work. He reaches out with his stick, desperate to disrupt the shot, to get a piece of the puck, to salvage the game. But he’s a fraction of a second too late.

McDavid’s release is already happening, that lightning-quick wrist shot that Shane sees in his nightmares. The puck is past Hayes before the goalie can even react. The red light flashes. The horn blasts—that low, mournful foghorn sound that echoes through Rogers Place like a death knell.

4-1.

Shane coasts into the corner, his chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes and running down his spine under all the padding. He leans forward, resting his gloved hands on his knees, staring at the white ice beneath him. There’s a scuff mark where his skate blade carved too deep on the turn. He stares at it, adding it to the mental file of everything he did wrong tonight.

It’s over, he thinks. We’re not coming back from this.

He feels a hand on his back. It’s Boodram.

“Shake it off, Shane,” Bood says quietly, his voice barely audible over the crowd noise. “Bad bounce.”

“It wasn’t a bounce,” Shane snaps, straightening his spine. His hip protests the movement. “It was a breakdown. Our breakdown.”

“Cap—”

“We left Hazy out to dry.” Shane skates toward the bench, his legs heavy. “That’s on me.”

He slams the door when he steps through and sits down, taking a water bottle from the trainer, and stares straight ahead at the far boards, ignoring the way his lower back is seizing up in a spasm of sharp pain. His hip flexor is screaming. He should probably ice it between shifts, but there’s no time. There’s never enough time.

Ilya is watching, he tells himself. Wyatt is watching.

But tonight, that thought doesn’t bring him comfort. It just makes him feel like he’s failing an audience that matters more than the twenty thousand people in the stands.

The locker room is silent. Someone’s phone is buzzing repeatedly in their stall, ignored. Shane sits in his corner stall, the captain’s spot that used to be Ilya’s, his equipment half-off. He’s still wearing his shoulder pads and his compression shorts, but his skates are unlaced, his shin guards on the floor. There’s a bag of ice taped to his left hip flexor with athletic tape, and another one pressed against his lower back. The cold seeps through his skin, numbing the immediate pain but doing nothing for the deeper ache.

He looks around the room. Barrett, Haas, and the rookies are staring at the floor, looking shell-shocked. They’re waiting for someone to tell them it’s going to be okay, that this is just one game in an eighty-two-game season, that they’ll bounce back.

They’re waiting for him.

When Ilya was captain, he would have been pacing the room by now, still in full gear, yelling at them. He would have thrown a towel, or made a joke so inappropriate that everyone would laugh out of sheer shock and the tension would break like a fever. Ilya led with fire, with passion that bordered on volcanic. He made you want to run through walls for him, even when you were exhausted.

Shane stands up, wincing as he grabs a towel from the stack, wipes his face, and clears his throat.

“Listen up,” Shane says hoarsely, and every head in the room snaps up. “That wasn’t us tonight.” He makes eye contact with Barrett first, then Hayes, then Troy. “We got beat on transition. We got beat on the forecheck. We left Hazy out to dry. That’s not acceptable. Not if we want to be the team I know we can be.”

Hayes looks down, guilt written all over his face, even though he made forty saves and kept them in the game until the third period.

“But we flush it,” Shane continues firmly. “We don’t take this to Seattle. We leave it here in this room. Get your recovery work done. Get your protein. Get on the bus. We go again in two days, and we’re better.”

There’s a murmur of assent—a few nods, Troy tapping his stick against the floor. It’s not an inspiring speech. It’s not a Win One for the Gipper moment. But it’s honest, and it’s practical, and that’s the kind of captain Shane is. He turns back to his stall and finishes dressing slowly. He removes the ice bags, wipes down his gear, pulls on his suit pants. He checks his phone afterwards.

11:15 PM MST. That means it’s 1:15 AM in Ottawa, where Ilya should be asleep on the couch, having passed out while trying to wait up.

There are no texts from his husband.

Shane frowns. That’s weird. Ilya always texts after a game, even when Shane plays badly. Usually it’s a critique of the power play (which was indeed terrible tonight), or a screenshot of Shane’s face looking constipated during a stoppage, or just a simple Come home, I miss your stupid face.

Shane types: Rough night. Heading to the hotel. You awake?

He watches the screen. The message shows as delivered, but the three dots don’t appear. A knot of anxiety tightens in his stomach, distinct from the nausea of the loss. Maybe Ilya fell asleep. Toddlers are exhausting—Shane knows this firsthand now. Maybe Wyatt had a bad night and Ilya passed out the second he got him down.

Shane shoves the phone in his pocket. He has to do media.

He walks out to the scrum in the hallway, where the cameras are bright and the microphones are thrust in his face.

“Shane, can you talk about the breakdown in the third period?”
“Shane, how does the team regroup after a performance like this?”
“Shane, do you feel the absence of Rozanov on the power play?”

Shane answers them all. He uses the clichés he’s been trained to use since he was eighteen years old. We have to be better. We have to play a full sixty minutes. We need to bear down on our chances. When they ask about Ilya, he says, “Ilya is a generational talent, obviously, but we have the skill in this room to win. We just need to execute.”

He keeps his face a mask of professional stoicism though inside, he is screaming. The hotel room in Edmonton is a suite on the top floor—some executive level that the team spring for because Shane is the captain now. It’s luxurious and completely soulless, decorated in that generic hotel style that could be anywhere in North America. Shane swipes his key card and walks in. The door clicks shut with that heavy, soundproof thud, sealing him in the silence. He drops his suit jacket on the chair by the door. He kicks off his dress shoes, wincing when the movement pulls at his hip.

He stands in the middle of the room, his body caught in that horrible liminal space between being too tired to function and too wired to sleep. This is the part of the road trip he hates the most. The comedown. When the noise stops and the game is over and he’s left alone with his own brain, which is currently analyzing every microsecond where he could have been faster.

He needs to hear Ilya’s voice. He needs Ilya to tell him that the team isn’t falling apart, that Shane is still the best two-way center in the league even if his legs feel like concrete.

He pulls out his phone again. Still no text. Still no missed call.

He calls.

It rings. And rings. And rings.

“You have reached the voicemail of Ilya Rozanov. Leave message. Or don’t. I probably will not listen.”

Shane hangs up, his heart starting to beat faster. He tries again, because maybe Ilya just didn’t hear it the first time, maybe the phone was in another room.

Nothing.

Now the anxiety is clawing at his throat, making it hard to swallow. Ilya never misses a call when Shane is on the road. It’s their rule, established years ago when they were still sneaking around. Even if they’re fighting, even if Ilya is mad about something stupid, he answers. Always.

Shane paces the room. He walks to the window, looking out at the frozen city, the lights of Edmonton stretching out below him. It’s a clear night. He can see the North Saskatchewan River, dark and winding.

Maybe he’s in the shower, Shane tells himself. Maybe the phone is on silent. Maybe Wyatt had a meltdown and Ilya’s hands are full.

His phone buzzes in his hand.

Shane jumps, answering it before he even looks at the caller ID, before his brain has time to process anything except Ilya.

“Ilya?”

“Shane.”

It is Ilya. But his voice is wrong. It’s stripped of all the usual confidence and swagger. He terrified.

“Ilya?” His heart is suddenly hammering. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It is Wyatt,” Ilya says, and Shane can hear him moving, running, the sound of keys jangling. “We are—I am going to hospital.”

“Hospital?” Shane shouts. “Why? What happened? Is he okay?”

“He fell,” Ilya gasps. There’s the sound of a car door slamming, and then—beneath Ilya’s voice—Shane hears it. A terrified wailing that stops his heart dead in his chest. “He climbed the counter. I turned around for one second—Shane, there is blood.”

“Blood?” Shane sinks onto the edge of the hotel bed because his legs suddenly won’t hold him.“Where? Is he conscious? Ilya, is he conscious?”

“Yes, yes, he is screaming. You hear him?”

Shane hears him. It’s a wet shriek of pain and terror, the sound every parent has nightmares about.

“I hear him. Oh god. Ilya, put me on video. Let me see him.”

“I cannot—I am driving. No, wait, Yuna is driving. I am in back with him.” Ilya’s voice is shaking so badly Shane can barely understand him.

“Show me!” Shane demands. He needs to see. He needs to assess the damage, to do something even though he’s two thousand miles away in a fucking hotel room. “Ilya, show me right now!”

The call switches to FaceTime. The image is blurry at first, shaking violently as Ilya fumbles with the phone. Shane sees darkness, then the interior of a car, then—

His heart drops.

Wyatt is strapped into his car seat in the back of the Range Rover. His son’s eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth open in a scream that Shane can hear through the phone. His little hands are clenched into fists, batting weakly at Ilya’s arms.

But Shane can’t look away from the white kitchen towel Ilya is pressing against Wyatt’s forehead. The towel is soaked red. There’s blood running down Wyatt’s temple, into his hair, dripping onto his dinosaur pajamas.

“Oh my god,” Shane gasps. “Oh my god, Ilya—”

“I have pressure on it,” Ilya says, his face coming into the frame. He looks wrecked—his hair is wild, his eyes wide and panicked and wet, and there’s a smear of Wyatt’s blood on his grey t-shirt. “It is cut. At the hairline. He hit the tile when he fell.”

Shane forces himself to think through the panic. “Is he throwing up? Did you check his pupils? Did he lose consciousness at all?”

“No. No throwing up. He cried immediately when he fell,” Ilya says. “He wanted the cookies from the top shelf. I told him no. I turned to get the milk from the fridge and he—he just climbed up. He is so fast, Shane. He is so fast.”

“Why wasn’t he strapped in the booster seat?” Shane snaps. He knows it’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it’s cruel, that it’s his own fear talking, that fear is twisting inside him and coming out as anger because anger is easier to feel than this helpless, drowning terror.

He sees the hurt flash across Ilya’s face.

“I turned my back for one second,” Ilya says. His voice breaks. “I am sorry. I am so sorry, Shane.”

“You’re supposed to be watching him!” Shane yells. He stands up, pacing the small space between the bed and the window. “I’m gone, Ilya! I’m out here working, and you’re there! That’s the deal! You watch him so I can do this!”

“I was watching him!” Ilya shouts back. “Do not do this, Shane! Do not blame me right now!”

“My son is bleeding from his head!”

“I know! I am holding the towel! I am the one who has to see it!” Ilya is crying now, angry tears mixing with the panic, his face twisted in anguish. “You think I wanted this? You think I am not dying right now?”

In the background, Wyatt’s crying intensifies, picking up on the tension, and Shane hears him wail, “Papa! Papa, it hurts!”

The raw agony in Ilya’s voice—and the sound of their son crying—snaps Shane out of it. He stops pacing. He sinks back down onto the bed and looks at the screen, at his husband, who looks terrified and alone, hunched over their screaming son in the back of a moving car, doing his best in this situation.

Shane scrubs a hand over his face, feeling like the worst person on the planet. “I know. Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Rozy. I’m just—I’m scared.”

“Me too,” Ilya says, and it comes out as almost a whimper. “I am so scared.”

“Let me talk to him,” Shane says. “Put the phone near him. Please.”

Ilya moves the phone closer. Wyatt is still sobbing, those breathless little hitches that sound painful, his chest heaving.

“Wyatt?” Shane says. He pitches his voice lower, softer, the voice he uses when Wyatt has a nightmare and crawls into their bed. “Mon amour? It’s Daddy. Can you hear me?”

Wyatt’s eyes fly open. They’re glassy and wet. He looks confused, trying to locate the source of Shane’s voice. “Daddy?” he sobs. “Daddy, ouchie.”

“I know, baby. I know it hurts so much.” If only he could reach through the screen and take the pain into his own body, absorb it the way he used to absorb hits on the ice. “But you’re okay. You’re going to be okay. Papa has you. You’re going to see the doctor and they’re going to fix it.”

“I want Daddy,” Wyatt wails, fresh tears streaming down his face. “Daddy come home.”

The words are a knife to the gut. Shane closes his eyes, tears leaking out despite his best efforts to hold them back. “I know. I want to come home too, mon amour. But Papa is there, and Papa is the bravest person I know. He’s got you. Okay?”

“We’re here,” Yuna’s voice comes from the front seat. Shane hears the car swerve sharply, the screech of tires. “Emergency entrance.”

Ilya is already moving, unbuckling Wyatt with one hand while keeping pressure on the wound with the other. “Shane, I have to go inside. I have to carry him.”

“Don’t hang up,” Shane begs. He knows it’s irrational, knows Ilya needs both hands, but he can’t stand the idea of being disconnected. “Put me in your pocket. Just don’t hang up. Please.”

“I won’t,” Ilya promises.

The screen goes dark as Ilya shoves the phone into his pocket. Shane hears the chaotic sounds of the ER—the automatic doors sliding open, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum, Yuna’s voice barking something at someone, Ilya’s frantic explanation overlapping with a nurse’s calm questions.

“Three-year-old, head laceration, fell from counter—”

“How long has he been bleeding?”

“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen—”

“Any loss of consciousness?”

“No, he cried immediately—”

Shane sits on the hotel bed, still in his suit pants and dress shirt, hunched over the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the worst night of his life unfold two thousand miles away.

He has been on the phone for two hours. The initial panic has faded, replaced by exhaustion. At some point, Yuna took pity on him and propped the phone up against a box of latex gloves in the exam room so Shane can see without Ilya having to hold it. Wyatt is sitting on the exam table now, his legs dangling over the edge. He’s stopped crying, but he looks very small in his bloodstained dinosaur pajamas, clutching Bear to his chest. There’s a temporary bandage on his forehead, and the blood has been cleaned away, but Shane can still see the rusty stains in Wyatt’s hair.

Ilya stands beside him, refusing to sit even though there’s a chair right there. He’s still wearing the bloody t-shirt. His hair is sticking up at odd angles where he’s run his hands through it. He hasn’t looked at the phone in twenty minutes, all his focus on Wyatt, stroking their son’s hair and murmuring in Russian. Shane catches fragments—miliy, khrabryy mal’chik, Papa zdes’—the same words Ilya’s mother probably said to him when he was small and hurt.

“Alright,” the doctor says, breezing back into the room. She’s young—maybe thirty—with her raven hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and purple scrubs. She’s clearly knows exactly who Ilya Rozanov is, though she’s pretending not to notice. “Good news. No concussion. His pupils are reactive, his coordination is fine, and he answered all my questions appropriately.”

Shane lets out a sigh of relief. Thank god. Thank god.

“The cut is not that deep,” the doctor continues, examining Wyatt’s forehead with gentle fingers, “We’re going to use tissue adhesive—glue—instead of stitches.”

“Glue?” Wyatt looks up at the doctor with those huge eyes.

“Like for crafts,” the doctor smiles, her voice warm. “It’s magic glue. It stops the ouchie and helps your skin grow back together.”

“Is it going to scar?” Shane asks from the phone.

The doctor glances at the screen, startled to see his face hovering on the tiny display. “Oh. Hi. Um—likely a small line, but it’s right at the hairline. As he grows and his hair fills in, it’ll be barely visible. Some fading over time.”

“He will look tough,” Ilya says softly, finally looking at Shane through the screen. His eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted. “Like Harry Potter, yes?”

Shane manages a weak smile. “Yeah. Like Harry Potter.”

The procedure takes five minutes. The doctor talks Wyatt through each step, showing him the glue tube, letting him touch the applicator before it goes near his face. Wyatt cries when the cold saline solution touches the wound, and Ilya winces as if he’s the one being hurt. He positions himself right in front of Wyatt, holding their son’s small hands in his larger ones, pressing his forehead against Wyatt’s cheek, whispering constant reassurances.

“You are so brave, solnyshko. The bravest boy. Papa is right here. I am not going anywhere.”

Shane watches them. He’s a good father, he thinks, the realization settling over him with the weight of shame. He’s a better father than I am.

When it’s done, Wyatt gets a popsicle—orange, his favorite—and a sticker sheet with various superheroes. He chooses Batman, pressing it carefully onto Bear’s chest. He’s exhausted, he curls up against Ilya’s chest, his sticky popsicle fingers tangling in Ilya’s bloody shirt, and is asleep within minutes.

The room goes quiet. Ilya picks up the phone carefully, cradling Wyatt against his shoulder with his other arm. He walks to the corner of the exam room, away from the bright lights, and looks into the camera. The guard comes down. The public face disappears. He looks devastated.

“He is okay,” Ilya says.

Shane can feel his own tears starting again.

“I am sorry,” he says finally, his voice broken. “For what I said. In the car. You were just trying to get him help and I—I took my fear out on you. That wasn’t fair.”

Ilya looks away, his jaw working. He traces an invisible pattern on the floor with his shoe, a nervous habit Shane has seen a thousand times. “You were right, though. I was distracted—”

“Ilya, stop.” Shane waits until Ilya looks at him again, making eye contact through the screen. “It was an accident. Kids fall. They climb things. It happens to every parent. You got him here. You kept him calm. You handled it.”

“I did not handle it,” Ilya says bitterly, shaking his head. “I panicked. I called you and screamed like an idiot. I got blood everywhere. Yuna had to drive because my hands were shaking too much.”

“You got him help,” Shane insists. “That’s handling it. That’s being a good father.” He reaches out, touching the screen, wishing he could physically hold Ilya right now. “You’re doing it alone, Rozy. I know how hard that is. This is on me. I’m the one who isn’t there.”

“It is harder when you are not here,” Ilya admits, his voice so quiet Shane has to turn up the volume. “The house is too big. The silence is too loud. And when he screams like that, when something goes wrong, I need you to be the calm one. Because I am not the calm one, Shane. I have never been the calm one. I am the chaos, remember? You are supposed to balance me.”

“You were calm enough tonight,” Shane says.

Ilya lets out a long, shaky sigh. He shifts Wyatt’s weight slightly, adjusting him against his shoulder. Wyatt makes a small whine in his sleep, and Ilya immediately starts swaying gently. “When do you come home?”

“Thursday night. After the Sharks game.” It feels like an eternity. “Red-eye to Toronto, connection to Ottawa. I should land around nine AM Friday.”

“Thursday,” Ilya says it like he’s trying to calculate whether he can survive that long. “Okay. We can do Thursday.”

“I’ll catch the red-eye,” Shane promises. “I’ll be there for breakfast. I’ll bring those croissants from the place near the airport that Wyatt likes.”

“Okay.” Ilya’s eyes are wet again. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too. So much.” Shane swallows hard. “Go home. Put him in his bed. Take a shower. Burn that shirt.”

Ilya looks down at his shoulder, at the brown bloodstains that have dried into the grey fabric. He grimaces. “Yes. I will definitely burn it. Maybe have ritual. Dance around fire.”

“Very dramatic.”

“Is my genetic,” Ilya says, and there’s the ghost of a smile on his face now.

“I love you,” Shane says. He needs Ilya to know it. “I love you more than anything. You know that, right?”

Ilya’s smile becomes real. “I love you too, solnyshko. Even when you are being a jerk on the phone and making me feel like bad father.”

“You’re not a bad father. You’re the best father.”

“We are both good fathers,” Ilya says firmly. “We are just… learning.”

“Yeah.”

“Go to sleep, Captain,” Ilya says gently.

The screen goes black. Shane is alone again in the hotel room. He sits in the silence, the adrenaline finally crashing out of his system completely, leaving him wrung out. He gets up and walks to the bathroom.

He splashes cold water on his face, then looks at himself in the mirror. The reflection staring back at him looks back fiercely. “Get your head back on the game, Hollander,” he says to his reflection.

Two days later…

The rain in Seattle doesn’t fall so much as it haunts the air. It’s a persistent, gray mist that clings to everything—the windows of the team bus, the pavement outside the hotel, the damp wool of Shane’s suit jacket. It matches Shane’s mood perfectly. The Centaurs arrived late last night after the loss in Edmonton. He slept fitfully at the hotel, waking up three times reaching for a husband who wasn’t there, before giving up at 6:00 a.m. to stare at the ceiling and worry about Wyatt’s forehead.

Now, it’s 1:00 p.m. on Monday. An off-day before the game against the Kraken.

Technically, Shane should be resting. He should be in his room, legs elevated, watching tape of Seattle’s power play. But the hotel room feels like a cage.Every time he looks at his phone and doesn’t see a new message from Ilya, his brain supplies helpful images of Wyatt falling, of blood, of Ilya’s terrified face on the screen.

He needs to move. So he changes into jeans and a thick hoodie, pulling a beanie low over his ears. He grabs his wallet and his phone. The lobby of the Fairmont Olympic is grand and busy. Shane keeps his head down, moving quickly past the tourists and business people. He doesn’t want to be recognized. He doesn’t want to talk hockey. He walks out into the damp city air. He turns left, heading toward Pike Place Market. It’s a cliché, but it’s crowded, and right now, Shane needs a crowd to drown out his own thoughts.

He walks for twenty minutes, the cool mist settling on his face. His hip feels tight, a dull ache that sharpens with every step on the uneven pavement, but he ignores it. Pain is manageable. Guilt is harder.

He finds a small seafood place tucked away near the water—The Crab Pot. It looks touristy but warm. Shane goes inside. The smell of garlic butter and brine hits him instantly.

“Table for one?” the hostess asks, popping her gum.

“Please. Somewhere quiet if possible.”

She leads him to a small booth in the back corner. It’s perfect. He can see the room, but no one is looking at him. He orders a clam chowder and a water.

He pulls out his phone.

1:15 PM

How’s the patient?

1:16 PM

Rozy:

Patient is demanding ice cream for lunch. I am negotiating for yogurt.

Give him the ice cream.

He has a hole in his head.

Rozy:

You are soft. But okay. Ice cream it is.

1:18 PM

Rozy: [Image Attachment]

Shane taps the photo. It’s Wyatt. He’s sitting at the kitchen island, wearing his Batman pajamas and a very serious expression. The bandage on his forehead is stark white against his skin, and there’s a small, purple bruise blooming around the edges. He’s holding a spoon like a weapon.

Shane’s chest tightens. He looks so small.

1:19 PM

He looks tough. Like Harry Potter.

Rozy:

He is milking it.

He told me his head hurts if he don’t get an ice cream.

Smart kid.

Shane smiles at the screen, tracing the curve of Wyatt’s cheek in the photo. He misses them so much it feels like a physical weight, pressing down on his lungs.

“Excuse me?”

Shane looks up, startled. He slides his phone into his pocket, his guard instantly snapping back into place. He prepares the polite, distant smile he reserves for fans who interrupt him while he’s eating. Not now. Please, not now.

But the woman standing next to his booth isn’t holding a sharpie. She is wearing a cream-colored wool coat that is belted tightly at the waist, looking tailored and expensive. Her hair is dark, falling in loose, glossy waves past her shoulders, framing a face that is striking and sharp—high cheekbones, full lips painted a deep crimson, and dark, almost feline eyes that are currently studying him with a mix of amusement and hesitation.

The spoon in his hand hovers halfway to the bowl. It’s Svetlana. Shane’s brain stutters. He hasn’t seen her since the wedding.

“Shane?” she asks, a small smile touching her lips.“I thought that was you hiding in the corner.”

Shane stands up instinctively. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “Svetlana. Hi.”

“Hi.” She looks him over. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just road trip. You know how it is.”

“I do.” She glances at the empty seat across from him. “Are you expecting someone? Or are you just enjoying the chowder alone?”

“Just me,” Shane says. He hesitates, then gestures to the booth. “Do you want to… sit? Join me?”

It’s the first time they’ve been alone. Ever. They’ve only ever existed in the same orbit because of Ilya. Svetlana Vetrova is a part of Ilya’s history that Shane has never quite known what to do with. She was never a villain, never cruel. She was actually nice. And in alternative timeline where Ilya Rozanov lived a normal life with a beautiful, hockey-literate wife, that would be Svetlana and Shane Hollander was just a footnote in his career stats.

You got the ring, Hollander, he reminds himself. You got the baby and the house and the whole life. He had won. He had everything he was ever supposed to want. So why does he still feel so insecure?

“I would love to,” Svetlana says. She slides into the booth opposite him, unbuttoning her coat with graceful movements. She looks immaculate, completely out of place in the rustic, noisy restaurant with its paper tablecloths and plastic bibs.

“What are you doing in Seattle?” Shane asks as he sits back down. “I thought you were in Boston.”

"I was," she says. "But I moved here six months ago. My fiancé took a job with Amazon. Tech." She rolls her eyes slightly, a gesture so dismissive and Russian it reminds him of Ilya instantly. "It is boring, but the money is obscene."

“Fiancé?” He feels a sudden, unexpected relief in his chest. “Congratulations.”

"Thank you." She signals the waitress for a tea. "His name is Jacob. He is very American. Very nice. Very… uncomplicated."

“Uncomplicated is good,” Shane says, thinking of his own life, which is currently a beautiful, chaotic mess of concussions, road trips, and secret-keeping turned public spectacle.

Svetlana rests her chin on her hand, studying him. "You are surprised to see me."

"A little," Shane admits. "I didn't think… I mean, we haven't exactly kept in touch."

“Yes...” She pauses. “How is married life?”

“It’s good,” Shane says immediately. The words come out easy, automatic. “It’s really good. We have a son now. Wyatt.”

“I saw,” Svetlana says. “Ilya posts about him constantly. The Instagram is… overwhelming.”

“He’s obsessed.”

The waitress arrives with Shane’s chowder. When they’re alone again, the silence stretches between them. Shane stirs his soup, watching the steam rise. He remembers the jealousy. God, it had been a living thing inside him for so long. The way Ilya would talk about her—casually, practically—as if marrying her was just a logistical hurdle, like signing a contract extension. Shane remembers the nausea, the cold dread of imagining Ilya coming home to her, sharing a bed with her, building a life that looked perfect from the outside while Shane waited in the shadows.

He looks at her now. She is beautiful. She is smart. She is everything Ilya said she was.

But she isn't Ilya’s.

“He loves you very much, you know,” Svetlana says suddenly.

Shane looks up, startled. “What?”

"Ilya." Her voice is matter-of-fact, lacking any bitterness.

Shane swallows past the lump in his throat. “He told you that?”

“He didn’t have to.” She shrugs a shoulder. “Ilya is many things, but he is a terrible liar when it matters. He would be watching your games on his phone. He would talk about your stats like they were poetry. It was… exhausting, actually.”

"He watches everyone's tape,” he says.

"No," Svetlana corrects gently. "He watches hockey for work. He watched you like a starving man watching someone eat through a window." She takes a sip of the tea the waitress just dropped off, her gaze never leaving Shane.

"I used to get a bit annoyed.” A small, wry smile plays on her lips. "I am a beautiful woman, no? I am smart. I am right there. And Ilya Rozanov was lying next to me, sighing because Shane Hollander won a faceoff in Ottawa. He would talk about you constantly. 'Hollander is so slow,' 'Hollander got lucky,' 'Hollander has terrible haircut.' He noticed everything. He noticed when you taped your stick differently. He noticed when you looked tired in an interview. He knew you better than he knew me.”

The nausea of imagining Ilya with her. He never realized that while he was spiraling, Ilya was doing the exact same thing.

Shane wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, laughing shakily. "I'm sorry. I'm a mess. I haven't slept much."

"You’re the Captain," she says simply. "It is exhausting."

"Yeah. It really is."

"And you have a baby."

"Wyatt. Yeah." Shane smiles, pulling out his phone. He can't help it. "Do you… do you want to see?"

She smiles back at him sweetly. "Obviously."

Shane pulls up the photo from earlier—Wyatt with the bandage and the spoon, looking fierce. He shows it to her.

Her hand flies over to her mouth, and she squeals softly against her palm. "Oh my god. Look at that face. That is Ilya’s pout. Exactly."

"It really is."

"He is beautiful. He got your freckles and Ilya’s eyes." Svetlana watches him for a moment, her expression softening into something like affection. "I am glad it’s you, Shane. You make him a good man."

Shane doesn't know what to say to that. He feels seen, dissected, and accepted all at once.

"Thank you," he says.

“I am happy for you.” She reaches across the table and briefly touches his hand. They finish their drinks in a comfortable silence. When the bill comes, Shane reaches for it instinctively, but Svetlana beats him to it.

“No,” she says firmly. “My treat. Consider it a wedding gift. Since I think I forgot to bring one.”

Shane shakes his head. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” Svetlana checks her watch. "I have to go. Jacob is picking me up. She stands up, buttoning her coat. "Tell Ilya I said hello. And tell him…" A wicked glint enters her eyes. "Tell him I am glad he is happy. Even if he is an asshole."

Shane chuckles, standing up to walk her to the door. “I’ll tell him.” They step out into the mist. Svetlana turns to him one last time.

“Take care of yourself, Shane.” She waves and gets inside the car across the street.

Ilya sits on the edge of the oversized leather sofa in the cottage living room, his hands clasped so tightly between his knees that his knuckles are white. The television screen is huge—Shane insisted on the upgrade last summer—and every pixel of the Centaurs’ defensive breakdown is visible in high definition.

It is 10:45 p.m. in Ontario. The third period is halfway done. The score is tied 2-2.

"Skate!" Ilya yells at the screen, startling Yuna, who is knitting in the armchair. "Move your feet, Dillon! You are gliding!"

Dillon does not move his feet. He loses the puck battle along the boards. Ilya curses in Russian, a sharp, guttural sound that makes David chuckle from the other end of the couch.

"He looks tired," David observes, taking a sip of his tea. "The whole team looks heavy tonight."

"It is the travel," Ilya says, not taking his eyes off Shane. "The schedule is brutal. Back-to-back with travel is criminal."

Shane is on the ice. Ilya tracks him instinctively. He ignores the puck, ignores the goalie, ignores everything else. He watches number 24.

Shane looks exhausted. Ilya can see it in the way Shane’s shoulders are set, high and tense. He can see it in the slight hesitation before Shane commits to a check. His stride is still powerful—Shane Hollander will have a perfect stride until he is ninety—but the explosive burst is missing. His hip is bothering him. Ilya knows this because Shane is favoring his left edge on the turns, protecting the right side.

"Daddy!"

Ilya tears his gaze away from the screen for a split second. Wyatt is sitting on the floor in front of the TV, surrounded by a chaotic fleet of toy cars. He is wearing his Toy Story pajamas and a Centaurs toque that is too big for him, sliding down over his bandage.

"Yes, bear. Daddy is playing."

"Daddy go fast!" Wyatt slams a blue car into a red one. "Crash!"

"Yes. Daddy go fast. But Daddy needs to pass the puck." Ilya turns back to the screen just in time to see Shane thread a saucer pass through two defenders. It lands flat on Boodram’s tape. Boodram shoots. The goalie makes the save.

Ilya groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Boodram. Aim high. The goalie is butterfly. He is giving you the top corner."

"He had a good look," David says diplomatically.

"He had a goal," Ilya corrects. "If he had hands."

Yuna puts down her knitting. She looks at Ilya with that calm, perceptive gaze that always makes him feel like she can see right through his bravado. "You’re more stressed than when you were playing, Ilya."

"When I play, I have control," Ilya says tightly. "When I watch, I have… ulcers."

He picks up his water glass, realizes it is empty, and puts it down again. His leg is bouncing. The game grinds on. It is a messy, ugly game. The kind of game that is decided by a lucky bounce or a terrible mistake. Shane takes a hit in the corner. He goes down hard. Ilya stops breathing for a moment, his pulse quickening.

Get up. Please get up.

Shane stays down for a second. Two seconds. Then he pushes himself up. He shakes his head, adjusting his helmet. He skates to the bench, but he is moving slowly.

"He’s hurt," Ilya says flatly.

"He looks okay," David says, squinting at the screen. "He’s skating."

"He is skating because he is Shane," Ilya snaps, then immediately softens his tone. "Sorry, David. But he is hurt. I know his face."

He knows the specific grimace Shane makes when he is trying to hide pain. The way he clamps his jaw shut. The way he stares straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with the trainer.

"He should sit," he mutters. "Take a shift off."

But Shane does not sit. The next time his line is called, Shane is over the boards.

"Of course," Ilya mutters under his breath. "Stubborn idiot."

The clock ticks down. Five minutes left. Four.

Wyatt abandons his cars and climbs onto the couch. He crawls into Ilya’s lap, smelling of baby shampoo and the strawberry yogurt he had for dinner. He settles against Ilya’s chest, his head resting right over Ilya’s heart.

"Papa," Wyatt yawns. "I sleepy."

"I know, malysh. The game is almost done." Ilya wraps an arm around him, burying his nose in Wyatt’s curls. "Watch Daddy. One more shift."

Wyatt blinks at the screen, his eyes heavy. "Daddy win?"

"We hope so."

The Centaurs get a power play with two minutes left. A tripping call on the Kraken defenseman.

It is the chance. Ilya watches Coach Wiebe draw up the play on the whiteboard. He knows what Wiebe is saying. Get it to the point. Screen the goalie. Look for the tip. Shane wins the faceoff. Clean back to the defense.

The Centaurs set up. They cycle the puck. It goes to Barrett on the half-wall. Barrett looks for a lane.

"Shoot it!" Ilya yells, squeezing Wyatt a little too tight. "Shoot the puck!"

Barrett passes to Shane in the slot. Shane is covered. He has a defenseman draped all over him. He shouldn’t be able to do anything. But Shane Hollander is magic. He takes the pass on his backhand. He spins—a move that must scream in his hip—and roofs it.

The puck hits the crossbar with a metallic ping that echoes through the broadcast. It drops straight down.

Did it cross the line?

The ref waves it off.

"No!" Ilya roars, startling Wyatt. "Was in! That was in!"

"I think it hit the post," David says, leaning forward.

"It hit the bar and went down!" Ilya is standing up now, holding Wyatt on his hip. "Review it! You blind zebras! Review it!"

Wyatt, sensing the excitement, starts clapping. "Goal! Goal!"

The horn sounds. The play stops. The refs gather at the penalty box to put on the headsets.

"They are reviewing it," Yuna says calmly.

Ilya stops pacing. He stands in front of the TV, bouncing Wyatt unconsciously. He stares at the screen, waiting for the replay. They show the angle from the net cam. The puck hits the bar. It drops. It hits the white ice behind the goa line. Just barely. A fraction of an inch.

"It’s in," Ilya breathes. "It is a goal."

The ref skates to center ice. He turns on his microphone. "After review," the ref announces, his voice booming, "the call on the ice is overturned. We have a goal."

Ilya shouts. It is a wordless sound of triumph. He lifts Wyatt high into the air.

"Yes! Yes! Daddy did it!"

Wyatt giggles, looking down at Ilya with gleeful eyes. "Daddy goal!"

"Yes! Daddy goal!"

The Centaurs celebrate. Shane is smiling—a real smile, exhausted but relieved. He bumps gloves with the bench. The clock winds down. The Kraken pull their goalie, but the Centaurs hold the line. Shane is out there for the final minute, blocking a shot with his shin pad, clearing the zone with a desperate backhand flip.

The buzzer sounds.

Final: Ottawa 3, Seattle 2.

Ilya collapses back onto the couch, pulling Wyatt into his lap. The adrenaline rush leaves him dizzy. He feels light. He feels heavy. He feels overwhelmed with a love so fierce he could burst right now.

"He did it," Ilya says into Wyatt’s hair. "He won."

"Good job, Shane," David says, smiling at the screen. "That was a hell of a shot."

"He spun," Ilya says, shaking his head in disbelief. "On his bad hip. He spun and he roofed it."

"He’s incredible," Yuna agrees proudly.

The camera finds Shane on the bench. He is taking off his helmet. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looks at the camera—or maybe just at the scoreboard—and for a second, Ilya feels like Shane is looking right at him. Shane mouths something. It looks like Home.

Ilya swallows hard. He picks up his phone.

11:05 PM

You are insane. That spin was insane.

I love you. Come home.

He waits. He knows Shane won’t check his phone for twenty minutes. But he needs to send it.

"Okay," Ilya says to Wyatt, standing up. "Game over. Daddy won. Now, bed. For real."

"Call Daddy?" Wyatt asks, rubbing his eyes.

"Tomorrow," Ilya promises. "Daddy is on a plane soon."

Two nights later, the Centaurs play in San Jose. Ilya watches from the living room again, alone this time. Wyatt is asleep upstairs, and Ilya is watching him through the baby monitor that sits on the coffee table.

The game is different tonight.

Ilya can see it in the first shift. The Centaurs look looser, faster, like a spring that’s been wound too tight and finally released. Maybe it’s the win in Seattle—that hard-fought, grinding victory that felt like breaking through a wall. Whatever it is, they’re flying.

Shane is flying.

Ilya sits on the sofa, and watches Shane win a faceoff cleanly in the defensive zone. It’s a thing of beauty—the way Shane reads the opposing center’s stance, the way his stick moves a fraction of a second before the puck drops, the snap of his wrists as he sends it back to the point. Perfect.

“Good,” Ilya murmurs to the empty room, nodding. “Very good.”

Two shifts later, Shane backchecks on a two-on-one. Ilya’s breath catches as Shane catches up to the Sharks forward streaking down the wing. The forward winds up for a one-timer, and Shane’s stick appears—lifts the blade just as he’s about to shoot. The puck skitters harmlessly into the corner.

Ilya exhales. “Yes. That is my husband.”

The first period ends 1-0 Centaurs.

In the second period, Shane scores.

It happens fast. The Centaurs are cycling in the offensive zone, wearing down the Sharks’ defense. Hayes sends a pass toward the net—not a great pass, too high, but Shane is already moving. He battles through a cross-check to the back, the kind that makes Ilya wince from fifteen hundred miles away, and somehow gets his stick on the loose rebound.

The puck jams past the goalie’s pad. Shane falls as he scores, his momentum carrying him into the end boards with a crash that makes the glass shake.

Ilya is immediately on his feet. “Shane—”

For a terrible, endless second, Shane doesn’t move. He’s crumpled against the boards, and Ilya’s heart stops. His hands are clenched into fists. The announcers are talking but he can’t hear them over the rushing in his ears.

Then Shane pops up.

He’s on his skates instantly, raising his arms, shouting something at Hayes down the ice. His face is split in a wild grin. There’s no hesitation, no stiffness. Just pure, unfiltered joy.

Ilya sinks back to the floor, boneless with relief. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You are trying to kill me.”

He watches Shane celebrate with his linemates, watches him skate to the bench accepting glove taps, watches the replay show the goal from three different angles. It isn’t a pretty goal. It’s a grinder’s goal, the kind Shane has scored a thousand times. The kind that requires willpower more than skill, the kind that leaves bruises.

It’s perfect.

The Centaurs win 4-1.

Ilya turns off the TV as the final buzzer sounds. Then his phone buzzes against his leg.

1:15 AM EST

Shane Hollander-Rozanov:

Bus to airport. Flight leaves in two hours. See you soon.

Fly fast. I am waiting.
Always waiting for you.

Just a few more hours, and he’ll finally have his world in his arms.

The drive to the airport is a full of anticipation. It’s Friday morning, barely past nine. The sky is a pale, washed-out blue, the sun trying to burn through a layer of thin clouds that hangs over the city like gauze. Ilya is driving the Range Rover, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in time to a Dua Lipa song. He catches himself singing along under his breath and stops, glancing in the rearview mirror to look at Wyatt.

“Daddy come home?” Wyatt asks for the fiftieth time since they left the house, maybe the hundredth time since he woke up this morning.

“Yes,” Ilya says. Wyatt’s face is scrunched with concentration. “Daddy come home. He is on the plane right now.”

“Big plane?”

“Very big plane. With wings.” Ilya takes the exit for the airport, following the signs for arrivals.

“Like a bird?”

“Bigger than a bird. Like a dragon.”

Wyatt gasps, his eyes going huge. “Daddy ride a dragon?”

“Sure. Why not. Daddy rides a metal dragon across the sky.”

“Does it breathe fire?”

“Only from the engines.”

“Cool.” Wyatt kicks his feet happily against his car seat. He’s wearing his best outfit—a flannel shirt that matches one of Shane’s, the red and black one that Shane wore to Wyatt’s first day of toddler gym class, plus jeans and his little Timberland boots that he insisted on wearing even though they’re slightly too big. The bandage on his forehead is smaller now, just a strip of adhesive over the cut where the glue-stitches are hidden underneath.

They park in the short-term lot. Ilya cuts the engine and sits for just a moment, his hands still on the steering wheel. He’s picked Shane up from the airport dozens of times. But this time feels different. This time feels like Shane’s been gone for months instead of days.

“Papa, come on,” Wyatt says impatiently from the back seat.

“Okay, okay.” Ilya gets out and opens the back door. He unbuckles Wyatt, lifting him out and setting him carefully on the ground. “Hold my hand. The parking lot is dangerous.”

Wyatt grabs Ilya’s hand immediately. “I hold tight.”

“Good boy.”

Ilya reaches back into the car for the flowers. He bought them this morning from a florist in ByWard Market, a little shop tucked between a bakery and a vintage bookstore. He’d spent twenty minutes arguing with the old man about the arrangement. He’d tried to sell him roses.

Red roses. Ilya had refused.

“Roses are cliché,” he’d said, probably too harshly, but the man hadn’t seemed offended.

“For your wife?” the old man asked.

“For my husband.”

“Ah.” He’d smiled then, understanding. “What’s he like?”

Ilya had paused, looking at the cooler full of flowers. What is Shane like? “He is… Sunshine. He is like sunshine after a long winter. You understand?”

Thankfully, the old man understood.

The bouquet is massive. It’s wrapped in brown craft paper, tied with a simple twine ribbon that Ilya tied himself, refusing the decorative bow she’d offered. Inside, there are sunflowers—big, bright, optimistic sunflowers that remind Ilya of Shane’s smile—mixed with blue hydrangeas and white snapdragons that add height and texture. It smells like a meadow. It smells like summer at the cottage, like the wildflowers that grow along the path down to the lake.

“Flowers for Daddy?” Wyatt asks, reaching out to touch a petal with one careful finger.

“Yes. Do not eat them.”

“I not eat them, Papa. I smell them.” Wyatt buries his face in the bouquet, inhaling so loudly it’s almost a snort. “Smell like… plants.”

“Very observant,” Ilya says dryly. “You are a genius.”

They walk into the terminal. The airport is busy, filled with business travelers in rumpled suits and families with screaming toddlers and students with backpacks covered in pins. People look at Ilya. He can’t blame them. He’s six-foot-three, wearing a fitted black leather jacket over a soft gray henley, dark jeans, and Chelsea boots. His hair is pushed back from his face, and he forgot to take off his sunglasses before coming inside. He’s carrying a massive bouquet of flowers in one arm and holding the hand of a toddler who looks exactly like him—same dark curls, same angular face, same intense expression.

He ignores them. He’s learned to ignore the stares, the double-takes, the occasional whisper of recognition. Right now, there’s only one person in the world who matters.

“Where Daddy?” Wyatt asks, looking around at the sea of strangers with a slight frown, as if Shane might be hiding behind one of them.

“We have to go to the gate,” Ilya explains, steering them toward the domestic arrivals area.

“Well, the arrival doors. He has to get his luggage first, then he will come out the big glass doors.”

“How long?”

“Soon.” Ilya squeezes Wyatt’s hand. “Very soon.”

They find a spot near the sliding glass doors of the domestic arrivals area. There are other people waiting—drivers in black suits holding signs with names written in marker, families clutching balloons and homemade welcome-home signs, a woman with tears already streaming down her face even though no one has emerged yet. Ilya positions himself near a pillar, slightly out of the main traffic flow but with a clear line of sight to the doors.

He checks the arrivals board overhead.

Flight AC 342 from Toronto – Landed – Baggage Claim 3

His heart kicks frantically.

“Is Daddy here?” Wyatt tugs on Ilya’s hand, going up on his tiptoes as if that will help him see over the crowd.

“The plane is on the ground,” Ilya says, checking his phone for the third time in as many minutes. No new messages. Shane is probably in the bathroom, or waiting at baggage claim, or walking through the terminal right now. “Now Daddy has to get his bag. And walk. It takes a few minutes.”

“Too long!” Wyatt says with a sigh that sounds far too world-weary for a toddler.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Minutes take forever.”

He shifts the flowers to his left arm so he can pick Wyatt up with his right. He settles Wyatt on his hip, adjusting his weight automatically. It’s easier to see from up here, and it keeps Wyatt from running onto the baggage carousel or getting trampled by someone’s suitcase.

Wyatt wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck. “Papa, I see Daddy first.”

“We will see together.”

“I look real good!”

“Okay. You watch.”

The doors slide open. People start trickling out. A businessman in a gray suit, phone pressed to his ear. A woman with a stroller, looking exhausted. A group of teenagers with overstuffed backpacks, laughing about something. An elderly couple walking slowly, hand in hand.

Ilya scans every face. He feels like a radar dish, tuned to one specific frequency. His entire body is attuned to Shane’s presence, waiting for that first glimpse.

And then—

He sees him.

Shane walks through the doors. His hair is a little messy. He’s wearing his travel suit—the navy blue one that fits him perfectly. The top two buttons of his white dress shirt are undone, the collar slightly askew. He’s dragging a black suitcase behind him, the wheels making a soft rattling sound on the polished floor. His suit jacket is draped over the handle, and he has his backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks like the most beautiful thing Ilya has ever seen.

Shane stops just past the doors, looking around the crowd. He looks lost for just a split second, his brow furrowed, his eyes scanning faces. He’s looking for them. He’s looking for home.

Ilya wants to shout, wants to wave his arms, wants to close the distance between them and pull Shane into his arms. But he makes himself wait. He watches Shane’s face, watches the concentration there, the slight downturn of his mouth.

“Look,” Ilya murmurs into Wyatt’s ear. “Look over there, next to the tall man with the red jacket. Who is that?”

Wyatt follows Ilya’s pointing finger. He squints, leaning forward in Ilya’s arms. Then his eyes go wide, his whole face transforming.

“DADDY!”

The scream pierces the airport noise like a bell.

Shane’s head snaps toward them. For a heartbeat, he just stares, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. The exhaustion in his face vanishes, replaced by a smile so purely joyful it could power up the entire terminal. It’s the smile Ilya fell in love with, the smile that feels like coming home.

Shane drops the handle of his suitcase. It tips over with a soft thud. He drops his jacket on top of it, and falls to his knees right there on the hard airport floor, opening his arms wide.

“Go,” Ilya says, setting Wyatt down gently. His own eyes are burning. “Go get Daddy.”

Wyatt runs. “DADDY!”

Shane catches him. The impact rocks Shane back on his heels, but he holds on. He scoops Wyatt up, standing as he does, clutching Wyatt. He buries his face in Wyatt’s neck, and Ilya sees his shoulders start to shake.

Ilya stays where he is, feet rooted to the floor, watching as Shane kiss Wyatt’s hair, his temple, his cheek, the bandage on his forehead.

"Hi, baby. Hi. I missed you. I missed you so much.”

Wyatt is clinging to Shane’s neck with both arms, his legs wrapped around Shane’s waist like a koala. “You came back!”

“I came back,” Shane says, and Ilya can hear can hear the tears in his voice. “I told you. I always come back.”

“You promised.”

“I promised. And I keep my promises, don’t I?”

“Always.”

Shane holds Wyatt with one arm, using his free hand to wipe his own eyes roughly. His chest is heaving like he’s just skated a full shift. Then he looks up, looking directly at Ilya. It’s ten days of loneliness distilled into a single gaze.

Ilya walks toward them. Shane reaches out with his free hand, grabbing the front of Ilya’s leather jacket in his fist, pulling him in with something close to desperation. Ilya wraps his free arm around Shane’s shoulders, pulling him against his chest, crushing the flowers between them but not caring even a little bit.

“Hi,” Shane breathes against Ilya’s collarbone.

“Hi.” He kisses the side of Shane’s head, then his temple, then just rests his face there, holding him tight.

“I missed you,” Shane chokes out. “I missed you so much.”

Ilya drops a kiss on Shane’s forehead. "I bought you flowers. They are squished now."

Shane looks at the bouquet, which is indeed a little flattened against Ilya’s chest. He touches a sunflower. "They're perfect."

The walk to the parking garage feels like a parade. Wyatt is on Shane’s hip, chattering a mile a minute, trying to tell Shane ten days’ worth of stories in the span of a five-minute walk.

“And then I saw a big truck, Daddy! And it go vroom vroom! And then Papa maked pancakes, but they was circles, not hearts like you make.”

“Circles are okay too,” Shane says, shifting Wyatt to his other hip. He keeps touching Wyatt’s face, brushing his fingers over the bandage, checking the color of his cheeks. “Did you eat them?”

“Yeah. But yours better.”

Ilya smirks, unlocking the trunk. “Traitor. I heard that.”

“Papa makes good waffle though,” Wyatt adds cheekily.

Ilya loads Shane’s suitcase into the back of the Range Rover. He watches as Shane buckles Wyatt into the car seat. Shane keeps checking the straps twice, smoothing down Wyatt’s flannel shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, pressing his forehead against Wyatt’s cheek. “I’m so sorry Daddy wasn’t here when you fell.”

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Wyatt says, patting Shane’s shoulder with a sticky hand.

Shane straightens up, blinking rapidly. He meets Ilya’s eyes over the roof of the car. He manages a small, grateful smile. They get into the car. Shane immediately connects his phone to the Bluetooth. The speakers come to life with the intro of Taylor Swift’s The Fate of Ophelia.

Ilya raises an eyebrow, glancing over at Shane as he starts the engine.

“It’s a classic,” Shane defends, settling back into the passenger seat. He reaches across the console immediately, his hand finding Ilya’s thigh automatically. “Just drive.”

The drive home is peaceful at first. Shane’s hand stays on Ilya’s leg, his thumb rubbing slow circles against the denim. Every few minutes, at a red light, Ilya leans over and pecks Shane on the cheek or the temple, just because he can. When the pre-chorus hits, Ilya sings along to it dramatically, staring right at Shane while the car idles at a light.

"All that time, I sat alone in my tower," Ilya croons, pointing an accusing finger at himself, then flipping it to point at Shane. "You were just honing your powers... Now I can see it all!"

"Ilya, watch the road," Shane says, though he’s biting back a smile.

The chorus drops, and he releases the steering wheel with his right hand to gesture wildly. "Late one night you dug me out of my grave," Ilya belts out. He makes a claw hand, miming a zombie rising from the earth, wiggling his fingers spookily in the air between the front seats.

From the backseat, a high-pitched, delighted cackle erupts. Wyatt finds the zombie hand hilarious. Encouraged by his audience, Ilya clutches his own chest with agonizing theatricality. "And saved my heart from the fate of Ophelia!"

He throws a hand out toward Shane on the final note, palm open, as if presenting Shane with his entire soul. Wyatt is full-on belly laughing now, kicking his feet against the back of Shane’s seat. "Again! Papa, again!"

"Rozy!" Shane swats Ilya’s dramatic hand away and giving his thigh a warning squeeze. "Focus on driving, you menace. Stop traumatizing our son with your singing."

"Traumatizing?" Ilya scoffs, finally putting both hands back on the wheel as the song fades. He catches Wyatt’s beaming face in the rearview mirror and winks. "He loves it. He appreciates true art. Unlike his boring father."

"His boring father wants to get home in one piece," Shane retorts, but he doesn't move his hand from Ilya’s leg.

When they pull into the driveway, the house looks exactly the same as when they left it, but it feels different. It feels complete.

“Home sweet home,” Ilya announces, killing the engine. He gets out and grabs the suitcase from the trunk, slinging Shane’s garment bag over his shoulder. Shane unbuckles Wyatt and lifts him out, then reaches back in for the massive bouquet of flowers, cradling them carefully against his chest.

They walk up the steps together. Ilya unlocks the door, and as soon as it swings open, Anya is there. She’s whining, her entire body wiggling with excitement, her tail thumping against the wall so hard it sounds like a drum. She bypasses Ilya entirely—doesn’t even glance at him—and goes straight for Shane, burying her nose in his trousers, sniffing frantically.

“Hi, my lady,” Shane coos, crouching down as best he can with a toddler on his hip and flowers in his arms. Anya licks his hand, his wrist, trying to climb into his lap. “Did you miss me? Yeah? I missed you too, girl. I missed you so much.”

Anya makes a sound that’s half-whine, half-groan, pushing her head under Shane’s hand. Shane scratches behind her ears. “I know, I know. I’m sorry I was gone. But I’m back now.” He stands up slowly, one hand braced on his knee for leverage. Ilya doesn’t miss the way Shane shifts his weight to his left leg. Shane looks around the foyer—at the coat hooks, the console table with the bowl for keys, the photos on the wall. Ilya and Shane on their wedding day. Wyatt as a newborn. The three of them at the cottage last summer.

Shane takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of their home—coffee and laundry detergent and the faint lingering smell of the candle Ilya burned last night.

“There’s no place like home,” Shane says quietly, hugging Wyatt tighter against his chest.

Ilya drags the suitcase inside and shuts the door behind them. He leans against it for a second, just watching them. His family. His whole world, right here in the foyer.

“Are you hungry?” Ilya asks, pushing off the door.

“Starving,” Shane says, looking at him. There’s color in his cheeks now, life returning to his face. “I haven’t eaten since the pre-game meal yesterday afternoon.”

“I figured.” He takes the flowers to the kitchen and finds a vase under the sink. He fills it with water, arranges the flowers carefully, and sets it on the kitchen island where Shane will see it every time he walks past. “Do you want Nikujaga?”

He watches Shane’s face and sees the immediate look of pure, childish excitement. It’s the expression he gets when Ilya suggests watching When Harry Met Sally or when Wyatt says something unexpectedly wise.

Nikujaga. Japanese beef and potato stew. Shane’s late grandmother, Oba-chan Yuki, used to make it for him when he was small, simmering it on the stove for hours until the house smelled like comfort and safety. When Shane was pregnant with Wyatt, he’d craved it so intensely that he’d cried one night, curled up on the couch, missing his grandmother with a grief so raw it had scared Ilya.

So Ilya had spent an entire day with Yuna the following week, taking notes, burning potatoes, over-salting broth, until he’d mastered the exact balance of soy sauce, mirin, and sugar that Shane remembered. He’d made it for Shane that night, watching nervously as Shane took the first bite.

Shane had cried then too. But they were happy tears.

“You’d make that?” Shane asks, his voice eager and hopeful and so damn young. “Really?”

“I have the beef marinating in the fridge. It will take thirty minutes, maybe forty.”

“I love you,” Shane says with absolute seriousness. “Marry me.”

“I already did,” Ilya replies, fighting a smile. “I have the paperwork. Now put our son down and sit. You are swaying.”

“I’m not swaying.”

“You are swaying like a drunk man. Sit.”

Shane sets Wyatt down in the living room with visible reluctance, his hands lingering on Wyatt’s shoulders. Then he kneels in front of him, switching seamlessly into French Canadian.

“Laisse-moi voir, mon amour,” Shane murmurs, his voice going soft and careful the way it does when he’s worried. Let me see, my love. He gently lifts the edge of the adhesive strip on Wyatt’s forehead. “C’est-tu rouge? C’est-tu chaud?” Is it red? Is it hot?

Ilya understands maybe sixty percent of what Shane just said—he’s been learning French for three years now, ever since Wyatt was born and Shane started speaking to him in both English and French. It’s slower going than he’d like. Russian and French don’t overlap the way Russian and English sometimes do, and his tongue still struggles with the nasal vowels, the way sounds seem to dissolve at the back of the throat.

“Non, Papa,” Wyatt says, trying to squirm away to get to his toy cars on the shelf. Wyatt’s French is better than Ilya’s, the little traitor. He switches between Russian, English, and French without even thinking about it, his brain absorbing languages like a sponge. “Je veux jouer—” I want to play—

“Une seconde, mon grand. Reste tranquille.” One second, big boy. Stay still. Shane tilts Wyatt’s face toward the light, examining the skin around the glue stitches. “Ça fait-tu mal quand je touche?” Does it hurt when I touch?

“Non.”

“Et ici?” And here?

“Non!”

“D’accord, c’est beau. C’est ben beau.” Okay, it’s good. It’s really good. Shane kisses the spot right next to the bandage, then Wyatt’s nose, then his forehead again. “T’es sûr que ça fait pas mal, mon amour?” You’re sure it doesn’t hurt, my love?

“Daddy!” Wyatt complains, pushing at Shane’s chest. He switches to English, probably because his frustration is mounting and English comes easier when he’s annoyed.

“Je sais, je sais. Scuse-moi.” I know, I know. Sorry. Shane switches to English. “Daddy was just worried. I couldn’t be here to kiss it better when it happened.”

“C’est correct,” Wyatt says. It’s okay. Then, in English: “Papa kissed it lots.”

Shane looks over at Ilya.

Ilya clears his throat. “Oui,” he says, one of the few words he’s completely confident in. Yes. “Beaucoup de bisous.” Lots of kisses. He hopes he got the pronunciation right—bisous, not biseaux, which he’s pretty sure means beveled edges in carpentry.

“Ton français s’en vient bien,” Shane says softly. Your French is coming along.

Ilya shrugs, playing it cool though inside he’s jumping at his husband’s praise. “Un peu.” A little. “Je… j’essaie.” I… I try.

“Je sais. Et je t’aime pour ça.” I know. And I love you for that.

Wyatt, already bored with the sentimental moment, wriggles free from Shane’s grasp and toddles toward his toy cars. “Daddy, will you play with me?”

“Dans une minute, mon cœur,” Shane calls after him. In a minute, my heart. “Laisse-moi manger d’abord.” Let me eat first.

Ilya starts chopping potatoes in the kitchen. “We went back to the doctor yesterday,” he calls out over the sound of the knife. “She checked him. It is healing perfectly. The glue is holding. He is fine, Shane.”

Shane stands up, walking into the kitchen. He leans against the counter, watching Ilya work. “I know. I just… I need to see it for myself.”

“I know.” Ilya adds the beef to the pot. The smell of searing meat fills the kitchen. “Instead of worrying about his head, which is hard like rock, you should worry about your hip.”

“My hip is fine.”

“You were skating on one leg in Seattle.”

“I was compensating.”

“You were limping.” Ilya turns down the heat and adds the dashi stock, the soy sauce, the mirin, the sugar. He stirs it together, watching the liquid darken. “You need to see the physio tomorrow morning. I already made the appointment for ten o’clock tomorrow.”

Shane sighs heavily. “You’re bossy.”

“I am right.” Ilya glances over his shoulder. “There is a difference.”

“You’re also annoying.”

“Also right.”

Ilya finishes cooking, the savory, sweet smell of the stew filling the entire house. He ladles a massive portion into Shane’s favorite bowl—the blue ceramic one that’s slightly chipped from the time Anya knocked it off the counter—and adds extra rice, the way Shane likes it, with a small indent in the center for the broth to pool.

He sets it on the island with a pair of chopsticks.

“Eat,” Ilya commands.

Shane sits down on the stool and picks up the chopsticks. He takes a bite of potato, then beef, then closes his eyes and makes a sound that’s borderline obscene. “God. That’s good.”

“I am a genius chef.”

“You’re okay,” Shane says, but he’s smiling, that private little smile that’s just for Ilya.

“Just okay?”

“Fine. You’re incredible. You’re perfect. You’re the love of my life.” Shane takes another bite. “Happy?”

“Very.”

Ilya grabs the remote and turns on the TV in the living room. He scrolls through the streaming options until he finds Bluey—the episode about the magic xylophone, which is Wyatt’s current obsession. He’s watched it approximately seventy times in the last week.

Wyatt settles onto the rug with Anya, who flops down beside him with a contented sigh. Within seconds, Wyatt is mesmerized, his eyes glued to the screen.

Ilya comes back to the kitchen and leans against the island, watching Shane eat. It’s quiet except for the cartoon voices from the other room and the soft click of Shane’s chopsticks against the bowl. Shane eats like he’s been starving, which he probably has been. Airplane food is garbage, and Shane is particular about what he eats during the season.

“So,” Shane says casually, not looking up from his food. “I met Svetlana in Seattle.”

Ilya pauses in the middle of picking up a grape from the fruit bowl. “Did you.”

“Yeah. We had a whole conversation.” Shane’s voice is deliberately light. “She told me she’s engaged.”

“I know.” Ilya pops the grape into his mouth. “We spoke yesterday.”

Shane’s hand stills. He looks up slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly. There’s something dangerous in his expression, something that makes Ilya’s pulse quicken. “You spoke? On the phone?”

“Yes. She called me,” Ilya says, leaning back against the counter. He can feel the tension radiating off Shane from across the island. “To tell me she met my very handsome husband in a chowder restaurant.”

Shane puts his chopsticks down with a click. “She called you.”

“Yes.”

“And you talked,” Shane says, his voice dropping into that particular register that means he’s working very hard to sound calm.

“Briefly.” Ilya rests his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. He can see the tension in Shane’s jaw, the way his shoulders have gone rigid, the way his eyes have darkened to something stormier. It’s the same look Shane used to get when they were rivals and Ilya would chirp him on the ice, would get under his skin on purpose. “Why? Are you jealous?”

“No,” Shane says immediately, picking up his chopsticks again and stabbing a potato with more force than necessary. “Why would I be jealous? I’m your husband. We have a kid.”

“True.” Ilya grins, enjoying this more than he probably should. He loves when Shane gets possessive. It makes something feral and satisfied curl low in his gut. “But you sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Mm-hmm. If you say so.”

Shane glares at him. It’s the glare he gives referees when they make a bad call, the one that’s all barely restrained frustration. “I’m not.”

“Okay, zaika.” Little rabbit.

“Don’t ‘zaika’ me right now.”

Ilya laughs. “You are definitely jealous.”

“Fuck you,” Shane hisses, immediately checking over his shoulder to make sure their son is still distracted by the magic xylophone.

”Later.” Ilya winks, then says reasonably, “She’s engaged, Shane. To Jacob. The boring tech man.”

“I know. I met her.” Shane pushes a piece of carrot around his bowl. “It’s just… she told me things.”

“She talks a lot.”

“She told me you used to watch my games.” Shane isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s staring down at his bowl. “When we were rookies. When we were on different teams.”

Ilya swallows. Why does Svetlana needs to tell him that?!

“I was doing research.”

“Research,” Shane deadpans.

“Yes. Scouting the enemy.” It’s a lame excuse, and they both know it.

“Right. The enemy.” Shane’s jaw works. “She said you were ‘fascinated’ with me.”

“She exaggerates.”

“Does she?”

Ilya doesn’t answer. He picks up another grape, rolling it between his fingers.

Shane finally looks up at him, his eyes glazed. “She’s your type, isn’t she? Smart. Practical. Interesting. Beautiful. Russian."

Ilya goes very still. “Shane—”

“She probably never asks you to explain jokes.” Shane’s fingers tighten around the chopsticks. “She probably doesn’t need you to translate things.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. He walks around the island slowly. He steps into Shane’s space, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of Shane’s stool, trapping him. “She is not my type,” he says, leaning down until their faces are only inches apart.

“No?” Shane challenges, but his voice wavers slightly. He looks up at Ilya through his lashes, and God, he’s so beautiful it makes Ilya’s chest ache. “Then what is your type, Rozanov?”

He takes in the messy hair that needs a trim, the tired eyes with their dark circles, the stubble that’s just starting to show on Shane’s jaw because he hasn’t shaved since yesterday morning. The freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks like constellations.

"My type," he says, reaching up to brush a thumb across the bridge of Shane’s nose, "is a man who has exactly one hundred and twelve freckles on his face. I know, because I have counted them while he sleeps."

Shane stares at him. His mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out.

"They are like… constellations. Map of the universe, right here on your nose." Ilya traces the path of them down to Shane’s cheek, his touch feather-light. "My type is a man who thinks toast is a food group and makes a spreadsheet for fun.Who organizes his closet by color and his books by author and his life into neat little boxes. A man who is so boring but who kisses like he is trying to devour my soul."

Shane flushes that dark, lovely red that starts at his neck and spreads up to his cheeks, the one that Ilya has spent years learning to provoke.

“My type is a man who pretends he does not care what people think, but who reads every comment on every article written about him. Who knows his stats by heart. Who cried when we got married because he was so happy, and then pretended it was allergies.”

“That’s not—” Shane starts, but Ilya cuts him off.

“My type,” Ilya continues, leaning in closer, his lips brushing the shell of Shane’s ear, “is the only person in the world who is as fast as me. The only person who makes me work for every inch of ice. The only person who has ever made me feel like I had competition. My equal. My match.”

Shane makes a sound low in his throat.

“My type is the Golden Boy who looks perfect on magazine covers and cereal boxes. Who signs autographs for children and smiles for cameras and says all the right things. But who lets me ruin him in the dark. Who begs so pretty. Who falls apart in my hands and trusts me to put him back together.”

“Ilya,” Shane breathes.

“My type,” Ilya says, pulling back to look Shane in the eyes, “is you, Hollander. It has only ever been you. Since I was seventeen years old and saw you skate for the first time and thought, ‘Oh. There he is. There is the other half of me.’”

A single tear escapes, tracking slowly down Shane’s cheek.

“I did not want it to be you,” Ilya admits, his voice breaking slightly. “I fought it. I hated it. I hated that you made me feel things I did not want to feel. That you got under my skin and into my head and made me want. But it was always you. Even when I was with Svetlana or with any omegas, even when I told myself I was over it—it was you. It was always you.”

Shane grabs the front of Ilya’s shirt, his fingers twisting in the fabric. “Say it again.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. In Russian. In English. I don’t care. Just—” Shane’s voice breaks. “Just say it.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya murmurs, resting his forehead against Shane’s. “I love you. I told you first in Russian. But I will tell you in English for the rest of my life if you need to hear it. I will tell you every day. I will tell you until you believe it.”

Shane doesn't wait for him to finish. He surges forward, his hands flying up to grip the back of Ilya’s neck, and pulls Ilya down, crashing their mouths together in a wet, violent collision that knocks the breath out of both of them. Shane’s mouth is hot and open, wet and demanding. He forces Ilya’s lips apart, his tongue sweeping inside deep and aggressive until he breaks the seal of their mouths for a split second, a string of saliva connecting their lips before Ilya crushes them back together.

“I love you,” Shane gasps against his lips. “God, I love you so much. You’re my type too. Even if you are an infuriating asshole.”

“I am your most charming asshole,” Ilya says, smiling against Shane’s mouth.

“You’re my only asshole.”

“Because you love me,” Ilya says simply, his hands finding Shane’s waist and Shane’s thighs spread around Ilya’s hips.

Shane then grips Ilya’s hair, yanking his head back to ravage his mouth harder, their tongues sliding against each other in a filthy, wet rhythm. Ilya grinds his hips upward, the hard ridge of his erection dragging against Shane’s fly, and Shane shudders, a ragged whimper punched out of his chest as he arches into the friction, desperate for more.

Ilya kisses him with everything he has, sucking on Shane’s lower lip, biting down just hard enough to sting, then soothing it with his tongue. He trails his lips down to the sensitive cord of Shane’s neck, scraping his teeth over the pulse point, and Shane lets out a long, broken moan. Ilya’s hands slide down to grip Shane’s ass, ready to lift him onto the island, when Shane suddenly goes rigid in his arms.

The fingers that were tangled in Ilya’s hair freeze, then tap frantically against his skull.

“Ilya,” Shane hisses, the word strangled.

Ilya ignores him, planting a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of his throat. “Shut up, Hollander.”

“Rozy, stop.” Shane’s voice is higher now, laced with panic. He physically pushes at Ilya’s shoulders, creating a wedge of space between them.

Ilya pulls back, breathless and dazed, his lips swollen and tingling. “What? What is it?”

Shane isn’t looking at him. His face is flushed a deep, sinful red, his lips slick with Ilya’s spit, but his eyes are fixed on something over Ilya’s shoulder.

Confused, Ilya turns around.

In the living room, ten feet away, Wyatt is sitting cross-legged on the carpet. He hasn’t moved an inch. He is staring raptly at the television screen.

“Mom! Dad! Bingo! Bluey!” the TV chirps cheerfully.

Ilya looks back at Shane who looks like he just saw a ghost. “He is watching the cartoon,” he points out.

“He has peripheral vision!” Shane whispers furiously, hastily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And ears! My God, Ilya, I was—I was loud.”

“You were delicious,” Ilya says, stepping back into his space.

“We are terrible parents,” Shane groans, burying his face in his hands. “We’re traumatizing him. He’s going to tell his therapist that he missed the beginning of Sleepytime because his dads were eating each other’s faces in the kitchen.”

“He is fine. Look.” Ilya gestures to their son. Wyatt is currently giggling as the dad dog on TV gets hit by a yoga ball. “He does not see us.”

As if challenged, Wyatt suddenly stiffens. He twists his little body around on the carpet, tearing his eyes away from the Heeler family to look directly at his own.

Shane practically slaps a smile on his face so fast it looks painful. Ilya mirrors him, forcing his own expression into something resembling a responsible parent rather than a man who was just dry-humping his husband against the kitchen island.

Wyatt blinks at them. His gaze drifts from Shane’s bright red face to Ilya’s rumpled shirt. For a terrifying second, he looks critical, like a tiny, diaper-wearing referee deciding whether to call a penalty. Then, his face splits into a wide, toothy grin that is all gums and sunshine. He lifts his chubby arms toward Shane, opening and closing his small fists in a demanding, grabby motion.

“Daddy, hug!” he chirps, the Bluey theme song fading into background noise.

Shane lets out a breath that sounds like a deflating balloon. His posture slumps from panicked statue to puddle of goo.

“Go,” Ilya says softly. “Go be Daddy. I will clean up.”

Shane’s eyes shine. He slides off the stool, his hand trailing along Ilya’s arm as he goes. He walks into the living room and flops onto the floor next to Wyatt, who immediately abandons Bluey to climb onto Shane’s lap. Shane wraps his arms around Wyatt, pulling him against his chest, burying his face in Wyatt’s curls.

Ilya turns back to the sink. He starts washing the dishes, the warm water running over his hands, and listens to the sounds of his husband and his son—Wyatt’s bright chatter, Shane’s deeper responses, their laughter mixing together like music.

To be continued…

Chapter End Notes:

Hello!

Dropping this chapter early! Thank you so much for reading! Hope you all have a great New Year!

Love,

Azi 💜

Happy

Ilya learns very quickly that "extended Christmas break" does not mean "relaxing." It actually means packing for a grown man who requires three different types of foam rollers, a specific cervical pillow, and six suits despite the fact they are going to a cottage in the woods. It also means packing for a toddler who apparently needs more equipment than an NHL goaltender.

"Do we really need the potty seat?" Ilya asks, standing in the hallway of their home, staring at the mountain of luggage by the front door. "There are toilets at the cottage. He knows how to use them."

"He prefers his throne," Shane says, walking past with a stack of diapers that reaches his chin. "And do we have Bear? I can't find Bear."

"Bear is in the car seat. I strapped him in. Safety first."

Shane stops. He looks at Ilya, his hair messy, wearing grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips, looking harassed and exhausted and so beautiful Ilya wants to bite him. "You strapped the stuffed bear into the car seat?"

"He is a valued member of the family."

"You're an idiot." Shane smiles, and drops a kiss on Ilya’s cheek as he passes. "Load the car, Rozanov. We’re burning daylight."

They are burning daylight because Shane is incapable of leaving the house later than 8:00 a.m., even though the drive is only two hours. But Ilya doesn’t complain. He loads the Range Rover. He arranges the bags, the food, the gifts, and the potty seat into the trunk. Life has been a blur since Shane came back from the West Coast. The Centaurs went on a tear—seven wins in nine games—and Shane has been playing like a man possessed. He is averaging twenty-two minutes a night. He is killing penalties. He is winning face-offs.

He is also limping.

Shane thinks he hides it. He thinks that because he walks normally when he is in the locker room, or when the cameras are on, that no one notices. But Ilya notices. Ilya sees the way Shane shifts his weight to his right side when he brushes his teeth. He sees the way Shane takes an extra ten seconds to get out of the car. He sees the grimace Shane tries to smooth away when he picks Wyatt up.

It makes Ilya’s stomach twist with a cold dread. But they have a deal. Radical honesty. And Shane swears he is fine. He swears the physio is managing it. He swears he can play.

So Ilya packs the bags, and he drives the car, and he watches his husband like a hawk.

The drive to the cottage is peaceful. Wyatt falls asleep twenty minutes past Kanata, lulled by the motion of the car and the heated seats. Shane controls the playlist, which means they listen to acoustic covers of pop songs, but Ilya endures it because Shane’s hand is resting on the back of Ilya’s neck, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the hair at Ilya’s nape.

"It's going to be good," Shane says softly, looking out the window at the snow-covered pine trees rushing past. "Just us. No media. No coaches. No noise."

"Just us," Ilya agrees, then glances at their son through the rear view mirror. "And the tiny dictator in the back."

Shane chuckles. "He's excited to see the 'Big House.'"

"He thinks we are going to Hogwarts. I told him there are dragons in the woods."

"Ilya!" Shane smacks his arm lightly. "Don't tell him that. He won't sleep."

"He will sleep. I will tell him the dragons are friendly. They eat only vegetables. And defensemen who blow coverage."

When they turn onto the private road, the snow is deeper here, pristine and white, untouched by city sludge. The trees arch over the lane like a cathedral. And then, the cottage appears. It is the same as it was thirteen years ago, when they first came here to hide. The same stone front, the same massive windows staring out at the frozen lake.

But it is different, too. There is a swing set in the yard now, currently buried under a foot of snow. There is a safety gate on the deck.

It used to be their fortress. Now, it is their home.

"Papa! Look!" Wyatt wakes up as the car stops, pointing frantically at the window. "Snow!"

"Yes, baby. Lots of snow."

They spend the first day just existing. They unpack. They build a fire. Shane makes grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, and they eat them sitting on the rug in the living room because Wyatt thinks picnics are the height of luxury.

In the afternoon, they go to the "Rink." It is the separate building next to the main house—Shane’s training facility. Synthetic ice. Shooting tarps. Wyatt is wearing tiny skates that Ilya bought him—Bauers, obviously, because no son of his is wearing CCMs—and a helmet that makes his head look like a mushroom.

"Okay, big man," Shane says, kneeling on the synthetic ice. He is not wearing skates, just sneakers and track pants. "Come to Daddy. Bend your knees."

Wyatt wobbles. He looks like a baby giraffe on a frozen pond. "I slippy!"

"I know. Being slippy is part of it." Shane holds out his hands. "Trust your edges. Push. Push."

Ilya leans against the boards, watching them. He has his phone out, recording every second. Wyatt takes a step. He slides. He flails his arms wildly, his face scrunching up in panic, and then—thump. He lands squarely on his padded butt.

Ilya waits. This is the moment. Will he cry?

Wyatt looks at the floor. He looks at Shane.

Shane doesn't panic and just smiles. "Good fall! That was a great fall, Wyatt. Did it hurt?"

"No,” Wyatt says, shaking his head.

"Exactly. Now, get up. How do we get up?"

"One knee!" Wyatt chirps. With a determined grunt, he pushes himself up, his skates sliding apart before he manages to find his center and stand tall.

"Yes!" Ilya shouts, clapping. "What a machine! Look at that recovery!"

Wyatt beams at him. "Papa! I skate!"

"You are skating! You are faster than Daddy already!"

Shane shoots Ilya a look, but he’s laughing. He guides Wyatt around the small surface, holding his hands, skating backward in his sneakers. He moves with that fluid, careless grace that has always made Ilya jealous. Shane Hollander was born to move on ice, even fake ice.

But then, Wyatt yanks hard on Shane’s arm, trying to chase a loose puck. Shane twists to catch him, his right leg shooting out to stabilize them.

Ilya sees the tightening of Shane’s eye, a quick intake of breath through his teeth. Shane recovers instantly, scooping Wyatt up and spinning him around, but Ilya saw the way Shane’s hand went to his hip for a fraction of a second before dropping away.

Ilya lowers his phone. He stops recording.

"Okay," Ilya calls out, stepping onto the surface. "Practice over. Rookie needs hot chocolate."

"I'm not done!" Wyatt protests.

"Coach says practice over," Ilya says firmly. He walks over and picks Wyatt up, taking the weight off Shane. He looks at his husband. "You okay, Cap?"

Shane is breathing a little hard. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He meets Ilya’s eyes, and for a second, the mask slips. He looks in pain.

"Yeah," Shane says, forcing a smile. "Just... old."

"Hot tub," Ilya decides. "For you. Bubbles for the short one."

"Bossy," Shane murmurs, but he leans in and kisses Ilya’s jaw. "Thank you."

The tree in the corner of the cottage living room is twelve feet tall. Ilya cut it down himself from the back of the property, with Shane supervising and periodically shouting warnings about trajectory and “please don’t drop it on the house, we just had the roof redone.” It is covered in so many lights—white ones, colored ones, twinkling ones. And there are ornaments everywhere: glass baubles in jewel tones, wooden stars hand-carved by some Etsy artisan Shane found, silver icicles, and—front and center, hanging right at eye level on the most prominent branch—the ugly macaroni snowflake that Wyatt made at daycare. It is lumpy and asymmetrical and covered in too much glue and glitter, and it is the most important ornament on the tree.

On Christmas Eve, they follow the tradition Shane grew up with, the tradition Ilya initially mocked and now secretly loves.

They wear matching pajamas.

“I feel ridiculous,” Ilya says, looking down at himself. The pajamas are red flannel printed with cartoon moose. “I am a terrifying Russian villain who makes other teams cry.”

“You look adorable,” Shane says. He is wearing the matching set, and it should look stupid—a thirty-five-year-old professional hockey player in novelty pajamas—but instead, because he is Shane Hollander, he looks cozy and wholesome and edible. “Stop complaining. It’s for the aesthetic.”

“The aesthetic is ‘lumberjack who has given up on life.’”

“Papa is a moose!” Wyatt yells, running in circles around the coffee table. He is, predictably, also wearing moose pajamas, and he has been running laps for ten minutes straight, high on the chaos of Christmas Eve and the two cookies Shane let him have after dinner.

“Yes. We are a herd,” Ilya sighs dramatically. He catches Wyatt as he runs past and hauls him into his arms, tickling his ribs until Wyatt shrieks with laughter. “A herd of mooses. What is plural? Meese?”

“Moose,” Shane corrects, coming over to sit on the sofa. He has a book in his hand—The Night Before Christmas, the same worn copy his mother read to him. They settle by the fire. Shane in the corner of the couch, Ilya next to him with Wyatt sprawled across both their laps. The fire crackles and pops, throwing dancing shadows across the walls. Shane opens the book and begins to read.

“’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…”

Ilya has heard this story a dozen times now—every Christmas Eve since Wyatt was born, and a few times before that when Shane read it aloud just for practice—but he never gets tired of it. Shane’s voice is perfect for this, low and rhythmic and soothing, rising and falling like a tide. He does different voices for the different characters: a booming bass for Santa, a squeaky falsetto for the mouse.

He watches Shane. He watches the firelight, the scatter of freckles across his husband’s nose and cheeks that darken every summer and lighten every winter. He watches the way Shane’s mouth curves around the words, the way his eyes crinkle when Wyatt giggles at the funny parts. He watches the way Shane’s free hand rests on Wyatt’s back. Ilya’s chest aches with it—the fullness of it, the impossible enormity of this moment.

He remembers being twenty-two, sitting alone in a hotel room in Calgary on Christmas Eve, eating dry room service pasta and texting Shane messages that were too casual, hoping for a reply that would ease the loneliness. He remembers thinking that this—this warmth, this belonging, this ease—was something other people got to have. Not him. Never him.

But now, he is wearing moose pajamas. He has the boy. He has the man. He has the fire and the tree and the snow falling outside and Shane’s voice reading about sugarplums.

“Happy Christmas to all,” Shane finishes softly, closing the book, “and to all a good night.”

Wyatt is asleep. He went out like a light somewhere around the sugarplums, his breathing evening out into the soft snuffles of deep sleep.

Ilya stands up carefully, scooping Wyatt into his arms. “I will put him down.”

“I’ll help.”

They carry him to the guest room next to theirs, the room they’ve designated as Wyatt’s. They tuck him into the travel crib—which he’s almost too big for now, his feet nearly touching the end—and cover him with the fleece blanket embroidered with his name. They stand over him for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his mouth hangs slightly open, the way his hand clutches Bear even in sleep.

“He’s happy,” Shane whispers, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “He is.”

Christmas Morning
5:15 am

“WAKE UP! WAKE UP! SANTA CAME!”

Small, heavy hands smack Ilya’s shoulder, and then his face, and then his shoulder again. Ilya groans, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “Go away. Santa is sleeping.”

“Santa is NOT sleeping!” More smacking. Wyatt has climbed fully onto the bed now and is bouncing on Ilya’s back like he’s a trampoline. “Papa! Get up! PRESENTS!”

Shane is laughing beside him. “Your son is awake, Rozy.”

“He is your son,” Ilya mumbles into the pillow. “He has your morning person energy. You two go be sunshine together. I will join you at reasonable hour. Like noon.”

“It’s Christmas,” Shane says, and Ilya can hear the smile in his voice. “Get up, Scrooge.”

“I am not Scrooge. I am Russian. We celebrate Orthodox Christmas. This is not my holiday.”

“Ilya!”

“…Fine.”

Ilya rolls over, dislodging Wyatt, who shrieks with delight. Wyatt is already dressed—Shane must have gotten him into clothes while Ilya was still unconscious—in a green sweater with a reindeer on it and red corduroy pants.

“Merry Christmas, Papa!”

“Merry Christmas, little bear.” Ilya sits up. Shane is already out of bed, wearing his moose pajamas and looking disgustingly alert. “What time is it?”

“Early,” Shane says cheerfully. “Come on. Let’s go see what Santa brought.”

They go downstairs, Wyatt thundering ahead of them, taking the steps two at a time while shouting “PRESENTS! PRESENTS! PRESENTS!” like a battle cry. The living room is exactly as they left it last night—tree glowing, fire reduced to embers—except now there is a mountain of wrapped presents underneath the tree that definitely wasn’t there before. Shane stayed up until midnight setting everything up, arranging the gifts just so, eating the cookies Wyatt left out for Santa and leaving a half-eaten carrot for the reindeer.

Ilya made fun of him for it. But he also sat on the couch and watched him do it, and his heart felt three sizes too big.

“LOOK!” Wyatt drops to his knees in front of the tree, his eyes huge. “So many presents! Papa! Daddy! Look!”

“We see them, buddy,” Shane says, settling onto the floor next to him. Ilya joins them, sitting cross-legged.

The living room becomes a disaster zone of wrapping paper within ten minutes. Wyatt tears through each present, throw it over his shoulder, gasp at the gift, immediately move to the next one. There are Legos—a massive fire station set that will take Ilya three hours to assemble. There are Paw Patrol vehicles—Chase, Marshall, Skye, the whole crew. There is a stuffed dragon to go with the dragon story Ilya told him, green and scaly with soft wings.

But the big gift—Ilya’s masterpiece, his pièce de résistance—is still waiting in the garage.

“Okay,” Ilya says, when the pile of presents under the tree has been demolished. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?” Wyatt asks suspiciously.

“Because Santa left one more present. But is very big. Is in special place.”

“How big?”

“So big. Bigger than you. Close eyes.”

Wyatt squeezes his eyes shut immediately, his whole face scrunching up with the effort. Shane raises an eyebrow at Ilya—what did you do—and Ilya just grins. He stands up, ignoring the crack in his knee, and goes to the garage. The gift is waiting there, covered with a sheet. He wheels it into the living room, the wheels squeaking slightly on the hardwood floor.

“Okay,” Ilya says, positioning it in front of Wyatt. “Open.”

Wyatt’s eyes fly open. His jaw drops.

It is a custom-made, miniature Zamboni. A ride-on electric toy, about three feet long and two feet wide, painted in Centaurs colors—black with gold accents, the team logo emblazoned on the side. It has a working horn that makes a cheerful beep-beep sound. It has headlights that actually turn on. The little seat in the back has “HOLLANDER-ROZANOV” embroidered on it in gold thread, and there’s even a tiny replica of a water tank on the back.

For a moment, Wyatt just stares at it, his mouth hanging open.

Then: “ZAMBONI!”

“Yes! For cleaning the ice! You can drive it!”

“I CAN DRIVE IT?” Wyatt scrambles to his feet and runs to the Zamboni, running his hands over it like he’s checking to make sure it’s real. “It’s MINE?”

“Is yours.”

“Can I drive RIGHT NOW?”

“Yes! But not on the rug. Only on the floor. Kitchen is best.”

For the next hour, the cottage echoes with the electric whir of the mini-Zamboni and Wyatt’s maniacal cackling as he drives circles around the kitchen island. He drives it forward. He drives it backward. He crashes it gently into the refrigerator and then reverses and does it again. He honks the horn approximately eight hundred times. Shane leans against the doorframe, watching him, his face soft with joy. “You’re insane,” he says to Ilya. “Where did you even find that?”

“Custom ordered. From company in Minnesota. Took three months.”

“It’s perfect. He’s never going to sleep again.”

“Worth it.”

Eventually, Wyatt gets distracted by his Lego fire station, and the cottage falls into a peaceful quiet. Ilya makes coffee—strong and black for himself, light and sweet for Shane—and they settle onto the sofa together. The morning light is streaming through the windows now, turning everything gold and white.

“Okay,” Shane says, and there’s a sudden shyness in his voice that makes Ilya look at him.

“Our turn now.” He reaches behind the throw pillow and pulls out a flat, rectangular box wrapped in silver paper. “You first.”

Ilya takes it. It feels light. He tears the paper carefully. It is a frame. Inside, there is a photograph. Ilya stares at it, his throat closing up. It is a photo from The draft. They are teenagers. They are standing on the stage, far apart, looking at different cameras. They look like strangers. They look like enemies.

But Shane has done something to the matting of the frame. He has handwritten text all around the photo, in his neat, cramped script.

It’s stats.

June 26, 2015. 7:14 PM.

Heart rate: 110 bpm.

Thoughts: Who is the Russian kid with the bad hair?

Thoughts: I want to beat him.

Thoughts: I want to know him.

And below that:

December 25, 2030.

Heart rate: Calm.

Thoughts: He is my husband.

Thoughts: I didn't beat him. I joined him.

Thoughts: I love him.

Ilya traces the glass. He remembers that day. He remembers the loneliness of it. And he reads the words Shane wrote—the confession that even then, even at the very beginning, there was a pull.

"Shane," Ilya croaks.

"I found the photo in the archives," Shane says, rubbing the back of his neck. "And I... I just wanted you to know. It’s always been you. Even when I didn't know it yet."

Ilya leans over and kisses him. It is a soft, salty kiss. "I love it. I love you."

"Your turn."

Ilya reaches under the sofa. His gift is heavy. It is a long, wooden box.

Shane takes it. He looks curious. He undoes the latch. Inside, resting on black velvet, is a brass telescope. It is vintage—old brass, polished to a shine, heavy and substantial. It looks like something a sea captain would use to navigate the ocean.

"A telescope?" Shane asks, running his hand over the cold metal.

"Read the inscription," Ilya says.

Shane lifts it out. On the brass barrel, engraved in elegant script, are words.

For Shane.

Because you like to map the stars.

But you are the only constellation I need.

—I.

Shane reads it. He stops. He reads it again. His eyes fill with tears.

"You look at the stats," Ilya says.” You look at the systems. You look at the universe and you try to make sense of it. I want you to see everything, Shane. I want you to look at the stars and know that I am right here, looking at you."

Shane puts the telescope down on the velvet. He tackles Ilya, and climbs into his lap, careless of his hip, careless of the coffee, and buries his face in Ilya’s neck.

"Thank you," Shane sobs against Ilya’s shoulder. "Thank you. It’s perfect."

Ilya wraps his arms around his husband. He holds him tight. He looks over Shane’s shoulder at their son, who is crashing his Zamboni into the refrigerator. It is chaos. It is loud. It is messy.

It is the best Christmas of his life.

"Merry Christmas, solnyshko," Ilya whispers into Shane’s hair.

"Merry Christmas," Shane whispers back.

Calabogie Peaks
27 December 2030

The problem with ski boots, Shane decides as he wrestles his left foot into the rigid plastic shell, is that they are designed by sadists. They are heavy. They force your ankles into a permanent forward flex. And if you happen to have a hip flexor that is currently screaming at a volume of about eight out of ten, they are essentially torture devices.

“You okay?” Ilya asks. He is already booted up, leaning against the wooden locker in the rental lodge, looking irritatingly hot. He’s wearing a sleek black Moncler jacket, and he looks like he belongs on a runway in Gstaad rather than a family ski hill in the Ottawa Valley.

“Fine,” Shane grunts, stomping his heel down to lock the boot. A sharp, hot wire of pain shoots up his groin, radiating into his lower back. He swallows the grimace, turning it into a tight smile. “Just stiff. These boots are tighter than my skates.”

“They are supposed to be tight. For control.” Ilya pushes off the locker and crouches down in front of Wyatt. “Okay, cosmonaut. You are ready for launch.”

Shane looks down at their son and feels the pain recede just a fraction, replaced by an overwhelming wave of affection. Wyatt is wearing a neon orange snowsuit that makes him look like a very small, very expensive traffic cone. He has a helmet that is arguably too big for his body, goggles that take up half his face, and tiny, adorable skis that look like toys.

“I a robot!” Wyatt announces, stomping his stiff boots on the rubber floor. Clomp, clomp, clomp.

“You are a ski robot,” Shane agrees. He reaches for the harness—a vest-like contraption with a handle on the back and long tethers attached. “Come here, mon amour. We gotta put your flight suit on.”

“No leash!” Wyatt protests, trying to waddle away.

“It’s not a leash,” Shane lies smoothly, buckling the vest over the puffy snowsuit. “It’s… a turbo booster. It helps Daddy make you go fast.”

“Fast?” Wyatt perks up.

“So fast.”

They walk out of the lodge and into the bright, blinding white of the afternoon. Calabogie Peaks isn’t the Alps—it’s not even Whistler—but it’s respectable. The air is biting, smelling of pine needles and snowmaking chemicals. It’s busy, filled with families enjoying the holiday week, the sound of skis scraping on ice and the hum of the lifts filling the air.

Shane takes a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs. He loves this. He loves the geometry of skiing, the physics of momentum. It’s hockey without the contact, skating without the boards.

Or, it used to be.

Today, staring up at the bunny hill, it looks like a mountain.

“Okay,” Shane says, clicking his boots into his bindings. The snap echoes. He tests his weight, shifting side to side. His left hip catches, a dull throb that warns him not to push it. He ignores it. He is Shane Hollander. He has played through broken ribs, a fractured jaw, and a torn meniscus. He can handle a bunny hill with his three-year-old.

“I will take the camera,” Ilya says, pulling out his phone. “You are the Head Coach.”

“I’m Head Coach.” He shuffles over to Wyatt. He bought a “ski tip connector”—a little plastic clamp that holds the tips of Wyatt’s skis together in a permanent wedge. It’s essential. Without it, Wyatt’s legs would split like Bambi on ice.

“Okay, Wyatt,” Shane says, crouching down as best he can. He tries to keep his back straight, avoiding the deep hinge that aggravates the injury. “Remember what we talked about in the kitchen? Pizza and French Fries.”

Wyatt looks at him through the goggles. “I hungry.”

“No, not eating pizza. Feet pizza.” Shane taps the tips of Wyatt’s skis. “Make a triangle. Point your toes together. That makes you stop.”

“Pizza stop,” Wyatt repeats solemnly.

“Exactly. And French Fries—” Shane straightens his own skis parallel “—means go.”

“Fries go!”

They shuffle to the Magic Carpet—the conveyor belt lift that drags beginners up the gentle slope. Wyatt thinks the Magic Carpet is the ride itself. He stands on it rigid as a board, looking around with excitement as the world moves slowly past him. At the top, the slope is barely a grade. It’s a gentle, snowy ramp designed for toddlers and terrified adults.

“Okay,” Shane says. He skates backward, positioning himself about five feet downhill from Wyatt. This is the only way to do it—face your kid, hold the tethers, and ski backward while they ski forward.

It is also, Shane realizes with a sinking feeling, the exact biomechanical motion that his hip hates the most. Internal rotation. Resistance. Absorbing the shock.

“Ready?” Shane calls out.

“Ready!”

“French Fries! Go!”

Wyatt starts to slide.

It’s chaotic immediately. Wyatt’s center of gravity is somewhere around his knees, which helps, but he has zero instinct for edges. He just points his skis downhill and lets gravity take the wheel.

“Pizza! Pizza!” Shane calls out, snowplowing backward, his thighs burning. The tethers go taut as Wyatt picks up speed.

“WEEEEE!” Wyatt screams, throwing his hands in the air.

“Hands on knees!” Shane instructs, instinct taking over. “Push on your knees, baby! Make the pizza!”

Wyatt does not make the pizza. He is a speed demon. He is a cannonball in neon orange. He is picking up speed, heading straight for Shane’s crotch.

“Pizza, Wyatt! PIZZA!”

Shane widens his own stance, digging his edges in hard to slow them both down. The sudden resistance jars his hip—a sharp, sickening pop of pain that makes his vision whiteout for a nanosecond. He gasps, his leg buckling slightly, but he locks his quad, forcing his body to hold. He catches Wyatt between his legs, grabbing the handle on the back of the vest to stop him.

They come to a halt.

“AGAIN!” Wyatt yells, his face flushed with joy. “DADDY I FAST!”

Shane leans over, hands on his knees, panting. The pain is a hot, throbbing pulse deep in the joint. He feels nauseous.

“You were so fast,” Shane manages to wheeze. “You were a rocket.”

Ilya skies up beside them. He moves effortlessly, carving a perfect stop that sprays a fine mist of snow. He’s grinning, his phone held up.

“I got it,” Ilya says. “He is natural. He has no fear. Is terrifying.” Then he looks at Shane. The grin fades slightly. He lowers the phone. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Shane says quickly. Too quickly. He stands up straight, forcing his posture to relax. “Just… he’s stronger than he looks. The tethers are a workout.”

“Your face is gray,” Ilya says quietly.

“It’s the light,” Shane lies. “Flat light. Come on. Let’s go again.”

They do five more runs.

Each one is a battle. Shane has to ski backward, hunched over, absorbing Wyatt’s erratic movements, catching him when he falls, lifting him up when he gets tangled in his own skis.

Lift Wyatt up. Stab of pain.

Ski backward in a plow. Burn.

Twist to untangle the tether. Sharp, electric jolt.

By the fifth run, Shane is sweating through his base layers. His left leg feels heavy, a painful anchor he’s dragging around. But he can’t stop because his son is having the best day of his life.

“One more!” Wyatt begs at the bottom of the hill. His nose is running, his cheeks are bright red, and he looks exhausted, but his eyes are manic with joy. “Daddy, one more pizza!”

Shane looks at the lift. It looks miles away. He thinks about the angle of his hip socket and the pills he left in his toiletries bag at the cottage.

“Okay,” Shane says. “One more. Then hot chocolate.”

“The Big Hill?” Wyatt points to the green circle chairlift that goes halfway up the actual mountain.

“No,” Shane says.

“Yes!” Ilya says at the same time.

Shane snaps his head toward his husband. “What? No. He’s not ready for the chairlift.”

“He is ready,” Ilya says. “He has balance. The Magic Carpet is too slow. He is bored. Look at him.”

“I bored!” Wyatt agrees helpfully.

“Ilya, I can’t—” Shane cuts himself off. I can’t ski a green run backward with him. My leg will give out.

“You don’t have to,” Ilya says, as if reading his mind. But he misreads it. He thinks Shane is just tired. “I will take the tethers. You ski forward. You just… encourage.”

Shane hesitates. If Ilya takes the weight, Shane can just ski. He can carve normally. That actually hurts less than the snowplow.

“Fine,” Shane says. “One run. Green circle.”

Getting on the chairlift with a toddler is a military operation. Shane lifts Wyatt (pain), Ilya grabs the poles, the lifty slows the chair. They swing up into the air. For a few minutes, suspended above the trees, Shane feels relief. The pressure is off his leg. The view is spectacular—the rolling hills of the Ottawa Valley, the gray-blue sky, the dark line of the treeline.

“Look, Papa!” Wyatt kicks his skis. “People look like ants!”

“Yes,” Ilya says, arm wrapped protectively around Wyatt. “Tiny ants.”

They unload at the top. The green run is wide and gentle, but it’s much longer than the bunny hill.

Ilya takes the tethers. “Okay, Commander. You steer. I am the brakes.”

Shane skis ahead. He feels a momentary flash of freedom. He links a few turns, feeling his edges bite into the groomed snow. He turns back to watch. Ilya is skiing backward, holding the reins like a charioteer. Wyatt is in front of him, in his permanent pizza wedge, screaming with laughter.

“Knees!” Ilya is shouting. “Use the knees! Push the pizza!”

Wyatt is doing it. He’s actually skiing. He’s turning slightly, following the curve of the hill. Shane stops on the side of the run to film them. He watches his husband and his son glide past. Ilya looks ridiculous—too tall, hunched over, shouting Russian encouragement—and Wyatt looks tiny and fearless.

It’s the perfect moment. It’s the memory he wanted.

Shane pushes off to catch up to them. He picks up speed, aiming to swoop down beside Wyatt and give him a high-five.

“Good job, baby! You’re doing it!” Shane initiates a turn to his right. He puts weight on his outside ski—his left ski.

His hip simply… gives up.

It’s not a slip. It’s a collapse. The muscle, overworked and inflamed, just stops firing. His leg gives way underneath him.

Shane falls.

It’s not a graceful hockey fall. It’s a yard sale. He catches an edge, his ski pops off, and he tumbles shoulder-first into the hard-packed snow, sliding ten feet down the hill before coming to a stop in a heap.

“DADDY!” Wyatt screams.

Shane lies in the snow. The pain is blinding. It’s a white-hot supernova in his hip, radiating down to his knee and up to his ribs. He gasps, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to breathe through the nausea.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

“Shane!” Ilya’s voice is frantic.

Shane hears the scrape of skis. He forces his eyes open, and pushes himself up to a sitting position. His hip screams, but he shoves the pain into a box and locks it.

“I’m okay!” Shane yells thinly. “I’m okay! Just caught an edge!”

Ilya is there in seconds. He hasn’t let go of Wyatt’s tethers, so he’s dragging a confused toddler with him.

“Shane.” Ilya is crouching over him, his face pale. “You are hurt.”

“No,” Shane lies, grabbing his ski which is lying five feet away. He forces a laugh. “I just… hit an ice patch. Amateur hour. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. You didn’t even try to stop the fall.”

“Daddy go boom?” Wyatt asks innocently.

“Daddy went big boom,” Shane agrees, reaching out to ruffle Wyatt’s helmet. His hand is shaking. He hides it by making a fist. “Big wipeout. But what do we do when we fall?”

“One knee!” Wyatt shouts.

“Right. One knee.”

Shane gritting his teeth. He plants his poles. He needs to stand up. If he doesn’t stand up right now, Ilya will call the ski patrol. Ilya will call a sled. And if Shane Hollander gets taken down a green run in a sled, the media will know, the team will know, and it’s over.

He puts all his weight on his right leg. He hauls himself up. He snaps his boot back into the binding. The click sends a fresh wave of agony through him, but he stands.

He sways.

Ilya reaches out, grabbing his elbow to steady him. His husband’s grip is iron-hard. Through the layers of Gore-Tex and fleece, Shane can feel the tension in Ilya’s hand.

“We are done,” Ilya says. His voice is dangerously low. It’s not a suggestion.

“Ilya, I’m—”

“We are done,” Ilya looks at him with eyes that see everything. He sees the sweat,sees the gray pallor, sees the way Shane is barely keeping weight on his left side. “Wyatt is cold. We go down. Now.”

Shane can only nod. He doesn’t have the energy to argue. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s go get hot chocolate.”

The rest of the run is misery. Shane skis stiffly, essentially on one leg, terrifyingly aware of how fragile he feels. When they finally reach the bottom, unclicking his skis feels like escaping a bear trap.

Later, in the lodge, sitting by the fire with a cocoa he feels too nauseous to drink, Shane watches Wyatt happily drink in Ilya’s lap across from him. Ilya hasn’t said a word since they got off the snow, not until he pushes a plate of fries toward Shane.

“Eat,” Ilya says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat the salt. You are shaking.”

Shane looks at his hands. They are trembling slightly. He picks up a fry.

“It was just a fall, Rozy,” Shane whispers.

“I know what a fall looks like, Shane,” Ilya says softly, lookin down on Wyatt. “And I know what a collapse looks like.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to.

The drive back to the cottage is silent except for Wyatt’s chatter from the back seat. He talks about skiing, about his Zamboni, about how he wants to be a “ski robot” for Halloween. Shane makes the appropriate noises—“Uh-huh,” “That’s cool, buddy,” “We’ll see”—while staring straight ahead at the snowy road, the fall replaying on an endless loop behind his eyes.

His left leg throbs with a deep, sickening rhythm—thump-thump-thump—that matches his heartbeat. He wants to say something. Wants to explain. Wants to crack a joke about getting old, about the choppy snow, about anything other than the terrifying truth sitting between them like a third passenger.

But Ilya’s jaw is set in a hard line, his hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. He hasn’t looked at Shane since they got into the car. That usually means he’s either extremely focused or extremely furious.

Today, Shane knows, it’s fury.

“Daddy?” Wyatt asks. “We go home?”

“Yeah, buddy.” Shane forces his voice to sound normal, cheerful even. It costs him a sharp pinch in his chest. “We’re going to the cottage. We’re gonna have hot chocolate and watch a movie.”

“I want Bluey!”

“Bluey sounds great.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything. He just turns up the heat, though the car is already stifling. Shane’s coat feels like a straitjacket. When they pull into the driveway, Shane reaches for the door handle. He needs to get out. Needs to move, to prove he can walk, that he’s fine, that the fall was just a fluke.

“I got him.” Ilya’s out of the car before Shane can argue, unbuckling Wyatt and carrying him inside.

Shane follows, focusing on every step.

Left foot. Right foot. Don’t limp. Don’t wince. Don’t let him see.

It’s agony. The stairs to the front porch feel like Everest, each step a negotiation with his body. But Shane climbs them. He walks into the house, kicks off his boots, and even manages something close to a smile.

“See? I’m walking.” He wants to scream. “I’m fine.”

But Ilya’s already in the kitchen, getting Wyatt a snack, his back a wall of rejection.

The rest of the evening is a masterclass in avoidance. Shane takes a shower, standing under scalding water until his skin turns pink, trying to melt the tension out of his hip. He swallows two Advil—just two, because Ilya counts the pills—and puts on his softest sweatpants. When he comes downstairs, Ilya is building a Lego tower with Wyatt on the living room rug.

“Hey.” Shane lowers himself onto the sofa, biting back a groan. “Need an architect?”

Ilya doesn’t look up. “We are fine.”

“Okay.” Shane picks up a book from the coffee table. Pretends to read. The words blur into abstract shapes.

Wyatt chatters happily, oblivious, about the snow, about the Zamboni, about the “big boom” Daddy did. Every time he mentions the fall, Ilya’s shoulders tense, his hands going still on the Lego bricks before resuming their careful construction.

By eight o’clock, Wyatt is rubbing his eyes, fighting sleep even as he insists he’s “not tired.”

“Bedtime, big man.”

“Nooooo!”

“Yes.” Shane kneels—carefully, so carefully—and scoops Wyatt into his arms. “Say goodnight to Papa.”

Wyatt waves sleepily. “Night, Papa.”

“Goodnight, cosmonaut.” Ilya’s voice softens only does for Wyatt. When his eyes go to Shane, they go cold again. “Sleep well.”

Shane carries Wyatt upstairs. His leg is shaking by the time he reaches the top, his hip grinding with each step, but he doesn’t put Wyatt down. He takes him to the guest room, changes him into dinosaur pajamas, brushes his tiny teeth while Wyatt tries to bite the toothbrush.

“Story?” Wyatt asks hopefully.

“Not tonight, baby. You’re too tired.”

“I not tired!”

“You are very tired.” Shane lifts him into the travel crib, then hesitates. He remembers when Wyatt was a newborn, when he used to rock him for hours, Wyatt’s tiny body warm against his chest, that particular weight of a sleeping child that feels like the whole world concentrated into ten pounds of trust.

“Come here,” Shane murmurs. He lifts Wyatt back out, cradling him close. Wyatt makes a small noise of contentment and burrows into Shane’s neck, his breath warm and sweet. Shane starts to sway. Slowly, gently, rocking back and forth. His hip screams with every shift of weight, but he ignores it. He hums tunelessly—some half-remembered japanese lullaby his own mother used to sing—and feels Wyatt grow heavier in his arms as sleep pulls him under.

He feels his son’s little body going limp, and Shane keeps swaying for another minute, maybe two, just to be sure. Then he lowers Wyatt back into the crib as carefully as he can. Shane covers him with the fleece blanket, tucks Bear in beside him, and stands there watching him sleep. The nightlight casts soft shadows across Wyatt’s face—Shane’s nose, Ilya’s mouth, some miraculous combination of both of them that resulted in this perfect small person.

“Night night, Daddy,” Wyatt mumbles, eyes already closed.

“Night night, baby.” Shane kisses his forehead. “I love you. To the moon.”

“And back,” Wyatt sighs.

Shane stands in the doorway for a long moment, just breathing. He doesn’t want to go downstairs because that is where the storm is waiting. But he can’t hide in a toddler’s room forever.

He takes the stairs slowly, gripping the banister. The living room is dim, lit only by the fire and the glow of the TV. Ilya sits on the couch with a glass of whiskey—the good stuff, the Japanese single malt Yuna bought him for his birthday—staring at the screen without really watching.

Some hockey game. Flames and Oilers.

“Hey.” Shane sinks onto the other end of the couch, leaving a cushion of space between them. “Who’s winning?”

Ilya doesn’t answer immediately. He takes a sip, tracking the puck across the screen with the trained focus of someone who spent half his life doing the same thing on ice.

“Ilya?”

“Oilers. 4-3 in overtime.” He still doesn’t look at Shane.

Shane nods. Watches the replay of the game-winning goal. “I’m gonna head up,” he says finally. “My hip’s a little sore from the fall. Gonna ice it and crash.”

“Sit down.”

Shane freezes halfway to standing. He looks at Ilya.

Ilya is finally looking back, and his eyes are cold.

“I’m tired, Rozy. Can we—”

“Sit. Down.”

Shane sits. Perches on the edge of the cushion, ready to bolt. “What?”

Ilya sets the glass down on the coffee table with a deliberate clink. He turns his body to face Shane fully, and Shane can see the careful control in every line of him.

“You are taking rest of season off.”

Shane blinks, then lets out a short, incredulous laugh that bounces awkwardly around the room. “What? No, I’m not. Don’t be dramatic.”

“I am not being dramatic. I am being realistic.” Ilya’s voice is eerily calm. “You cannot skate. You cannot ski a green run without collapsing. You are done.”

“I caught an edge!” The defensive anger flares instantly. “It happens! The snow was choppy. I’m fine.”

“You are lying.” Still that terrible calm. “You have been lying for weeks. You limp when you think I am not looking. You take painkillers when you think I am asleep. You are playing on a hip that is destroyed.”

“It’s not destroyed. It’s inflamed. The physio said—”

“Fuck the physio!” Ilya’s voice rises, his composure finally cracking. “I have eyes, Shane! I watched you today! You fell because your leg stopped working! What happens when that is McDavid coming at you at thirty miles an hour? What happens when you get hit into the boards and you cannot get up?”

“I can handle it!” Shane’s on his feet now, adrenaline flooding his system, drowning out the pain. “I’ve handled it for fifteen years!”

“Not like this!” Ilya stands too, and suddenly he’s towering, all six-foot-three of him. “You are thirty-five, Shane! You are not twenty-two! Your body is telling you to stop, and you are ignoring it because you are stubborn and selfish!”

“Selfish?” The word hits like a slap. “I’m doing this for the team! I’m doing this because I’m the Captain! Because they need me!”

“They need you alive!” Ilya steps closer, and Shane can see the fear underneath the anger now. “I need you alive! Wyatt needs a father who can walk him to the park!”

“I can walk fine!”

“You cannot even carry him up the stairs without your leg shaking!”

Shane stiffens before he can hide it. He curses the reflex immediately. He sees the way Ilya clocks it, the way his expression shifts, and something sour twists in Shane’s stomach. It eats him that he’s this easy to read now.

“You think I don’t know your body?” Ilya says. “I have known your body for fourteen years, Shane. I know every tell. I know when you are hurting, and you are always hurting now.”

“It’s temporary! Once the inflammation goes down—”

“It will not go down!” Ilya’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “Not while you are playing! Not while you are skating twenty minutes a night and getting cross-checked into the boards! You need surgery! You have needed it since November, but you keep putting it off because you are too goddamn afraid to admit—”

“I’m not afraid!”

“You are terrified!” Ilya closes the distance between them. “You are terrified that if you stop, even for a moment, you will not be able to start again. So you keep going, keep pushing, keep destroying yourself, and I am supposed to just watch? I am supposed to just smile and say, ‘Yes, husband, go kill yourself for this game’?”

Shane shoves him—a weak push, just his palm against Ilya’s chest—but Ilya catches his wrist and holds it.

“I am your husband,” Ilya says, his eyes beseeching. “And I am telling you: you are done.”

“You don’t get to decide that.” Shane yanks his arm free, backing away. “You don’t get to retire me, Ilya. Just because you quit doesn’t mean I have to.”

The room goes silent. The only sound is the TV—announcers breaking down plays—and the crackle of the dying fire. The hurt immediately flashes across Ilya’s face, and Shane wants to reach out, to grab the words back and swallow them whole, but they are already gone, hanging in the air like a missed save.

“I quit? Is that what you think? I just… gave up?”

“You retired early.” Shane knows he’s crossing a line, knows he’s saying the thing they never say, but the defensive reflex is too strong, too ingrained. “You had years left. You could have played till forty. But you walked away.”

“I walked away for you. I walked away so we could have a life.”

“And I’m grateful! I am!” Shane frustratedly throws his hands up. “But that was your choice! You can’t put that on me!”

“I am not!” Ilya snarls, and somewhere upstairs, Shane hears Wyatt stir in his sleep. Ilya hears it too, because he takes a breath, visibly pulling himself back from the edge. “You cannot kill yourself for just a game.”

“It’s not just a game,” Shane exclaims. “Without it, I’m just… I’m just a guy with a bad hip and useless.”

“Useless?” Ilya looks genuinely baffled. “Who thinks you are useless? You are everything to me! You are my sun! Why is that not enough.” He wildly gestures a hand upstairs. “Our son doesn’t care about Cups! He cares that you come home! He cares that you can play hockey with him in the driveway without falling down! He cares that his father is not a cripple by forty!”

“Don’t call me that!” Shane’s voice breaks on the last word.

“Then stop acting like you want to be!” Ilya paces away, running his hands through his hair. He spins back around.“I am not asking you to quit forever. I am asking you to heal. Take the season. Get the surgery. Come back next year if you have to. But stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourself.”

“I can’t take the season! We’re in a playoff spot! The team—”

“Fuck the team!” Ilya grabs a throw pillow from the couch and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall with a soft, unsatisfying thud. “Why do you care more about them than you do about your own body? Than you do about me?”

“I don’t!”

“You do! You choose them every time!” Ilya’s back in Shane’s space now, close enough that Shane can smell the whiskey on his breath. “Every time you get on the plane hurt, you choose them. Every time you take a pill to mask the pain instead of fixing the problem, you choose them. When do you choose me, Shane? When do you choose us?”

“I choose you every day!” He’s not sure if he is trying to convince Ilya or himself. “I come home to you! I love you!”

“Then stay home!” Ilya grabs Shane’s shoulders roughly. “Stay home with me. Let me—” His voice breaks completely. “Let me take care of you. Just once. Just for one season.”

“I can’t quit. Not again.” Shane shakes his head, backing away from Ilya’s hands. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand why I can’t let go.”

“I understand perfectly, Hollander.” Ilya strikes a finger into Shane’s chest. “I know man I married. I know your flaws, I know your strengths. I know exactly how you are hurting right now. You think I haven’t memorized you? I have been looking at you for fourteen years. I know hockey is your life, Shane. I’ve always known.”

Shane parts his lips, then presses them into a grim line. He can’t deny it, and they both know it. They stand there, both breathing hard, staring at each other across the living room rug. The silence rings in Shane’s ears.

Ilya runs a hand down his face. He looks exhausted. Like a man who has been fighting a losing battle for months and has only just realized the war is already over.

“I made peace with it long time ago—that there are three of us in this marriage,” Ilya says, his voice is resigned. “I know that I am husband, but hockey… hockey is soul. I accepted this. When I retired, I did not ask you to stop. Did I?”

“No,” Shane says, and shame floods him.

“I retired because I was happy. I looked at ice, then I looked at you, and I knew.”Ilya’s smile is small, painful. “I was happier with you. I wanted mornings. I wanted dinners. I wanted to wake up in same bed as you instead of different city every night.”

Ilya meets his eyes then, his gaze achingly sad. “I want that for you, Hollander. I wanted you to find peace. I wanted to be the one that makes you happiest.”

Shane feels tears tracking down his cheeks. “You are. You and Wyatt make me so happy.”

“I do.” Ilya nods, and his face is full of this terrible, quiet thing. “But is not like game. Game makes you come alive. I see it when you play. I have watched you for fourteen years, Hollander. You only look like you are breathing when you are on ice. I knew. I knew you would play until you broke. And I said, okay. I will be husband in stands. I will watch you love this thing because it makes you happy. But you are not happy, Shane.”

“I am.” The words leave his mouth too fast to hold any weight. He wants to say more, to defend himself, to cling to the identity he’s built on the ice. But all he can feel is Ilya’s gaze on him, warm and breaking, and the sickening truth that his chest hasn’t felt full in a long time.

“You are in agony!” Ilya gestures at Shane’s leg, his whole body. “You cannot play with Wyatt without almost passing out. Is not hockey because you love it anymore. You play because you are terrified of who you are without it. And I cannot… I cannot watch you destroy yourself just because you are afraid to find out who you are without jersey.”

Shane looks at him. Sees the terror in Ilya’s eyes. Sees the love that’s so big it’s suffocating, that’s asking him to choose, to make a decision he’s not ready to make.

If he stops now, he’s admitting defeat.

“I can’t,” Shane whispers. “I can’t stop. Not yet.”

Ilya’s face goes blank. That terrible, familiar mask slides into place that Shane hasn’t seen in years, the one Ilya used to wear for reporters and opponents and anyone who tried to see past his defenses.

Shane hates that mask. He’d thought they were done with that mask.

“Okay,” Ilya says. His voice is empty. “Okay.”

He walks past Shane. Doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“Where are you going?” Shane asks, but his feet stay rooted to the floor, his body refusing to chase.

“Guest room.” Ilya doesn’t stop walking. “I cannot sleep next to you tonight.”

“Ilya, don’t—”

“Goodnight, Captain.”

Ilya walks up the stairs. Shane hears the door to the guest room slams.

He stands alone in the living room. The fire has burned down to embers. On the TV, analysts dissect plays frame by frame, breaking down every mistake in slow motion. Shane sinks onto the couch, puts his head in his hands.

His hip throbs.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It sounds like a countdown. Like a clock ticking down to some inevitable ending he’s not ready to face. He sits there in the dark, listening to his own heartbeat, and wonders what happens when the counting stops.

To be continued…

Chapter End Notes:

Hello!

I don’t like reading angst, but I look back at my catalog, and most of my fics always has angst. ദ്ദി╥ ᴗ ╥)

Thank you so much for reading! I’ll see you again soon.

Love,

Azi 💜

Dream

Chapter Notes:

I added two more chapters. Let’s end this at eight chapters. Hope you don’t mind :)

The next day, Shane is back in the clinic.

Marco, his physiotherapist, is a young Filipino-Canadian specialist with a jawline that could cut glass and the thick, dark hair of a rom-com lead. But despite the movie-star looks, he possesses the relentless, golden-retriever energy of a rookie.

Shane hops onto the treatment table, stripped down to compression shorts and a t-shirt, and lies back.

“How is it today?” Marco asks, picking up Shane’s left leg. He rotates the hip internally.

Shane hisses through his teeth, fingernails digging into the vinyl edge of the table. “Six. Maybe seven.”

“Seven is high, Shane.” Marco frowns. He pushes the leg further until it hits a hard stop. “Range of motion is garbage. You’re locked up tight. Every time you skate, you’re grinding bone on bone.”

“Just loosen it up. I have a game tomorrow.”

“Shane.” Marco sighs, wheeling his stool closer. “I can do soft tissue work. I can do dry needling. But you have a labral tear. We know this.”

“I know.” Shane stares at a water stain on the ceiling. “Just do the needling.”

Marco preps the pack. “Deep breath.” He taps the first needle into Shane’s hip flexor. Tap. Wiggle.

The steel finds the knot—the trigger point—and the muscle revolts. Shane’s quad spasms, a violent, involuntary electric jolt that makes his whole leg jump.

“Fuck,” Shane gasps.

“Sorry. That one was active.” Marco moves to the next spot. Tap. Wiggle.

Another spasm. Another jolt of fire.

Shane bites his lower lip. He grasps for his happy place. He tries to summon the weight of the Cup in his hands, the deafening roar of the crowd, the perfect, frictionless glide of skates on fresh ice.

But the ice dissolves into snow.

Suddenly, it is the cottage, and Ilya is standing there, face pale with fear. The image shifts—Ilya in the kitchen, the curve of his spine as he chops vegetables with his back turned. Then, the silence of the bedroom, and the gaping, empty space in the sheets where he should be.

“You’re holding a lot of tension,” Marco comments, tapping in a third needle.

“Stressed?”

“Something like that.”

“Stress stores in the hips, you know. It’s part of the fight or flight response.”

“I’m fighting,” Shane grits out.

“Sure.” Marco adjusts the needle. “But sometimes the body forces the flight.”

Shane lies there for twenty minutes, sweating, breathing, enduring the metal sticking out of his skin. When Marco finally pulls them out, the muscle feels like jelly—bruised and tender—but the sharp, locking sensation is gone. For now.

“Ice and rest,” Marco instructs, stripping off his gloves. “No skating today. Light bike only. If I hear you were on the ice, I’m calling the team doctor and telling him you’re unfit.”

Shane glares at him. “Fine. Bike.”

He slides off the table. He lands on both feet and waits for the catch. It’s there, a dull throb, but he can walk without limping.

That is all he needs.

He grabs his bag. Checks his phone.

No texts.

He opens the thread with Ilya. The last message is from three days ago: We need milk.

Shane types: Physio done. Heading to the rink.

He stares at the cursor blinking against the white screen. His thumb hovers.

I miss you. I’m sorry. Please look at me when I come home.

He deletes it.

He stops at the grocery store on the way home. He buys milk. He buys the specific kind of cheddar bunnies Wyatt likes—the ones he won’t eat if they are broken. He buys a bottle of the Pinot Noir Ilya drinks when he is stressed.

He unlocks the front door.

“I’m home.”

Silence.

No thundering feet. No “Daddy!”

Shane walks into the kitchen. It’s empty. There’s a note on the counter in Ilya’s angular handwriting.

Took Wyatt to park. Back at 5.

Shane leaves the note on the counter, the bottle of wine standing beside it. He puts the milk away and climbs the stairs, the silence of the house pressing against his eardrums. In the bedroom, he sits on the edge of the mattress— his side. The other side is flat, the duvet smooth and undisturbed. It looks wrong.

Just for a minute, he tells himself. Just to rest the hip.

He curls onto his side, dragging llya's pillow toward him. The moment he buries his face in the cotton and inhales the scent of his husband, he breaks. For the first time in weeks, Shane Hollander weeps. It starts silently, tears soaking hot into the pillowcase, but soon his body is shaking with the force of it. The pain in his hip, the exhaustion in his bones, the terrifying fear that Ilya is tired of waiting, it all rushes out at once. He clutches the pillow to his chest until darkness claims him.

When he wakes, the room is pitch black. There is a weight on top of him. A heavy wool throw. Shane blinks, disoriented, his cheek sticking to the dried salt on the pillowcase. He doesn't remember pulling up a blanket. He pushes himself up slowly. The bathroom door is closed, a line of golden light seeping out from underneath. The pipes groan-water running.

Ilya.

Shane's heart lurches. He wipes at his face-his eyes feel swollen, gritty-and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He knows what he should do. He should walk to that door and knock. He should beg. Can we talk? Please?

But he can't move.

The water shuts off. The handle turns, and the bathroom door opens.

Ilya stands in the doorway, backlit by the vanity bulbs. He is wearing low-slung sweatpants and nothing else, his skin damp, hair dark and wet against his forehead. He doesn't speak. He just stands there, watching Shane. His mouth set in a soft, unhappy line. It isn't anger. It looks like grief.

“You were asleep,” Ilya says.

“Yeah. Thanks. For the blanket.”

Ilya nods. He doesn’t move closer. “Wyatt wants to say goodnight.”

“Okay.” Shane stands up, testing his weight. His hip holds. He walks toward the door, pausing as he passes Ilya. He almost reaches out—his fingers twitch at his side—but Ilya is looking at the wall, not at him. Shane keeps walking until he reaches Wyatt's room.

His son is already burrowed into the car bed, clutching Bear.

“Daddy! You home!”

“I’m home, baby.” Shane sits on the end of the mattress. “Did you have fun at the park?”

“Yeah! I went on the big slide! Papa catched me!”

“He caught you, huh? That’s good.”

“You play with me tomorrow?”

Shane swallows painfully. He wishes he can just say yes easily. “Maybe, baby. I have a game tomorrow night, but maybe in the morning.”

“Okay.” Wyatt yawns, his eyes drooping. “Love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too.” Shane pushes back his son’s hair, lingering there. He kisses the warm forehead, it takes effort to pull away.

When he returns to the master bedroom, the lights are out. Ilya is already in bed, lying on his side, facing the window. The curve of his back is a fortress wall. Shane climbs in on his own side. The mattress dips, but Ilya doesn't stir. The stretch of sheet between them is vast, cold, and empty.

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs.

Silence. The room is so quiet he can hear the wind rattling the windowpane.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

Shane’s hand slides across the sheet, seeking warmth. It stops inches from Ilya’s spine. He hovers there, paralyzed by the fear of rejection, before curling his fingers into a fist and pulling back.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs to the darkness.

Ilya doesn’t answer. Shane is sure his words have simply vanished into the void.

“For what?” Ilya’s voice is flat.

“For… For everything. For being stubborn. For not listening. For—”

“Are you going to stop?”

The answer sits heavy on his tongue. “I can’t.”

“Then you are not sorry.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No. Is not fair. None of this is fair.”

The retort dies in Shane's throat. He lies there in the dark, staring at the back of the man he loves, feeling the distance grow with every breath.

Ilya drops Wyatt off at daycare at 8:30 a.m. sharp. His son is in high spirits, mostly because Ilya let him bring a small Lego car in his pocket—a red one with yellow wheels that Wyatt built himself yesterday, or at least assembled with Ilya’s help when the instructions proved too complicated.

“It’s a race car, Papa,” Wyatt had explained in the backseat, revving it against the window glass. “It goes super fast.”

“Very fast,” Ilya agreed.

Shane has a rule about toys from home. He talks about sharing, about responsibility. Today, the rule feels arbitrary. Suffocating. The lump in Wyatt’s pocket is a small rebellion, a guarantee of a smile in a week that has been terrifyingly short of them.

“Bye, Papa!” Wyatt yells, bolting toward the block corner where Leo is constructing a precarious tower.

“Be good!” Ilya calls, but Wyatt is already gone, absorbed in the serious business of toddler engineering. He doesn’t look back.

Miss Jennifer, the one with the golden hoop earrings, waves from the reading rug. Ilya waves back, and heads for the door. He gets into the car, his breath clouding the windshield, but he doesn’t turn the key. He sits in the silence. The sky is the color of wet concrete.

One hour until the Academy meeting. One hour to just exist.

He checks his phone. Screen black. No notifications.

The morning hangs over him. They had moved around the kitchen like ghosts. Shane making coffee, eyes fixed on the dripping filter. Ilya packing the lunchbox, focusing on the juice box straw. Do we have apples? Can you grab his coat?

Transactional. Cold.

They are back in the same bed—Wyatt’s confusion about "Papa’s wrong room" forced their hand—but the mattress might as well be the Atlantic. Shane clings to the edge of his side; Ilya clings to his.

He turns the key. The engine cranks, protesting the freeze, before catching.

The construction site is busy as usual. The skeleton of the new arena rises from the snow, steel beams cutting jagged shapes against the gray sky.

“Boss!” Mike, the foreman, waves a gloved hand. He looks like a bear in his Carhartts, squinting against the wind. “Good timing. We got a problem with the HVAC specs for the second rink.”

Ilya grabs his hard hat from the backseat—white, pristine, ROZANOV stenciled in black—and steps over a pile of rebar. The frozen ground crunches under his boots. “What is problem?”

“Ductwork versus sightlines.” Mike flips through a sheaf of blueprints, the paper flapping violently. “If we run it like the architect wants, the back row is gonna be staring at galvanized steel instead of the ice. Parents paying two grand for hockey camp aren't gonna love that.”

Ilya follows Mike into the shell of the building. He steps over extension cords and around a pallet of pink insulation, looking up at the steel framework. He doesn't need the blueprints. He can overlay the finished building on the empty air: the glass panels, the stadium seating, the parents clutching coffees in the warmth while their children stumble on the ice below.

“Move it,” Ilya says, pointing to the north wall. “Run it along the support beams. Box it in. Make it part of the structure.”

Mike grimaces. “Custom fabrication. That’s gonna cost.”

“How much?”

“Ballpark? Fifteen, twenty grand.”

“Do it. I do not want parents staring at vents. I want them staring at their future NHL stars.” Ilya kicks a loose bolt. “The view must be clear.”

Mike grins, marking the change. “You got it, Boss.”

Ilya spends the next two hours walking the perimeter. He argues with Dave the electrician about the lumen output—“Not hospital bright, Dave. Morning sun bright.”—and checks the framing of the locker rooms.

“Hey, Rozanov!”

Ilya glances over his shoulder. Troy Barrett is picking his way through the debris, wearing a North Face coat over his Centaurs track suit and sneakers that are tragically unsuited for a construction site. He slips on a patch of ice, windmilling his arms, before recovering with a grin.

“Troy,” Ilya says. “What are you doing here?”

“Furnace blew at the facility. Practice cancelled.” Troy shoves his hands in his pockets, shivering. “Thought I’d inspect the empire. Harris said it was impressive.”

“Harris talks too much.”

“It is impressive,” Troy says, tilting his head back to look at the roof trusses. “Two rinks? Gym? Physio?”

“Restaurant. Pro shop. Parents’ lounge.” Ilya gestures around. “Everything in one place. Complete.”

Troy whistles low. “Ambitious.”

“Good.” Ilya picks up a stray washer and sets it on a workbench. “It will be good.”

Troy kicks at a piece of gravel. He glances at Ilya, looks away, then looks back. The easy grin fades.

“How are you doing?”

“I am fine.”

“Right.” It’s the same look Troy gives him when Ilya forces a pass that isn't there. Patient. Disbelieving. “Shane looked like death at practice yesterday.”

The cold in Ilya’s stomach has nothing to do with the wind. “Did he?”

“Yeah. Quiet. Rode the bike for an hour, didn’t talk to anyone, left without showering.” Troy studies Ilya’s face. “Is he okay?”

“He is stubborn.” Ilya focuses on the crane pivoting overhead, the cable swinging in the breeze.

“He’s hurt, isn’t he?”

Ilya doesn’t answer.

“You know,” Troy says, stepping closer, lowering his voice under the roar of a generator. “When I blew my knee out last year? I didn’t tell anyone for three weeks. Taped it up, popped Advil like candy. I was terrified I’d lose my spot.” He pauses. “It’s scary, man. Being injured when the clock is ticking.”

“He is not that old.”

“In hockey years? We’re ancient.” Troy briefly puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “Cut him some slack. He’s scared.”

Ilya looks at him. Troy’s face is open, honest, unburdened by the kind of secrets that rot a marriage from the inside out. The words want to rise in Ilya's throat. I am terrified too. I am watching him die by inches. I am afraid the next phone call I get will be the team doctor telling me to come to the hospital.

He swallows them down.

“Do you want tour?” Ilya asks. “I show you zamboni garage. Is very exciting.”

Troy studies him for a beat too long. Then he smiles, accepting the deflection. “Lead the way, Boss.”

They walk the site for twenty minutes, talking about ice density and board systems. For twenty minutes, the noise in Ilya’s head quiets.

Then Troy’s phone buzzes. “Furnace is fixed. Gotta head back.” He hesitates, sneakers shifting in the snow. “Call me, okay? If you need to… whatever. Vent. Drink. Be miserable.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m serious. We’re here.”

Troy leaves, slipping once more on the ice before disappearing toward the parking lot. Ilya turns back to the skeleton of the arena. He pulls out his phone. Opens the message thread. The cursor blinks against the white screen.

Are you okay?

He stares at the letters. Then he locks the phone and slides it back into his pocket, the message unsent.

It’s 11:00 a.m. when he reaches Galina’s office. The door is open. She is at her desk, writing in the leather-bound notebook she’s had for years. When she looks up, her smile isn't the performative comfort people give when they’re trying to be polite. It’s genuine. It reaches her eyes.

“Ilya. Come in.”

The room has changed. The old sofa—green velvet, overstuffed, a gravity trap that was impossible to escape—is gone. In its place sits a beige, modern thing with clean lines and wooden legs.

“You got a new sofa,” he says.

“I did.” She closes her notebook and stands, smoothing her cardigan. Cashmere, purple. “The old one finally gave up. Twenty years is a good run for furniture.”

“You did not get another green one.”

“No. I wanted something different.” She gestures to it. “Sit. Tell me how you feel about the beige.”

He sits. “Is fine,” he says. “Very… neutral.”

“That’s the idea.” She settles into her chair across from him, the notebook balanced on her knee. “You look tired.”

“I am tired.” The English feels heavy in his mouth, so he lets it go. “I am a dad now.”

The Russian comes out easily, a physical relief. Galina nods, matching him without a pause. “Parenthood is exhausting. How is Wyatt adjusting?”

“He is… good. He is great, actually. He has so much energy. He collects rocks. He hides them everywhere. I found one in my shoe yesterday.”

“That sounds like love.”

“Yes.” Ilya picks at a loose thread on his jeans, winding it around his finger until the tip turns white and throbs. “He is the best thing that has ever happened to us. I keep thinking that. Even when I’m exhausted. Even when—”

He stops. Lets the thread go. The blood rushes back into his fingertip.

“How was the cottage?” Galina asks.

“Was… good. For a little while, was perfect.” His voice catches on the word. “And then was terrible.”

“Tell me about the good first.”

“Wyatt.” Ilya smiles faintly. “He got a Zamboni. He loved it. I gave Shane a telescope. He gave me a framed photo of us from the draft.”

“That sounds romantic.”

“Was perfect. For one morning.”

He looks at the beige fabric under his hand. “And then we went skiing.”

The story spills out. The fall on the ice. Shane’s leg giving out. The drive home in a silence so thick it was suffocating. The fight in the living room.

“I told him he has to stop,” Ilya says. “I told him he is destroying himself.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he can’t. He said without hockey, he is useless.”

Galina writes something. Her pen makes a soft, scratching sound against the paper. “That’s a heavy belief to carry.”

“Is stupid. He is Shane Hollander. He is a father. He is my husband. He is smart, he is loved. Why does he think he is nothing without the game?”

Galina sets her pen down. “Because he has been ‘Shane Hollander, Hockey Player’ since he was five years old. You know what that is like, Ilya. You struggled with it when you retired.”

“Yes. But I had him. I had us. I had something to walk toward.”

“And he has you. But maybe he is afraid that if he stops being the star, he stops being the person you fell in love with.” She tilts her head slightly. “Maybe he thinks you need him to be that person.”

“That is stupid,” Ilya says again. “I fell in love with him because he is annoying and stubborn and makes terrible jokes. Because he cried when we watched Coco and pretended he had allergies. Because he remembers my coffee order even when I change it. Not because he wins face-offs.”

“Does he know that?”

“I tell him! I told him!” Ilya stands up abruptly, and paces the small room. “I told him I want him healthy. I told him I choose him, not the player. Not the stats. Him.”

“But he is in pain,” Galina says. “Pain changes how we hear things. Pain makes the world very small. Right now, his world is just the pain and the fear of what happens when the pain stops.”

Ilya stops pacing. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms tight over his chest. “So what do I do? Do I watch him cripple himself? Do I clap when he scores a goal on a broken hip?”

“You set boundaries,” Galina says. “You protect yourself. You cannot force him to stop, Ilya. You know this. You can only decide what you will participate in.”

“I slept in the guest room.”

“That is a boundary.”

“It felt terrible. The bed was cold. I hated it.”

“Boundaries often feel terrible. That does not mean they are wrong.” She watches him closely. “You are grieving, Ilya.”

“I am not grieving. He is not dead.”

“You are grieving the future you thought you would have. You thought you were done with the fear. You thought you were safe. And now the fear is back.”

Ilya slides down the wall until he is crouching. He presses his palms against his eyes until spots of color—red, purple, gold—explode behind his eyelids.

“I am scared,” he finally admits. “That he will get hit and not get up. That he will need a cane at forty. I am scared he will resent me if I make him stop, and I am scared he will die if I don’t.” He twists his wedding ring. Around and around. “He lied to me.”

“About the pain?”

“About everything. He promised me honesty. That was our deal. After everything we have been through—the closet, the media—we promised. And he looked me in the eye on that mountain and said he was fine when he could barely walk. He chose the lie over me. He trusted the lie more than he trusted me.”

“Why do you think he did that?”

“Because hockey is life to him.” The word tastes bitter, like aspirin.

“And who are you without hockey, Ilya?”

The Academy rises up in his mind—the snap of blueprints, the cold steel beams, the sharp scent of sawdust. Then, softer images: Wyatt’s backpack. The red Lego car with the yellow wheels. The silence of Christmas morning returns to him, that fragile moment before the fight.

“I am a father,” Ilya says softy. “I am a husband. A coach.”

“Yes. You have built a new identity. It took time, didn’t it? It wasn’t easy.”

“No. Was hard.”

“Shane hasn’t done that yet. He is still in the middle of it. He is terrified of the empty space that comes after the game stops.” Galina leans forward. “He isn’t lying to hurt you, Ilya. He is lying because he is trying to survive the only way he knows how.”

“I can’t watch him do it,” Ilya mumbles. “It hurts too much.”

“Then tell him that. Not with anger. Not with an ultimatum. Tell him about your fear. Vulnerability invites vulnerability, Ilya. Anger just invites defense.”

Ilya nods. He feels drained.

“He sleeps on his side of the bed now,” he says. His voice sounds almost childlike. “He doesn’t touch me anymore. Even before I moved to the guest room. He stays on his side, and I stay on mine, and there’s this space between us that feels like miles.”

“He is right there. But you have to build a bridge, Ilya.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Ilya says. “I am so angry.”

“That is okay. You can be angry and loving at the same time. They are not mutually exclusive.”

Ilya stays in the crouch for a moment longer. Then he stands up. He feels lighter, but also heavier.

“Thank you, Galina.”

“Same time next week?”

“Yes.”

Shane is in the kitchen when the notification lights up his phone. Lunch sits untouched in front of him—a turkey sandwich and a protein shake. He ignores it, scrolling through Instagram to fill the silence of the empty house.

It’s a post from Ryan Price.

The photo is black and white. A hand—Ryan’s massive, scarred hand—cradling a tiny, wrinkled newborn foot.

Welcome to the world, Caspian. Fabian is a warrior. We are so in love.

Shane stares at the image. The foot is impossibly small. The heel fits into the curve of a thumb. The memory hits him physically—the ghost of weight on his chest at 3:00 a.m., the smell of sour milk and baby powder, the terrifying fragility of a life that depended entirely on him.

He swipes. The next photo is Aria—Ryan and Fabian’s daughter—now four years old, peering over the edge of the bassinet with serious, dark eyes. Shane’s thumb taps the heart icon.

Looking at the photo, he remembers how clean that exhaustion felt. Feed. Sleep. Change. Repeat. It was hard, but it was pure. There were no hip injuries then. No silent treatments. No sleeping with his back to the man he loves.

The front door opens, letting in a gust of cold air.

“Daddy! I found a beetle!”

Wyatt thunders into the kitchen, snow boots leaving wet prints on the tile, holding out a mitten with something presumably alive inside it. Ilya follows, looking windblown, carrying the discarded backpack.

“No beetles in the house,” Ilya says, capturing Wyatt’s wrist before he can release the specimen. “We put him back outside.”

“But he’s cold!”

“He is a winter beetle. He likes cold. Go put him on the porch.”

Wyatt sighs with the dramatic weight of the world, but he obeys, stomping back to the entryway.

Ilya walks into the kitchen. He sets the backpack on the counter. He doesn’t look at Shane.

“Did you eat?”

“Yeah.” Shane gestures at the half-eaten sandwich. “Ryan and Fabian had the baby.”

Ilya pauses, zipper halfway down his coat. “Yeah. A boy. Caspian.”

Shane turns his phone around. Ilya cranes his neck and just looks. A small, soft smile plays around his lips. “He is tiny. Ryan’s hand looks like a bear paw.”

“He’s cute.”

“I sent a gift yesterday,” Ilya says. “Baby stuffs. And a mobile with planets.”

“Planets?”

“Fabian likes space music. I thought it fit.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“I am nice.”

The joke falls flat, suffocating in the space between them. Ilya goes to the fridge, grabbing a water. Shane watches him drink, watching the line of his throat work. The words are out before he can weigh them. “Do you ever think about it?”

Ilya lowers the bottle. “About what?”

“Another one.” Shane picks at the crust of his sandwich. “A sibling for Wyatt. Aria looked so cute with the baby.”

Ilya slowly sets the water bottle down on the counter. The plastic clacks against the granite.

“No.” He doesn’t turn around.

Shane feels the rejection in his chest. “Just… no?”

“No.” Ilya turns then. His face is a mask. “We have Wyatt. Our son is enough.”

“I know he’s enough. I love him. But—” Shane falters. Why is he pushing this? It was just a thought, a fleeting what if. “You love kids. You’re great with them. You always said you wanted a big family.”

“I said many things when I was young and stupid,” Ilya says defensively. “I wanted to play until I was forty. I wanted to be U.S. citizen. Plans change.”

“But why?” Shane stands up, abandoning the sandwich. His hip catches, a sharp pinch, but he ignores it. “Is it… is it because of me?”

“Is because we already have a son,” Ilya says, and the tremor in his voice is audible now. “He is healthy. He is happy. Why do you want to risk that?”

“Risk it? How is having another baby a risk?”

“It is chaos. It is sleepless nights. It is stress. And you—” He stops. He looks at Shane, his gaze raking over him, landing on the way Shane is leaning heavily on his right leg. “You cannot carry Wyatt up the stairs without straining your hip. How are you going to carry a baby? How are you going to do night feeds when you need twelve hours of recovery just to skate for twenty minutes?”

The refusal lands like a verdict. It isn't about the baby. It’s about him. It’s about his failure.

“So that’s it,” Shane says. “I’m too broken to be a father again.”

“That is not what I said.”

“It is. You think I can’t handle it.”

“I think you are already drowning! I think you are barely holding on!” Ilya explodes. He gestures wildly at the space between them—the cold kitchen, the silence, the distance. “And you want to add a baby to this? To this mess? We are not parents who should have another child right now.”

Shane feels a small, distinct crack right down the center of his heart. It’s true. He knows it’s true. But hearing Ilya say it—hearing Ilya confirm that their life, their marriage, is a mess that can’t support new life—is devastating.

“I just thought… I thought maybe it would be good. Something for us. Something after hockey.”

“No,” Ilya says. “Even after hockey. Wyatt is enough. I will not do it again.”

Shane steps back, bumping into the stool.

“Papa!” Wyatt yells from the living room. “I can’t find the beetle! He ran away!”

“I am coming, Wyatt!” Ilya looks back at Shane. His eyes are hard. “Eat your sandwich. You need the protein.” Then he walks out.

Shane stands there. The turkey sandwich looks gray. He pushes the plate away. It clatters loudly on the granite.

“Daddy?” Wyatt appears in the doorway, holding a plastic magnifying glass. “Are you done eating? Can you help find the beetle?”

Shane looks at his son. He sees Ilya’s eyes. He sees his own nose. He sees the best thing he ever did.

“I’m full, baby,” Shane says.

“But you didn’t finish!”

“I know. My tummy hurts.”

“You need a hug?” Wyatt offers, stepping forward, arms open.

“I’m okay.” Shane backs away. He can’t let Wyatt touch him. If he feels that small, warm weight against his legs, he will shatter. “No, I… I need to lie down.”

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice comes from the living room, taut with sudden concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Shane chokes. “I’m just… tired.” He walks past Wyatt, keeping his head down so his son won’t see his face. He heads for the stairs.

“Shane!” Ilya calls again. “You didn’t finish your food!”

“I’m full!” Shane yells back. “Leave me alone!”He forces himself upstairs. His hip grinds—bone on bone—but he welcomes the pain now. He retreats into the master bedroom, locking the world out before sinking to the floor and curling into himself.

He hadn't even been serious. It was just a thought, triggered by a photo. But Ilya's reaction—the way he shut it down so completely, so harshly—hurts him deeply.

He hears a shuffle outside, then a knock on the bedroom door.

“Shane? I brought you pizza. Pepperoni.”

Shane just turns his face away from the wood.

“Shane, please. You have to eat.”

A heavy sigh. The clink of ceramic against the floorboards. Then, retreating footsteps. Shane waits until the silence settles back over the house before pulling his phone from his pocket. The screen lights up the dark room.

Team Chat: CENTAURS ONLY (12)

Zane Boodram: So who’s buying tonight?

Wyatt Hayes: Not me. I bought in Chicago.

Troy Barrett: I’m in. I need alcohol after that practice.

Zane Boodram: Cap? You coming?

Luca Haas: Shane doesn’t drink on game nights.

Zane Boodram: It’s not a game night, rookie. It’s Wednesday. We have tomorrow off. Come on, Shane. Don’t be a grandpa.

Shane stares at the glowing letters. He types No. Then deletes it. He types Tired. Deletes it.

He looks at the locked door. At the empty space beside him.

Where?

Boodram:

The Standard on Elgin. 9pm.

I’m in.

From the closet, he pulls out dark jeans and a black button-down. He dresses quickly, splashing water on his face in the en-suite to wash away the exhaustion. He avoids the mirror. He knows what he looks like. When he opens the door, the pizza is there on the floor. The smell of pepperoni and grease hits him, making his stomach cramp with hunger, but he leaves it.

Downstairs, the living room is bathed in the blue light of the TV. The Lion King. Ilya is on the couch, Wyatt asleep on his chest. The toddler is a dead weight, thumb in mouth, head tucked under Ilya’s chin. Ilya’s arm is wrapped around him, hand stroking Wyatt’s curls.

Shane stops at the bottom of the stairs. A floorboard groans.

“Daddy!” Wyatt stirs, scrambling off Ilya’s lap with sleepy clumsiness. He runs to Shane.“Daddy! Hug!”

Shane catches him. He bends down and scoops him up. Wyatt buries his face in Shane’s collar.

“Hi, baby.” He sways him slowly.

“You look nice, Daddy,” Wyatt murmurs, patting Shane’s shoulder.

“Thanks, mon amour.”

Ilya stands up. The space on the couch where Wyatt had been looks cold. “You are going out?”

“Yeah.” Shane sets Wyatt down gently. “Just for a drink. With the guys.”

“Oh.” Ilya glances at his phone on the coffee table. “I did not check the chat.”

“It was last minute,” Shane lies. “Boodram organized it.”

“I see.” Ilya crosses his arms. “You did not eat your pizza.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” Shane heads for the door. “I won’t be late.”

“Do not drink too much,” Ilya says. It’s not a command. It sounds… fragile.

“I won’t.”

“Daddy, where you go?” Wyatt asks, toddling after him.

Shane crouches down. “Daddy is going to see his friends for a little bit. But I’ll be back before you wake up. Okay?”

“Okay.” Wyatt beams. He blows a sloppy kiss. “Mwah!”

Shane catches it in his hand, pressing it to his heart. “Caught it. Love you, baby.”

“Love you!”

Shane stands up. He looks at Ilya.

Ilya has picked Wyatt up again, settling him on his hip. “Drive safe,” he says quietly.

“Yeah.”

The Standard is crowded. It’s trendy—exposed brick, Edison bulbs, leather booths. Shane spots the table immediately. Boodram is holding court, gesturing wildly with a beer bottle. Hayes is laughing. Barrett is scrolling on his phone.

“Cap!” Boodram roars. “He lives! The legend has arrived!”

“Keep it down, Bood,” Shane says, sliding into the booth next to Troy. “I’m trying to be incognito.”

“You’re Shane Hollander,” Hayes points out. “Incognito isn’t a thing.”

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Troy murmurs, nudging Shane’s shoulder. “You looked… busy today.”

“I’m here now.” Shane signals the waitress. “Whiskey. Neat.”

“Whoa,” Boodram says. “Whiskey? On a Wednesday? Is everything okay at home, Cap? Did Ilya burn dinner?”

“Everything’s fine.” Shane takes the glass from the waitress. He knocks it back. The burn is satisfying. “Just needed to get out of the house.”

“I feel you,” Hayes says. “My wife’s sister is visiting. I’m living in a house of estrogen.”

The conversation flows around him—hockey, the Guardians game, Boodram’s disastrous Tinder date. Shane nods, smiles, laughs at the punchlines. He orders another whiskey. Then a third.

“Slow down, Cap,” Troy says under the noise of the bar. “You driving?”

“No.”

By 11:00 p.m., the crowd thins. The table breaks up. Boodram has a date. Hayes has to relieve the babysitter.

“You coming, Shane?” Troy asks, standing up.

“Nah. I’m gonna stay for one more.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Go. I’m good.”

Troy hesitates, giving him a worried glance. “Okay. Call me if you need anything.”

“I’m good.”

They leave. Shane is alone in the booth. He stares at the ice melting in his glass. He traces the rim with a finger, round and round.

“Is this seat taken?”

Shane looks up.

Standing there, looking like a lumberjack who got lost on the way to a sawmill, is Ryan Price. Flannel shirt, jeans, beard trimmed but thick. He looks massive but calm.

“Ryan,” Shane says, blinking. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Ryan gestures to the empty booth. “Mind if I join? Fabian kicked me out. Said the baby and I were ‘syncing our anxiety’ and driving him nuts.”

“Yeah. Sit.”

Ryan slides into the booth. He signals for a water.

“Congrats,” Shane says. “On the baby. Caspian?”

“Yeah.” Ryan smiles, breaking the stoic mask. “Thanks. He’s… he’s something else.”

“How’s Fabian?”

“Incredible. He’s a warrior.” Ryan takes a sip of water. He sets the glass down and looks at Shane. “You look like shit, Hollander.”

Shane snorts. “Thanks. You really know how to charm a guy.”

“I’m serious. You look like you haven’t slept in a month.”

“Try a year.” Shane swirls his whiskey. “How’s life?”

“It’s good,” Ryan says. He looks at the bar, at the TV playing highlights in the corner. “I like waking up in my own bed. I like picking up my daughter without my back seizing up.”

Shane looks at his glass. Envy pricks his chest. “Must be nice.”

“It is.” Ryan rests his forearms on the table. “I saw the highlights from the West Coast trip. You’re favoring your left side.”

“I’m fine.” The lie is automatic.

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Shane. I was a defenseman. My job was to watch hips. Your hip is fucked.”

Shane glares at him. “It’s inflamed. I’m handling it.”

“Are you?” Ryan raises an eyebrow. “Because you’re sitting alone in a bar on a Wednesday night drinking whiskey like it’s water.”

“I’m not alone. You’re here.”

“I’m here because I saw you from the window and you looked like you were about to cry into your drink.”

Shane looks away, staring at a smudge on the varnished table. The truth really hurts.

Of all people. Ryan Price.

The guy used to dry-heave in the tunnel before every puck drop. He was the poster child for nerves, the one everyone walked on eggshells around. And now he’s the one sitting here, calm and steady, dissecting Shane.

It’s humiliating.

“Ilya wants me to quit,” Shane says to the table.

“Does he?”

“He says I’m destroying myself.”

“He’s right.”

Shane snaps his head up. “Fuck you.”

“Shane.” Ryan’s voice drops, gentle and firm. “Look at me. I retired at thirty-one. People said I was crazy. They said I was leaving money on the table. They said I was weak.”

“You weren’t weak. You had anxiety.”

“I had anxiety because I was terrified I was going to kill someone or get killed. I was in pain every day. I was miserable.” Ryan spreads his hands. “And then I stopped. And the world didn’t end. The sun came up. And I realized… I’m more than a hockey player. I’m a husband. I’m a father. I’m a guy who likes gardening.”

“Gardening?”

“Don’t laugh. Tomatoes are serious business.” Ryan smiles. “The point is, the game ends, Shane. For everyone. Eventually, the jersey comes off.”

“If I stop… I am a nobody.”

“You’re a legend. A very good businessman. You’re Wyatt’s dad,” Ryan says. “You’re Ilya’s husband. You’re a guy who likes… I don’t know. What do you like?”

“Hockey.”

“Besides hockey.”

Shane thinks hard. The blank space in his mind is terrifying.

“That’s the problem,” he says, sounding defeated. “There is nothing else.”

“Then find something,” Ryan says. “You have time. You have money. You have a family who loves you. You think Ilya cares if you score goals? He cares that you’re there. He cares that you’re not in pain.”

Ryan checks his phone and stands up. “I gotta go. Fabian will worry.” He puts a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Go home, Shane. Go home to your husband and son.”

“Ryan?”

The Alpha glances back at him.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, Captain.”

Shane sits there for a long time. The bar noise fades into white noise. Finally, he pulls out his phone.

It rings twice.

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice is breathless with worry. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane says. He looks out the window at the slice of night sky. It’s clear. “Yeah, I’m okay. Can you… can you come get me?”

“Where are you?”

“The Standard. I… I want to come home.”

“I am coming,” Ilya says immediately. “Stay there. Five minutes.”

Ilya’s first instinct is to run out the door. His second instinct is that he cannot leave his three-year-old alone.

“Papa?” Wyatt asks, appearing at the top of the stairs in his dinosaur pajamas, rubbing his eyes. “Where Daddy?”

Ilya’s mind races. He cannot tell Wyatt that his other father is currently having a breakdown in a bar in downtown Ottawa.

“Daddy is playing hide and seek,” Ilya says, swallowing the panic rising in his throat. “We have to go find him.”

“Hide and seek! In the car?”

“Yes. Road trip.”

“Road trip!” Wyatt scrambles down the stairs, sleepiness forgotten. “I bring Bear!”

“Bring Bear. Bring boots.” Ilya grabs Wyatt’s coat, his own keys, and his wallet.

“Are we going to Disneyland?” Wyatt asks as Ilya buckles him into the car seat.

“Not tonight, malysh. Just downtown.”

Ilya drives faster than he should, weaving through the late-night traffic on the 417. Wyatt is singing “Do you wanna build a snowman?” in the back seat, but all Ilya can hear is Shane’s voice on the phone. The desperation in it. He has wanted Shane to come home for weeks—not just physically, but really come home. To him.

He pulls up to The Standard. The street is busy, people spilling out of bars, laughing, smoking. Ilya scans the sidewalk. He doesn’t see him. Panic spikes.

“Daddy is hiding!” Wyatt chirps.

“Yes,” Ilya says tightly. “He is very good at hiding.”

He parks illegally in a loading zone and lifts Wyatt out. They walk into the bar, Wyatt’s legs wrapped securely around Ilya’s waist. The place is nearly empty. A bartender looks up, and he immediately recognizes Ilya—it’s hard not to recognize Ilya Rozanov when he walks into a room, especially when he is carrying a toddler in dinosaur pajamas.

The bartender points silently toward the back corner. And there he is. Shane is slumped over the bar, his head resting on his folded arms. He looks small. He looks broken. There is a glass of water next to him, untouched.

Ilya walks over.

“Daddy is sleeping,” Wyatt whispers loudly in Ilya’s ear.

“Yes,” Ilya murmurs. “He is sleeping.”

He reaches Shane, puts a hand on his husband’s back.

“Shane,” Ilya says softly.

Shane doesn’t move.

Ilya looks back at the bartender, who has followed at a discreet distance. “How much?”

“Four whiskeys,” the bartender says, his expression sympathetic. “Maybe five. He stopped counting after the third. Or I did. He’s been… quiet. Just sitting there. I was about to call him a cab.”

Four whiskeys. Shane hasn’t had four drinks in one sitting since his rookie year.

“Shane,” Ilya says again, shaking him gently.

Shane stirs, blinking to bring Ilya into focus. “Rozy?” he slurs, then his mouth curves into goofy smile. “You came.”

“I said I would come.”

“You brought… you brought the baby.” Shane peers at Wyatt, squinting. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Daddy!” Wyatt waves. “We found you!”

“You found me.” Shane tries to sit up straight and sways alarmingly. Ilya grabs his shoulder.

“Okay,” Ilya says. “Time to go.”

“I’m not… I can walk,” Shane insists, pushing himself off the bar stool. His legs buckle immediately.

Ilya catches him easily, taking the dead weight against his side. “I got you.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane mumbles into Ilya’s neck. “I’m sorry I’m heavy.”

Getting out is a production. Ilya has Wyatt on one hip and Shane leaning heavily on the other side. Outside, the cold air wakes Shane up enough to stumble toward the car. Ilya deposits Wyatt in the car seat first. Then he turns to Shane, who is leaning against the car door like it’s the only thing holding him upright.

“Front seat,” he tells Shane.

“No,” Shane says, his eyes focusing on Wyatt with sudden intensity. “I wanna sit with him.”

“Shane, you will throw up.”

“I won’t. I promise. I just… I want to be with him. Please, Rozy. Let me sit in the back.”

Ilya sighs, seeing the wet sheen in Shane’s eyes. “Fine. But if you puke on the leather, you are cleaning it.”

“I won’t puke,” Shane insists, though he looks like he might at any moment. Ilya helps him into the back seat next to Wyatt. Shane collapses onto the leather, he fumbles with his seatbelt, taking three tries to click it into place.

Ilya gets in the front. He starts the car, and looks in the rearview mirror. Shane is slumped against the leather, his head rolling loosely on his neck. Wyatt is watching him with wide, unblinking eyes, sensing the shift in the universe.

“Daddy,” Wyatt says thoughtfully. “You smell funny.”

Shane turns his head slowly. He looks at Wyatt with intense, bleary seriousness. “That,” he says, wagging a finger that isn't quite steady, “is the smell of… of a very long day, my man. A very long, complicated day.”

“You smell like stinky socks,” Wyatt giggles, shrinking back playfully.

“Hey.” Shane frowns, looking wounded. “That’s not… look, smelling good is overrated. Okay? It’s surface level. We’re going deeper tonight. We’re going deep.”

Ilya snorts from the front seat as he pulls out into traffic. “Drink the water in the door, Shane. Stop traumatizing the child.”

Shane ignores him. He is locked in on Wyatt. He looks at his son like Wyatt is the only person on earth who understands him.

“Wyatt,” Shane says, his voice dropping to a loud, conspiratorial whisper. “Do you know about… expectations?”

Wyatt tries to say the word. “Ex-pec-tations?”

“Yes. Big word. Huge word.” Shane makes a sprawling gesture with his hands, nearly hitting the ceiling. “It’s like… okay, imagine you have to build a Lego tower. But everyone is watching. And they want it to reach the moon. And you’re just… you’re just a guy with a few blocks, you know?”

“I have blocks,” Wyatt says proudly with a gummy smile.

“Exactly! You have blocks!” Shane points at him triumphantly. “And you build the tower. And it’s good. It’s a great tower. But then your hip hurts. And the tower starts to wobble. And you’re scared the moon is too far away.”

“The moon is in the sky,” Wyatt informs him helpfully.

“It is. It’s so far away.” Shane’s eyes fill with sudden, wet emotion. He leans his forehead against the side of Wyatt’s car seat. “And you don’t want to let anyone down. You don’t want to let Papa down. Because Papa is… he’s the best. He built this whole car. He built us.”

“Papa built the car?” Wyatt looks at the back of Ilya’s head with renewed awe.

“Metaphorically,” Shane slurs. “He’s the glue, Wy. He’s the superglue. And I’m just… I’m the wobbly block on top.”

“You’re not a block,” Wyatt says, reaching out to pat Shane’s messy hair. “You’re Daddy.”

Shane catches Wyatt’s small hand. He presses it to his cheek, closing his eyes. “I’m trying to be. I’m trying so hard. But sometimes… sometimes Daddy feels like he’s losing the puck. You know? Like the puck is sliding away and I can’t catch it.”

“I catch it!” Wyatt volunteers heroically. “I catch the ball for you, Daddy!”

Shane laughs, a choked sound. He opens his eyes and looks at their son with devastating affection. “I know you do. You catch everything. You’re better than me. You’re gonna be… you’re gonna be so much better than me. Promise me.”

“Promise,” Wyatt parrots, though he clearly has no idea what he’s agreeing to.

“Don’t be a hockey player,” Shane advises, his face inches from Wyatt’s. “Be a… be a scientist. Or a… a guy who names clouds. Be happy. Just be happy, okay? That’s what Daddy wants.”

“Happy,” Wyatt agrees. “Happy means ice cream?”

Shane pulls back, looking at Wyatt with profound respect. “You are a genius. Yes. Happy means ice cream.” He looks at the rearview mirror. “Rozy. Our boy needs ice cream. It’s for his happiness stats.”

“We do not have ice cream,” Ilya says plainly. “And you would throw it up.”

“Fuck,” Shane sighs, defeated by logic.

“Daddy!” Wyatt gasps, hand flying to his mouth. “Bad word!”

Ilya’s eyes snap to the mirror. He sees Shane’s face crumble in panic.

“No, no!” Shane waves his hands frantically. “I didn’t… I said… Truck! I said, look at that truck!” He points at a Honda Civic passing them. “Big truck! Huge!”

“Truck?” Wyatt asks suspiciously.

“Yes! Truck! I love trucks. Trucks are… they carry things. Like heavy loads,” Shane says loftily. “Big, heavy trucks.”

Wyatt looks at Shane, then at the window. “That’s a car, Daddy.”

“It’s a truck in its heart,” Shane says. He slumps back against the seat, the burst of energy fading as quickly as it came. He reaches out, finding Wyatt’s hand again. He squeezes it, not letting go.

“You’re my best friend, Wy,” Shane mumbles. “Did you know that? You and Papa. My team.” His head lolls sideways. “We’re gonna… we’re gonna win the Cup…”

“Sleep, Shane,” Ilya says from the front.

“‘M sleeping,” Shane murmurs. He lifts Wyatt’s hand and presses a clumsy, lingering kiss to the small knuckles. Ilya listens as Shane murmurs. “I love you, buddy. I love you so much. You’re my best thing. My best, best thing. Daddy makes mistakes. Big ones. But you… You’re the one thing I got right. The only thing I got completely, perfectly right.”

“Love you too, Daddy,” Wyatt says, patting Shane’s hand with his free one, stroking it with so much gentleness, that Ilya wonders how can a small child have so much empathy. “You’re silly.”

“I am. I’m so silly.” Shane’s eyes drift shut, his breathing starting to even out.

“Sleep, Shane,” Ilya says. “We are going home.”

“Home,” Shane mumbles. “Home is good.”

Ilya drives through the quiet streets of Ottawa. The streetlights blur in the snow. The anger he felt earlier, the frustration, the fear, it is still there. But right now, looking at his husband passed out in the back seat, holding their son’s hand, the anger feels smaller.

He turns onto their street. The house is dark, waiting for them.

“We’re home,” Ilya says softly. But Shane is already asleep.

He unbuckles Wyatt first. Their son’s head is bent awkwardly against the car seat, though he looks peaceful. Ilya lifts him carefully, cradling him against his chest. Wyatt stirs, murmurs something about beetles, then goes back to sleep again. Shane is still out cold in the back seat, his head lolled against the window, mouth slightly open.

Ilya adjusts Wyatt on his hip, then reaches in with his free hand to shake Shane’s shoulder. “Shane. We are home.”

Nothing.

“Shane.” Harder this time.

Shane groans, he tries to bat Ilya’s hand away but misses by six inches, hitting the headrest instead. “Mm?”

“Can you walk? Probably not.” Ilya sighs. He looks at his sleeping son, then at his husband who weighs at least two hundred pounds of muscle.

“Okay,” Ilya says. “Stay there.”

He carries Wyatt to the front door, unlocks it one-handed, and sets Wyatt down just inside the entrance. Wyatt immediately starts to wake up, blinking in the harsh light of the foyer.

“Papa?”

“I am getting Daddy. Stay here.”

“Why Daddy not walking?”

“He is very tired,” Ilya says, and then, because he doesn’t want Wyatt to be scared, he adds, “His legs are sleeping. Wait here, bear.”

He goes back to the car. Shane has managed to unbuckle himself, but the effort has exhausted him. He is slumped sideways across the seat, one leg hanging out the open door, the toe of his expensive sneaker dragging in the slush.

“Come on,” Ilya says, hooking his arms under Shane’s. “Help me.”

Shane tries. He really does. He gets his feet under him and stands, swaying like a tree in a storm.

“You are very heavy,” Ilya grunts, wrapping a tight grip around Shane’s waist.

“‘M sorry,” Shane mumbles. “I’m sorry I’m heavy and useless and—”

“You are not useless. You are drunk.”

“Same thing.”

“Look,” Shane points a wavering finger at the porch light. “It’s a moon.”

“Is a lightbulb. Move.”

They make it three steps before Shane’s hip gives out. He makes a small, wounded sound and his leg buckles. Ilya catches him before he hits the driveway.

“Okay,” Ilya says. “New plan.”

He bends down and hauls Shane over his shoulder. Shane makes an undignified squeaking noise.

“This is not romantic,” Shane protests weakly.

“You want romantic? You should not drink four whiskeys.” Ilya adjusts his grip and starts walking toward the house. They stumble through the front door. Wyatt is waiting, clutching the wall. He eyes Shane with deep suspicion.

“Papa, why you carrying Daddy like that?”

“Because he’s sleepy,” Ilya says, maneuvering through the door. “Come inside. Close the door.”

Wyatt obeys, pushing the heavy door shut with both hands. He follows Ilya toward the stairs.

“Is Daddy sick?”

“No. Just very sleepy.”

“Why he smell funny?”

“Grown-up juice,” Shane mumbles from Ilya’s shoulder. “I told you. Stinky socks.”

Wyatt giggles. “Daddy is silly.”

“Very silly.” Ilya starts up the stairs. Each step makes his back protest. Shane is draped over him like a heavy sack of cement.

“Papa?” Wyatt asks, climbing the stairs behind them. “Why Daddy so tired?”

“He had long day.”

“Playing hockey?”

“Something like that.”

They reach the bedroom. He dumps Shane onto the mattress. Shane lands with a bounce and immediately tries to roll over, tangling himself in the duvet.

“Shoes,” Shane mumbles into the pillow. “Shoes on the bed. That’s a penalty.”

“I will get them.”

Wyatt appears at Ilya’s elbow, looking up at the bed. His small face is worried. “Daddy okay?”

“He is fine. Just sleeping.”

Wyatt stands on his tiptoes, trying to see Shane better. “Daddy!” he calls softly. “I love you! Night!”

Shane doesn’t respond. He’s already asleep.

Ilya picks Wyatt up. “Come on. Time for bed.”

“But I’m not tired,” Wyatt protests, even as he yawns. “I want to stay with Daddy.”

“Daddy needs to sleep alone tonight. He needs rest.”

“Why?”

“Because grown-ups sometimes need space to feel better.”

Wyatt’s small forehead wrinkles. “Will he feel better tomorrow?”

“I hope so.”

“Can we make him pancakes? Pancakes make me feel better.”

Ilya’s heart squeezes. “Yes. We can make pancakes.” He carries Wyatt down the hall to his room. The car bed is unmade, Bear lying on the pillow. Ilya sets Wyatt down and pulls back the covers.

Wyatt climbs in, but he’s looking back toward the door. “Papa, what if Daddy wakes up and we’re not there?”

“He will be fine.”

“What if he’s scared?”

“Daddy is not scared. He is very brave man. But he needs to rest. So we let him rest, yes?”

“Okay.” Wyatt lies down, hugging Bear close. “But if he wakes up, you tell Daddy I love him, okay?”

“I will tell him.”

“And tell Daddy I want to play Legos tomorrow.”

“I will tell Daddy that too.”

Ilya tucks the covers around him, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. Wyatt’s eyes are already drooping.

“Papa?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, bear.”

Within minutes, Wyatt is asleep. Ilya walks back to the master bedroom. Shane hasn’t moved. He’s still curled on his side, the duvet pulled up to his ears. His shoes are still on.

Ilya sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for Shane’s feet. The laces are double-knotted and Ilya has to work at them for a minute before he can pull the first shoe off. Then the second. He sets them on the floor beside the bed.

Shane stirs, making a soft noise.

“Rozy? That you?

“I am here.”

“‘Course you are. You’re always—” Shane tries to prop himself up on one elbow and immediately collapses back down. “Whoops. Room’s spinning. That’s—that’s not good.” He giggles, a loose, uncontrolled sound that doesn’t match the tears starting to track down his temples. “Why’s it spinning, Rozy?”

“Because you drank too much.”

“Did I?” Shane chews on his lip. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Whiskey. Lots of whiskey.” He says it with a kind of wonder, then his face screws up. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I just—I needed to—” His words dissolve into a hiccup.

Ilya’s hands still on Shane’s ankle. “Why did you drink so much tonight?”

Shane’s gaze drifts to the ceiling, tracking something that isn’t there. “Wanted to forget,” he says, almost conversational. “Wanted to… to just not think. About—” He aims to make a gesture but his hand falls onto the mattress. “About all of it. You. Me. The baby we’re not having.”

“Shane—”

“You don’t want me anymore.” It comes out a matter-of-fact. Then Shane’s eyes find Ilya’s and suddenly they’re desperate, pleading. “Do you? Want me? Still?”

“Of course I—”

“Because I’ll fix it. I will. I’ll—” Shane’s hand flails out, catches Ilya’s shirt, bunches it in his fist. “The surgery. I’ll do the surgery. I’ll stop playing. I’ll stop all of it, Rozy, I’ll stop everything if you just—if you still—” He’s crying now, sloppy and unrestrained. “Please. Please still want me.”

“I do want you,” Ilya says, catching Shane’s hand before it can fall. “I always want you. That is not the problem.”

“Then what?” Shane’s face cycles through confusion, hurt, anger, and confusion again. “What’s the problem? ‘Cause I don’t—I can’t figure it out. Been trying all night. Sat at that bar and I just—” He hiccups again. “Can’t figure out how you want kids but you don’t want another baby with me. A little girl is a dream. She’d be perfect. So perfect.” His voice goes soft, dreamy. “She’d have your eyes. The pretty ones. You have pretty eyes, Rozy. My favorite color…” He squints, trying to find the word. “Hazel.”

“Hollander—”

“I know I’m broken.” Shane says it simply, like it’s obvious. He looks down at his body. “I know my hormones are all fucked up. I know I’m—I’m not supposed to be able to do this. But I did it once. We made Wyatt. we made him and he’s perfect and I could—I could do it again. I know I could. I’d just—” He hiccups. “I’d just need you to want me to. But you don’t. You don’t want me to.”

“You are not broken—”

“Then why?” Shane’s voice breaks on the word. “Why don’t you want it? Is it me? Is it ‘cause I’m—‘cause I’m not good enough? ‘Cause I know I’m not. I know I’m a shit husband and I’m barely there and I’m always at the rink and I—” He’s spiraling now, words coming faster and faster. “I’m always fucking up. Always making you worry. Always doing the wrong thing. And you deserve better. You deserve someone who’s not—who’s not—”

“Hollander, stop—”

“No, ‘s true. ‘s all true.” Shane nods aggressively and immediately regrets it, wincing and pressing a hand to his head. “Oh, fuck. Okay. No moving. No moving the head.” He breathes heavily for a moment. “But it is true. You could have anyone. Anyone in the world. And you got stuck with me. With broken, fucked up me who can’t even—who can’t even—”

“You are not broken,” Ilya says. He catches Shane’s face in both hands, making him look at him. “You are not broken. Do you hear me?”

“Then why won’t you let me give you this? Why won’t you let me—I want to give you everything, Rozy. I want—I want to be enough.”

Ilya’s heart fractures. His gaze drops to Shane’s stomach, to where the cesarean scar is hidden beneath his shirt. It brings it all back—the thirty-six hours of labor and the chaos of the emergency surgery. He can still hear the monitors beeping over the low murmur of doctors and the scent of blood.

So much blood.

“You were in surgery for four hours,” Ilya says quietly. “Four hours I sat in that waiting room thinking you were dying. Thinking I was losing you. That I will raise our son alone.”

Shane blinks slowly, processing this through the fog of alcohol. “But I didn’t die,” he says, confused. “I’m right here. See?” He pats his own chest clumsily. “Still here.”

“You were not fine. You had blood transfusion. You could not walk properly for three days.” Ilya holds Shane’s hand again and grips it. “And that was with Wyatt. With healthy pregnancy. A planned cesarean. Every advantage medicine could give us.”

Shane is quiet, staring at him, mouth slightly open.

“We were lucky. So lucky,” Ilya continues, his throat constricted. “But what if next time we are not? What if your body rejects the pregnancy? What if there are complications? What if next time… what if… I lose you?”

“You won’t—”

“I cannot watch you bleed again. I cannot sit in another waiting room wondering if you are going to make it out alive. I cannot look at a baby and know it cost me you. I would hate it. I would hate myself.” He strokes his husband’s cheek. “You already gave me Wyatt. That is enough. Shane… even without children, even if is just the two of us—that is enough. You are enough.”

Shane leans into Ilya’s touch, his tears leaking out to wet Ilya’s thumbs. “But I want,” Shane murmurs brokenly. “I want to give you everything.”

“You are everything.”

“I love you,” Shane slurs. “Love you so much it’s—it’s stupid. It’s so stupid how much.” He hiccups, then giggles through his tears. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m being—I’m a mess. I’m such a fucking mess.”

“You are my mess.”

That makes Shane cry harder. “I saw Ryan tonight,” he mumbles after a moment. “At the bar. He was just… sitting there. Like a normal person.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. He said—” Shane’s eyes are drifting closed. “He said the sun came up.” His words are slurring worse now, sleep pulling at him. “After he quit. He said the sun came up and he was okay. Do you think the sun’ll come up for me?”

The muscles in Ilya’s throat constricts again. “Yes. It will always will. I will make sure of it.”

“Yeah?” Shane’s smile is loose. “’Cause I thought about it. While I was drinking. Thought about what happens after hockey. If I stop.” He yawns hugely. “And I think—I think I wanna be a full time coach. Like you. Wanna teach kids how to—how to be better than me. Wanna be there for Wyatt. Wanna be there for you.” His eyes are barely slits now. “Wanna stop being so scared all the time.”

Ilya’s heart pounds. “Tell me this when you are sober, Hollander.”

“I will,” Shane whispers, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Promise. I’ll tell you… everything…” The sentence dissolves into a heavy exhale.

Ilya sits there for a long moment, Shane’s hand still in his. It would be better to strip off the stiff denim and scrub the whiskey taste from Shane’s mouth, but looking at him now—slack-jawed and finally quiet—Ilya hasn’t the heart to wake him.

He pulls the duvet to Shane’s ears, kills the light, and surrenders to the impulse he’s been fighting. He leans down, pressing his lips against Shane’s hairline. “I love you,” he says. “Even when you are drunk and breaking my heart. Especially then.”

To be continued.

Chapter End Notes:

Hello!

I know this is not yet a makeup, but I hope it eases the pain of the previous chapter.

Thank you so much for reading! Take care! See you next week!

Love,

Azi 💜

P.S Yeah. I am a repeat offender of writing angst. Guilty as sin. Hehe.

Indefinitely

Shane sits at the kitchen island, his head resting heavily in his palms. Every pulse of blood through his temples feels like a puck rattling off a crossbar while the sunlight streaming through the windows is a personal affront to his current state. He’s pretty sure he’s dying, or at the very least, his liver has officially filed for divorce.

He shouldn't have done it. But last night, his failing hip and Ilya’s disappointment at him pushed him into a bar, and the whiskey had seemed like the only thing that could drown out the sound of his own career crumbling. Memories of the previous night hit him in humiliating shards. The car. The leather seat. Was he… was he really sitting next to Wyatt? Oh god. He was wasted, next to his three-year-old son. Did he talk about Lego towers? Trucks? Yes. He definitely did.

The sound of a pan clattering against the stovetop makes him wince. "Stop making so much noise," he mutters.

"I am making breakfast, Hollander. If you want silence, go sleep in garage with Anya," Ilya mutters as he slides a plate in front of Shane. It’s not the egg white omelet Shane usually insists on. It’s poached eggs, but they’re resting on thick, buttered slices of sourdough, with a side of avocado that hasn't been rationed.

"I can't eat this," Shane says, staring at the bread like it’s a penalty kill he wasn't prepared for. "Too many carbs. My trainer—"

"Trainer is not here. I am here," Ilya interrupts, leaning against the counter with a spatula in hand. "You drank half bottle of Jameson, Hollander. Body needs real fuel, not birdseed you usually eat. Eat toast. Is good for stomach."

Shane wants to argue, but his stomach gives a treacherous growl. He takes a small, tentative bite under his husband’s watchful gaze. Ilya moves to the fridge and returns with a cold bottle of ginger ale. He cracks the cap and sets it by Shane’s hand.

"Drink,” Ilya says. “You like this shit, yes?”

Shane looks at the bottle, then up at Ilya. "Thank you," he mumbles, taking a long, cold swig. The bubbles sting his throat.

Ilya watches him for a second. "You look like shit, by the way," he says, though he reaches out and briefly brushes his fingers against the back of Shane’s neck. "Since when do you drink whiskey like Russian? You are Canadian. Supposed to be weak. Drink light beer."

Shane suppresses the shiver that runs down his spine and lets out a dry, pained laugh. "I was... having a moment."

"You were having breakdown, Hollander," Ilya says. "Chide me for years about 'nutritional horrors,' and then you go out and poison yourself?”

“Sorry,” is all Shane can say. Shrinking in his seat.

Suddenly, they’re interrupted by Wyatt skidding into the kitchen, wearing a Winnie the Pooh pajama top that’s half-tucked into his pants. He’s carrying a plate with a single, slightly mangled pancake that Ilya must have made him earlier.

"Daddy! Morning!" his son cheers, oblivious to the fact that his voice is currently a sonic boom in Shane’s skull.

"Hey, honey," Shane says, forcing a small smile. "Good morning."

Wyatt scrambles onto the stool next to Shane. He looks at his own plate, then up at Shane. His whole face scrunches up in determination. The toddler’s tongue pokes from the corner of his mouth—pure, absolute focus. With fingers sticky from syrup, Wyatt tears off a corner of his pancake.

"Here, Daddy. You have. Make you happy," Wyatt says, thrusting the syrup-dampened piece toward Shane’s mouth. "Pancake is the best. And ice cream. We have ice cream after?"

Shane looks at the piece of pancake. "Thank you, darling.” He accepts the offering, taking the bite right from Wyatt’s small, sticky fingers. The sugar hits his tongue instantly. "It’s very good. Best pancake I’ve ever had."

Wyatt beams, a gap-toothed, triumphant grin. "See! Happy!"

Shane pulls Wyatt to his side and rubs their noses together, making his son giggle. But as he leans back, he freezes. The morning light reveals something on Wyatt’s face that definitely wasn’t there a month ago—freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose in tiny, pale brown spots.

"Ilya," Shane says. "Look."

Ilya moves closer, peering down at their son. “What?”

"The freckles," Shane says, running a gentle thumb over Wyatt’s cheek. "They’re appearing. He’s getting them."

He has spent his childhood self-conscious of his own freckles—embarrassed by how they made him look young. But seeing them on Wyatt, mixed with Ilya’s curly hair and those hazel eyes, they look perfect.

Ilya’s expression breaks. He reaches out, his thumb brushing the smattering of freckles on Wyatt’s nose. "Is good," he murmurs. "Told you I wanted him to have them. Now he looks like you. Even when has my temper."

Shane lifts his gaze to his husband. He expects to find Ilya looking at Wyatt, but he isn't. Ilya is looking right at him with a gaze that latches onto Shane and refuses to let go, intense enough to make the hangover headache recedes.

Shane gulps, looks once more at the freckles on his son’s face before meeting that consuming gaze. "Yeah," he says, a little breathless. "He really does."

They eat in a silence that finally feels steady. Shane clears his throat. "Ilya," he says, his gaze fixed on the bubbles in his ginger ale. "About last night. I know I was a mess. I remember the car. The things I said."

He had practically begged Ilya to still want him. God. He wants to crawl out of his own skin. Shane Hollander doesn’t beg. Fuck. Unless it’s Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya just shrugs a broad shoulder. "You were drunk, Shane. Drunk people say stupid things. Have spent years listening to you be stupid while sober. Is not new.”

"It wasn't just stupid," Shane mutters, but the bluntness of Ilya’s response takes some of the sting out of the shame. It’s so quintessentially Ilya—dismissive of the drama, but present for the person.

“You told me,” Ilya suddenly says, “you will do surgery. Will stop playing. If I still want you.”

Shane’s face burns a dull, heated red. He shrinks into his seat, shoulders hunching as if he can disappear into the wood of the chair in embarrassment. “Yeah…”

“I do. Want you. Always.”

A thousand responses ache in his throat, but before he can force them out, Wyatt calls him.“Daddy! You play with me?”

Shane opens his mouth when Ilya speaks first. "Yes," his husband says, already collecting the plates. "Daddy has free day today. No running, no birdseed, no 'professional' business.” Ilya looks at Shane, a challenge in his hazel eyes. "He is lead engineer today, bear. He has to fix tracks."

Wyatt lets out a high-pitched cheer. "Track!"

“Okay,” he says, despite not being sure what game they’re talking about. He’s suddenly, acutely aware of how little he knows about what happens in their own household when he’s not here—which is most of the time. How many games have Ilya and Wyatt invented while Shane was at the rink? How many elaborate storylines has he missed?

Wyatt is already scrambling off his stool, grabbing Shane’s hand with both of his. “Come on, Daddy!” his son excitedly says. “We gotta go to my room! The treasure is there!”

Shane lets himself be pulled toward the stairs, glancing back once at Ilya, who’s watching them with a satisfied expression.

“Have fun with the dragon,” Ilya calls after them. “Try not to let him eat you.”

Wyatt giggles, tugging harder on Shane’s hand. They climb the stairs, Shane trie to keep up with his son who’s taking them one at a time. When they reach the landing, Wyatt releases him and runs ahead, throwing open the door to his room.

“Look, Daddy!” his son proudly says.

Shane steps into the doorway and stops, jaw slackening. The state of his son’s room is a riot of primary colors and sensory input that makes his organized brain want to short-circuit. There are wooden train tracks winding in impossible loops across the rug, a fleet of plastic dinosaurs guarding a "volcano" made of pillows, and enough scattered Legos to constitute a safety hazard for any grown man. The walls are lined with bins that are clearly meant for organization, but they’ve been treated more like suggestions than rules.

"Honey," Shane says, looking around in genuine shock as he enters the scene of the crime. "What is... why is your room like this? Did I do this last night? Was I that far gone?"

Ilya wanders in behind them, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "No, Hollander. You were busy crying about feelings. Is from 'Epic Battle' we had while you were at bar.” He looks at the mess with the same profound pride that their son has. "Wyatt has incredible imagination. Built city, and then dragon came. Had to move people to moon."

Shane gestures helplessly at a pile of discarded trucks. "Ilya, it’s a mess. We should be teaching him responsibility. He needs to learn to clean up after the 'moon mission' is over.”

Ilya rolls his eyes at him. "Read in book—one of fancy ones David sent—that we should not mess with 'small world' setups. Is about developmental flow. If you break city, you break story in his head.”

"Flow?" Shane asks dryly. "Is that what you call it? Or are you just making things up because you don't want to bend over and pick up the blocks?"

"If we want him to be more than just 'hockey kid,' Shane, we let him explore creativity," Ilya confidently counters. “Creative can be explored through this.”

"I don’t want him to trip over a T-Rex in the middle of the night," Shane says, then looks at Wyatt, who is already deep in the "Rescue" mission, making low, rumbling engine noises as he moves a red truck through a gap in the tracks.

"You won’t understand until you actually play, Hollander,” Ilya says offhandedly. “Not just watch from doorway like checking score. Have to be in game.”

The guilt hits Shane then, because Ilya’s right. Shane doesn’t play with Wyatt regularly. He comes home exhausted, his hip screaming, his body demanding rest. He kisses Wyatt goodnight. He asks about his day. But actually sitting down and playing? Being present in the way Ilya is?

“I know,” Shane murmurs, tongue wetting his lower lip that’s gone dry. “I know I don’t.”

His expression drops, the confidence vanishing into something pained. “I did not mean...” He stops, shaking his head. “Did not mean to make it sound like that.

"It’s okay," Shane says quietly, brushing it off before the emotion can swallow him. “You’re right. I don’t play with him much because by the time I get home, I’m exhausted and I just crawl into bed.”

"Daddy! Papa! Come on!" Wyatt calls, waving a plastic astronaut. "The crane! The dragon is coming!"

Shane sinks to the floor, the movement costing him an intense, white-hot line of pain that shoots from his hip socket down to his knee. He grinds his teeth, refusing to let it show on his face. He reaches for the wooden crane, his fingers closing around the smooth, painted beechwood.

"Okay," Shane says, positioning the crane next to the pile of magnetic tiles. "Operator Hollander reporting for duty. What’s the mission?"

"Dragon is hungry!" Wyatt announces, pointing an accusatory finger at a stuffed green dragon that is currently being held by Ilya.

Ilya nods, adjusting the dragon so it looks like it’s inspecting the train tracks. "Is very hungry, Operator. Demands moon cheese. But hates stinky socks. If you feed him socks, will burn village."

"No socks!" Wyatt shrieks, gleeful by the high stakes. "Yucky socks!"

Shane smiles. So this is how it works. "Copy that. No socks. Initiating cheese transport."

For the next hour, Shane isn't the captain of the Centaurs. He is a rescue operator in a world where physics is optional and the moon is made of dairy. He watches Ilya manipulate the dragon with dexterity. Ilya Rozanov, the terrifying enigma of the NHL, the man who once checked Shane so hard he saw stars, is currently using a high-pitched, gravelly voice to demand snacks for a plush toy. He’s fully committed to the bit.

There is no vanity in him, no self-consciousness. He lets Wyatt pile blocks onto his legs to build a "prison," he lets Wyatt stick a glittery star sticker right in the center of his forehead, and he treats every nonsensical plot twist Wyatt invents with the gravity of a playoff strategy meeting.

There was a time when Shane thought his life with Ilya would be nothing but stolen hours in hotel rooms and secret texts. He had resigned himself to a love that lived in the shadows. He used to lay in bed in Montreal, staring at the ceiling, dreaming of something mundane—just breakfast, just morning, just this.

And now, here it is. He’s living in it.

His husband and son are so similar it hurts. The sunlight highlights the curls on both their heads—Ilya’s messy light brown mop and Wyatt’s finer dark ringlets. Ilya scoops Wyatt up to "fly" him over the train tracks, making ridiculous whooshing noises. Wyatt cackles with pure joy, and the sound cracks Shane’s chest open. He falls in love all over again, right there.

"Daddy! Crane!" Wyatt yells, pulling Shane back to the present. "Dragon wants up!"

"I got him," Shane says and hooks the crane’s magnet onto the dragon’s collar. "Going up."

Ilya catches Shane’s eye over Wyatt’s head. The sticker is still on his forehead. He winks.Their moment is suspended in that perfect, golden amber that Shane wishes he could live in forever. But reality strikes when he hears the harsh buzz of a cell phone vibrates against the floorboards.

Ilya freezes mid-swoop. He shifts Wyatt to his hip and fishes the phone out of his pocket. He glances at the screen, and Shane watches his mouth curl down at the corner in displeasure.

"What?" Ilya barks into the phone, not bothering with a greeting. “Unprecedented. How unprecedented? Like Roman Empire falling, or like you forgot to order pipes?"

A pause. Ilya sighs, a long, suffering exhale that ruffles Wyatt’s hair.

"Fine. Don't touch it. I am coming." He ends the call and shoves the phone back into his pocket.

"Have to go to site. Rob called—drainage in north corner is doing something 'unprecedented' and 'expensive.' Will be back soon.”

Shane looks up, the wooden crane still in his hand. "The rink? How is the progress? Are we still on for the September ice?”

“Is just concrete and wires right now,” Ilya says as he peels the sticker off his forehead and sticks it to the back of his palm. He looks at Shane, then at Wyatt who is currently trying to fit a Lego into the truck’s trailer. He hesitates. “You want to come? You and Bear? Want to show you where the training room’s going. Think they finally understood your notes on the floor grip.”

The invitation catches him completely off guard. He hasn't been to the site in months—not since the initial groundbreaking.

"Me?" Shane asks awkwardly, standing up and brushing the carpet lint off his knees. "I mean... Wyatt and I haven't been there since the start. I’ve been... out of the loop. Though I don’t want to get in your way. It's your project.”

"No," Ilya says, and the intensity of his gaze returns. "Is idea of both of us, Shane. Would be nice if you saw it before walls go up. If you are not too busy being 'orderly.'"

“I’m not too busy,” Shane says quickly. “I’d actually... I’d really like to see it."

Ilya winks, a flash of the timeless, cocky Rozanov. "Good. Wyatt needs to see big excavators. Is part of education.”

Shane smiles, a real one that reaches his eyes. "Right. Education."

Shane keeps his eyes fixed on the back of Ilya’s head as they walk toward the driveway, consciously forcing his brain to stop looping through the highlight reel of his own failures. He doesn't want to think about the grinding of his hip or the whiskey-soaked apologies of the night before. He wants to be the version of himself that Wyatt thinks he is—the "fix-man" who can handle a wooden crane and a dragon.

He settles Wyatt into his car seat, clicking the buckles. Wyatt is already kicking his little sneakers in excitement against the back of the passenger seat and narrating the "big diggers" he expects to see. Shane climbs into the passenger side, the movement stiff but manageable.

Ilya is already in the driver’s seat, looking entirely too comfortable and steady for a man whose husband was crying in his lap ten hours ago. He pulls out of the driveway, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, the other reaching over to briefly squeeze Shane’s thigh.

The contact is a silent truce.

"You are quiet, Hollander," Ilya says, his gaze on the road. "Are you still trying to calculate the caloric density of the pancake? Or are you just mourning your dignity?"

Shane huffs, a small, genuine sound. "A bit of both. And I’m trying to figure out how you convinced me to go to a construction site on my one day off."

"Is not just a construction site," Ilya corrects, his voice taking on that specific, sharp edge of pride he only gets when talking about the foundation. “Is the future. You told me the rink needed a better drainage system. I am making sure they do not ignore your 'technical input.'"

They pull into the site, and the scale of it strikes Shane immediately. It’s a skeleton of steel and concrete, rising out of the dirt. Cranes loom overhead—the real-life versions of the one currently lying on Wyatt’s bedroom floor—and the air is filled with the roar of engines and the sharp crack of hammers.

Wyatt is practically screaming with joy the moment the car stops. "Digger! Daddy, look! A big yellow digger!"

Shane unbuckles him, lifting him out and onto the gravel. He notices a man in a hard hat waving them over.Ilya stops by the tailgate of the range rover, reaching into a heavy-duty canvas bag and produces a small, yellow, toddler-sized hard hat.

"Safety first, bear," Ilya says, and ducks down, fitting the plastic brim over Wyatt’s curls. Their son’s small hands immediately flying up to feel the new weight on his head. Ilya clicks the buckle and taps the top of the helmet.

"Now you are official. No falling rocks for you," Ilya tells their son.

Wyatt lets out a triumphant shriek and bolts toward a pile of dirt. Shane’s hand darts out, snagging the back of his shirt just before he can make the leap.

“Don’t run, baby,” he says.

"I'm a builder!" Wyatt jumps up and down. "I'm a builder-man!"

Ilya stands, and leads them toward Rob. The contractor is leaning against a pickup truck, a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm and a half-empty coffee cup in his hand. He looks like every contractor Shane has ever met—weather-beaten, wearing a vest with too many pockets, and possessing a gaze that suggests he isn’t particularly impressed by the presence of Shane Hollander.

"Boss is here," Rob says, nodding to Ilya. "And you brought the family." He looks at Wyatt, who is currently poking a large tire with a finger, which Shane immediately wipes clean.

"He is checking the structural integrity of your truck, Rob," Ilya says, his mouth twitching into a smirk. "Is Hollander here. He is very critical."

Rob grunts, a sound that might be a laugh. "Better him than the city inspectors. You want to see the north corner? The drainage pipes are in, but the grade is a bitch."

"In a minute," Ilya says.

Shane watches him turns back to the car and grabs a white hard hat from the hood.

“Here,” Ilya says, holding the yellow one out to Shane. “You need this.”

He takes it, but Ilya moves closer and before he can react, Ilya’s already lifting the helmet toward his head.

“Wait, I can—”

“Hold still,” Ilya says, and his voice has that particular tone that means he’s not interested in debate.

Shane goes still.

Ilya settles the hard hat onto Shane’s head, his fingers skimming along Shane’s temples as he adjusts the fit. Shane has to look up slightly, his neck crane-tilted, as Ilya settles the heavy plastic on his head. Ilya’s hazel eyes are inches away, scanning the fit, and Shane find himself staring.

He watches the way Ilya’s eyelashes catch the afternoon sun, the slight roughness of the stubble along his jaw.Ilya tugs the brim forward slightly, then back, testing the angle. His fingers graze the nape of Shane’s neck and then Ilya’s stepping back, tilting his head to assess his work.

“Good,” Ilya says, satisfied.

He’s frozen, caught in the moment, unable to do anything but look at Ilya standing there, his curls messy from the wind. Ilya reaches for his own helmet, sliding it on.

“You look hot in a hard hat,” Shane blurts before he can stop himself.

Ilya gives him a slow, smug grin—the one that usually means Shane is about to lose a bet or get pinned to a mattress. He scoops Wyatt up, settling the toddler on his hip, and starts walking toward the skeletal remains of what will be the main lobby.

"I know, is the curls making the plastic look expensive," Ilya says simply, and as the roar of a backhoe vibrates through the soles of Shane’s sneakers, he points toward a series of orange spray-paint lines on the concrete, adding, "Look, Shane, this is training room—your room."

Shane walks the perimeter. The vast, open floor is a far cry from the cluttered island table where this was born. He can still hear their late-night arguments—the way Ilya had pointed at a sketch of the squat racks while Shane stubbornly tapped a finger on the synthetic ice lanes that he wants to be included in the Architects design. Back then, it was just ink and paper. Now the dimensions are solid, rising up around him and making the blueprints feel like a fever dream.

"The floor grip," Shane says, kneeling to touch the edge of the slab. "You kept the extra texture?"

"Told them you are obsessed with not slipping," Ilya says, standing over him, Wyatt still perched on his hip. "Rob thought I was crazy. But told him husband has very expensive knees. Cannot have him falling because floor is too smooth."

Wyatt points a chubby finger at a large crane hoisting a steel beam into place. "Big arm! Daddy, look! The arm is moving the house!"

"Is the rink, bear," Ilya corrects, smiling. "Is where the kids will learn to skate. Where they will be fast, like you."

Shane follows Ilya’s hand, the static in his mind finally clearing. Ilya hasn’t ignored a single note.Every detail Shane had tentatively suggested over a late-night glass of wine is right there, etched into the very bones of the building. Ilya hadn't just listened; he had memorized every word.

"The locker rooms?" Shane asks, his shoulders squaring as that old captain’s authority settles over him. "Did Rob do what we talked about? For the goalie pads?"

Ilya swings around, satisfaction radiating from him. "Yes. Two feet extra. Hazy could fit his ego in there now."

A forklift rumbles past, and Wyatt answers it with a high-pitched shriek of glee. He wriggles in Ilya’s arms, his yellow hat jerking up and down as he points a sticky finger at the wheels. "Digger! Digger!"

Ilya hitches Wyatt higher on his hip, anchoring the squirming toddler against his ribs. "Big digger, malysh," Ilya rumbles. He faces Shane over the boy’s yellow-hatted head, his eyes bright with a rare, relaxed heat. "You see? Already he has better taste in machinery than his father."

The words fuck off are halfway up Shane’s throat. He swallows them just in time, the curse dying behind his teeth as Wyatt’s looks between them.

“Unbelievable," Shane says instead. He steps closer, reaching out to tweak the brim of Wyatt’s oversized hat. "Don't listen to him, Wy. Your Papa wouldn't know a good excavator from a Zamboni if it ran over his toes."

Ilya lets out a dry, huffing sound. "Maybe we do not have a center in the making, Hollander. Maybe we have future architect and engineer. A rightful successor to Zaha Hadid."

Shane stares at them both. "Hadid, huh?" he dryly teases. "Gonna be a long road for him if he's inherited your stubbornness about 'artistic vision.'"

"Not stubbornness," Ilya retorts, his smirk returning. "Is genius. You will see."

They move through the area that will eventually be the Irina Foundation headquarters. Ilya describes the classroom space, the video room, the way the light will hit the lobby in the morning to make it feel "warm" for the parents. He talks about the kids who will come here—the ones like him, who didn't have anything but a pair of skates and a desperate need to be better.

"It's huge, Ilya," Shane says softly, stepping closer to his husband. Ilya shifts their son to his other hip and reaches out, catching Shane’s hand.

"Good?" Ilya asks, stopping in the center of what will be the main rink’s face-off circle. He looks at Shane with rare uncertainty. "Is what you wanted?"

Shane looks around the vast, echoing space. "It's perfect, Ilya," he says honestly. "It's exactly what we need."

The diner they end up is a relic on Hazeldean Road, wedged between a dry cleaner and a dentist’s office. The awning is faded, the menu laminated and unchanged since 2001. Shane eases himself into the booth, he stretches his leg out under the table, nudging Ilya’s shin by accident, but neither of them pulls away.

Beside him, Wyatt is currently attacking a bowl of vanilla ice cream. The toddler has a smear of chocolate sauce on his chin and a look of pure, unadulterated bliss in his eyes. He digs his spoon in, overloading it until it threatens to topple, and then pauses. His little hand extends the spoon across the table toward Shane.

"Daddy," Wyatt insists, the word garbled around the phantom taste of sugar. "Yummy. You try."

Shane leans forward, opening his mouth. He accepts the spoon. The cold, sugary rush hits his tongue, rich and cloying and completely forbidden. He swallows it down.

Wyatt beams, kicking his legs happily under the table, his sneakers thumping a rhythm against the vinyl seat. The sight of that sticky, happy face hits Shane right in the center of his chest. He pulls a napkin from the dispenser, and gently dabs at the chocolate smearing Wyatt’s chin.

"Is it good, honey?" he asks softly, tossing the napkin onto his empty plate. "You happy?"

Wyatt swings his legs harder. "Happy Daddy. Ice cream makes me happy."

Shane plants a kiss on top of Wyatt’s head. "Then daddy is happy."

Buzz.

The sound is jarring in the quiet booth. Shane’s phone, resting face-up on the table, lights up.

Group Chat: CENTAURS ONLY

Zane Boodram: Guardians are running 11-7 tomorrow. Should be fast.

Troy Barrette: Fast means we hit them harder.

Luca Haas: Cap, you seeing the lines?

Shane stares at the screen, the warm bubble of the afternoon popping instantly. The Guardians game. Tomorrow night. The reality of his job comes rushing back. He steals a glance at his mate and immediately wishes he hadn't. Ilya isn't looking at the phone; he's looking at Shane with that dark, assessing stare that sees right through to the broken parts Shane tried to glue back together this morning.

“It’s just the guys,” Shane starts reluctantly. Today is a good day, and he doesn’t want them to argue again, especially not in front of their son. “They’re talking about the Guardians. It’s a big game, Ilya. We need the points, and if I’m not there to center the top line—”

"Shane," Ilya says calmly.

"I know you think I shouldn't," Shane rushes on. "I know you’re still mad about the skiing, and the hip, and I know I promised to look at the surgery, but I can't just bail on them for a Guardians game. I have to—"

"We will be there," Ilya interrupts.

Shane stops. He blinks, sure he misheard. "What?"

Ilya picks up his coffee cup. He takes a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving Shane’s face. "Me and Wyatt," he says, setting the cup down against the saucer. "We will be there. At the game."

Shane stares at him, stunned. Ilya hates watching him play when he’s injured. Ilya hates the hits, the falls, the wincing on the bench. He usually paces in the suite or refuses to watch the shifts where Shane takes contact.

"You... you want to come?"

"Did not say I want to," Ilya says. "I said we will be there." He reaches across the table. His hand covers Shane’s where it rests near the phone, gripping it firmly. "You are playing. You are captain. So, we will be in family suite. Wyatt wants to see you. And I... I want to watch my husband. If you are going to be idiot and play on broken hip, then I will be there. To make sure you do not die. And to drive you home when you cannot walk."

It’s neither permission nor approval. It’s simply Ilya, planted in the ruins of Shane’s stubbornness, unwilling to leave.

"I’ll take care of myself.” He turns his hand over, locking his fingers tight with Ilya’s. "I promise."

Canadian Tire Centre
Ottawa, Ontario
5 January 2031

"Papa! Look! Daddy!" Wyatt bounces on the plush seat, nearly falling out of his mini #24 Hollander jersey. The sleeves are rolled up three times so his hands can poke out. He tugs at the golden chain around Ilya’s neck, obsessed with the charms.

The suite is too high, too removed from the ice, while his husband is down there, ready to throw a broken body against the boards for the sake of two points.

"Yes, Bear. Is right there," Ilya murmurs. He untangles the small hand from his necklace, the S and W charms settling back against his collarbone. "Stay still. If you fall, Daddy will have my head before game even ends."

Yuna sits from behind him. Her posture is perfect, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. David sits on her other side. "He shouldn't be playing," David says gruffly, though there is a tremor of worry in his voice. "Not against Toronto. They’re heavy hitters."

Ilya’s gaze hardens as he watches Shane skate a final lap for warm up. Shane circles near the glass below their suite. He knows exactly where they are. He stops, snow spraying up against the boards, and looks up.

"Daddy!" Wyatt screams, abandoning the necklace to wave at Shane. "Hi! Hi!"

Shane’s serious game-face cracks. He spots them. Shane lifts his gloved hand and points right at them, then taps his heart. The puck drops, and the anxiety Ilya has been suppressing with caffeine and sarcasm roars back. The Guardians are fast. Dallas Kent is moving the puck with a lethal arrogance that keeps the Centaurs pinned.

Shane is out there, centering the top line with Zane Boodram and Tanner Dillon. It’s a mismatch. Dillon is a step behind the play, forcing Shane to work twice as hard to cover the defensive gaps. Every time Shane enters a puck battle along the boards to bail Dillon out, Ilya stops breathing. Shane winces when he pivots.

When Guardians defenseman Raven Sterling slams Shane into the glass, aiming for his hip, Ilya shoots to his feet, his face draining of color. The score is 1-1 in the second. The rookie, Luca Haas, scored earlier on a gritty rebound, but Kent answered back with a laser that beat Hazy clean on the glove side. Hazy has been standing on his head, stacking the pads on a breakaway, but even he can't stop everything.

Ten minutes into the second, the Centaurs go on the power play. Shane takes the ice with the top unit: Zane Boodram, Evan Dykstra at the point, and Troy Barrett.

Across the circle, Dallas is chirping Troy, but Troy’s jaw is a frozen line of granite. He isn't just looking for a goal; he’s looking for blood. Every muscle in his frame is coiled with a desperate need to dismantle the Toronto Guardians.

Shane controls the play from the half-wall. He fakes a shot, freezing the Guardians' penalty kill, then slides a beautiful, cross-crease pass right to Barrett’s tape.

Barrett buries it against his old team.

2-1, Ottawa. Barrett spins away, screaming right in Kent’s face, popping the crest on his jersey.

"That's it!" David pumps his fist. "Stick it to 'em, Troy!"

Shane doesn’t celebrate. He just bumps gloves with Barrett and skates slowly back to the bench. He sits heavily, his head dropping for just a second as he tries to find air. By the third period, it’s a 2-2 deadlock. The rivalry fuels the noise, turning the arena into a pressure cooker. Shane is laboring now. He’s slow to find his feet after every hit.

Two minutes left. The Guardians are pressing. A shot rings off the post behind Hazy—a sound like a gunshot. The rebound kicks out into open ice.

"Now!" Ilya hisses from his seat.

Shane snaps up the puck. He has a step on the defenseman. He bursts through the neutral zone, legs pumping in a grinding rhythm. It’s a 2-on-1. Shane Hollander, broken hip and all, flying down the wing with Zane Boodram screaming up the other side

"Go, Daddy, go!" Wyatt shrieks, standing on Ilya’s thighs, blocking the view with his curly head. Ilya shifts him, craning to see around the yellow hard hat.

Shane fakes the shot. The goalie bites. Shane slides a perfect, crisp saucer pass across the crease.

Boodram slams it home.

The goal horn blasts. The arena erupts. The red light spins. 3-2 Centaurs.

Yuna’s face is slick with tears as she clings to David. On the ice, the team mobs Boodram. Shane is there, smiling, bumping helmets.

Ilya feels his mouth curve into a smile he can’t suppress. Pride swells in him, fierce and consuming. That’s his husband down there. His Shane. Broken hip and all, still making plays that will be replayed on highlight reels, still leading his team like he was born to wear the C.

The final horn sounds thirty seconds later. 3-2, Ottawa. The arena is still roaring. Ilya just watches as Shane skates toward the bench. The team is filing into the tunnel, but Shane pauses at the boards, looking up toward the suite one more time. He lifts his hand. A small wave. Just for them.

Wyatt waves back frantically, both hands in the air. “Daddy! You’re flying!”

Ilya raises his own hand, a single, deliberate gesture.Shane nods, then disappears into the tunnel.

The walls of the family waiting room are lined with flat-screen TVs, all of them currently broadcasting the post-game scrum. Ilya stands near the back, away from the husbands and the wives scrolling through Instagram. Wyatt is draped over his shoulder with one hand still loosely gripping the golden chain, drool slowly creating a damp spot on the expensive cream silk of his shirt. Ilya doesn't care. He keeps a rhythmic sway going, side to side, while his eyes stay locked on the screen mounted above the snack table.

"Is he okay?" Yuna says as she rubs her grandson’s back, standing close to Ilya’s elbow.

"He is sleeping," Ilya murmurs, shifting Wyatt slightly so his head is better supported. "Dreaming of pancakes."

He watches Shane on the screen who’s standing in front of the Centaurs' backdrop. Shane has showered, but his hair is still wet, combed back severely. He is wearing a baby blue button down shirt, the top button undone.

"Okay," Shane rasps, then clears his throat. "Let's make this quick. I’ve got a three-year-old upstairs who probably wants to go home."

A ripple of laughter moves through the press corps. Then a reporter from The Athletic thrusts a microphone toward him. "Shane! Huge win tonight. That pass to Boodram—was that a set play?”

"Zane was open," Shane says, deflecting praise like he always does. "He did the work. I just put it where he could reach it."

"The hit in the second," another voice calls out. "You looked shaken up. How’s the body holding up for the playoffs push?"

Ilya feels his own body tense. Shane is supposed to say, 'I'm fine, just a few bumps and bruises, day-to-day.' But Shane looks down at the microphone. He takes a breath, and Ilya sees his shoulders drop.

"Actually," Shane says, and the room goes quiet. Even the wives in the corner stop talking. "That's... that's what I wanted to talk about."

He looks down at the microphones, then up, staring directly into the camera lens. For a second, it feels like he’s looking right through the screen, past the reporters, past the noise, straight into this waiting room where Ilya is holding their sleeping son.

"I won't be playing in the playoffs," Shane says.

The gasp in the room is audible. Phones are raised. Recorders are shoved closer.

"Shane? Shane, are you saying you're injured?"

"I'm saying I'm done for the season," Shane says. "Maybe longer. I... I have a condition in my hip. It's something I’ve been managing for a while. Trying to manage. But I can't play the game the way it deserves to be played. And I can't be the captain this team needs if I can't walk to the bus."

"Is this retirement?" someone shouts. "Shane, are you retiring?"

"I don't know," Shane answers honestly. "I’m going to have surgery. I’m going to take the time to heal. Indefinitely. For the first time in my life." He pauses, and a small, self-deprecating smile appears on his face. "I have a family now. And I realized today... I don't want to watch them from the doorway anymore. I want to be in the game with them."

The reporters are confused. They are scribbling furiously, trying to parse the metaphor. But Ilya understands. He feels a pressure behind his eyes, pressing his cheek against the top of Wyatt’s curls.

"Shane," a reporter from the Ottawa Sun asks, sensing the shift in the room. "Indefinite leave? That's a big decision. What are you going to do with your time?"

"I think,” Shane says, looking back at the reporters. “I’m going to hang out with my husband and son.”

The feed cuts back to the studio anchors, who are already breathlessly dissecting the "bombshell announcement."

Ilya stares at the screen. The blood drains from his head, leaving him dizzy. Terror claws at his throat, but it is instantly drowned out by a surge of fierce, terrifying love that is so potent it force to nearly buckle his knees.

"Did you hear that?" Yuna says from beside him. She has a hand over her mouth. "Oh, Ilya. He’s stopping."

"Yes," Ilya murmurs, heading for the elevator.

Five minutes later, the doors slide open on the event level, and Ilya’s expression sours as he sees the press are swarming the corridor leading to the locker rooms like sharks.

"Ilya! Ilya, over here!"

"Mr. Rozanov! A word about Shane’s condition!"

Ilya reacts on instinct. He brings a large hand up to cup the back of Wyatt’s head, pressing the toddler’s face firmly into the crook of his neck to hide him from the cameras.

"Quiet," Ilya rumbles. "You are loud. Why are you so loud?"

"Please," Yuna says, looking small next to Ilya’s towering frame. "Please, let us through. My grandson is sleeping."

David tries to shoulder his way forward, looking flustered. "We need to see our son. Move aside, please."

But the reporters are relentless. They press in, microphones thrust out, ignoring the personal boundaries of the civilians to get to the star.

"Ilya, do you have any suggestions for the coaching staff?" another reporter yells from the back, desperate for a soundbite. "If Shane is out, who centers the top line? What would you suggest they do to salvage the season?"

Wyatt stirs in his arms, letting out a small, unhappy whimper at the noise. “Papa,” he whines.

Ilya’s patience, already thin as ice in May, shatters. He shifts his weight, swinging his body so his broad shoulders completely block Yuna and nearly David from the cameras. He glares at the reporter who asked about suggestions.

"I have suggestion," Ilya says.

Everyone’s attention snaps toward him.

"I suggest you learn to lower voice," he continues, tilting his head toward the precious, sleeping bundle in his arms. "You are waking my son."

The sheer force of his pheromones makes the circle of reporters stumble back.He moves like an icebreaker ship, cutting a path through the sea of bodies. He keeps one hand protectively over Wyatt’s ear, his eyes scanning the crowd, daring anyone to step back into his personal space. When a camera flashes too close, Ilya simply holds up a hand, palm out, stopping the lens.

"No flash," he snaps. "Is simple rule."

They break through the line of reporters, reaching the security checkpoint where the arena guards finally step in to hold the press back.

"My goodness," David says exhaustedly. "They’re vultures. Absolute vultures."

"They are doing job," Ilya says dismissively, adjusting Wyatt, who has settled back into sleep. "Job is just to be annoying. Is why I prefer playoffs. Less talking, more hitting."

“Thank you,” Yuna says. “You were… very effective."

"I am good at clearing the zone," Ilya says, a small, arrogant quirk gracing his lips. He turns toward the darker end of the hallway, where the media scrum ends and the quiet shadow of the locker room entrance begins. "Come. Shane is waiting."

Shane sits on his stall, his hip is a localized sun of throbbing agony, a mess of broken glass and bad decisions, but the pressure in his chest has vanished. He did it. He said the words. He’s not the Golden Boy anymore. He’s just Shane.

Through the crush of bodies, Shane sees Harris has his arms wrapped tight around Troy’s waist. "You neutralized Kent," Harris is saying. "He spent the whole third period looking over his shoulder for you. You broke them, Troy."

Shane watches them, his chest tightening with a jealousy so sharp it rivals the throbbing in his hip. He wants Ilya.

He wants his husband to be the one leaning against his stall, making a sarcastic comment about Shane’s post-game hair or handing him a water bottle with that arrogant smirk. He wants to be able to lean his head on Ilya's shoulder the way Troy just did, to let the exhaustion and the pain bleed out of him into someone who understands exactly what it costs to be Shane Hollander.

But Ilya is probably furious right now. The thought makes Shane’s stomach twist. Ilya told him—practically begged him—not to play if he was hurt. And Shane did it anyway. He went out there, took the hits, and risked everything because he doesn’t know how to be anything other than a hockey player. And then, to top it all off, he announced his surgery to the press before even telling his own husband the details.

He’s going to be so disappointed, Shane thinks, the misery settling heavy in his gut. I promised him I’d take care of myself. I promised.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, fighting the burn of tears. He imagines Ilya in the suite, watching Shane limp off the ice, his expression hard and closed off. Ilya doesn’t tolerate stupidity, and Shane has been spectacularly stupid tonight.

"Good job, Cap," Luca Haas says, stopping by his stall. The kid looks hesitant, his eyes darting to Shane’s hip. "That was... brave. What you said."

Shane forces a smile. It feels brittle. "Thanks, Luca."

"We've got you," Luca adds, awkward but earnest. "Whatever you need."

"I know," Shane says. "Thanks."

Coach Wiebe walks over, his face etched with a mixture of sadness and profound respect. He doesn't say anything at first; he just pulls Shane into a one-armed hug, his hand heavy on Shane’s shoulder.

"Proud of you, Hollander," Wiebe mutters. "Took more guts to say that than it did to play the game."

“Thank you for welcoming me in the team,” he says hoarsely.

“You’re family,” Coach Wiebe says.

Then there’s Boodram. He practically tackles Shane, his heavy arms wrapping around him. "Cap, we’re gonna miss you. We’re gonna win it for you."

"You're gonna win it because you're good, Bood," Shane says, patting the Alpha’s back.

The room suddenly goes quiet. Shane looks toward the door, his mouth parting as he sees his mate standing there.

Ilya Rozanov looks like a dream in that cream-and-dark blazer, standing tall and imposing, but the image is undercut by the fact that he’s holding their three-year-old who is currently a puddle of sleep against his shoulder. The team, even the ones who have played with Ilya for years, still seem to instinctively give him space.

“The reinforcement has arrived.” Hazy is the first to break the tension. He’s already half-undressed, his goalie pads discarded like shed skin, but he beams when he sees his namesake.

"There he is," Hazy says. He walks over to Ilya, holding out his arms. "Hey, Wy. You want to come with Uncle Hazy? Let Papa talk to Daddy?"

Wyatt stirs, blinking sleepily at the goalie. "Unca Hazy?" he mumbles, reaching out with a small, grabby hand.

Ilya hands him over, his fingers lingering on Wyatt’s back for a second before Hazy carries the toddler toward the training table, whispering something about Gatorade and "chocolates."

Shane forces himself upright. The noise of the locker room dissolves into static. There is only Ilya. His husband is a statue in the chaos, hands buried deep in his pockets, his gaze tracing every inch of Shane’s face.

Shane manages a tired smile. He pushes off the stall, dragging his leg forward. He stops inches from his husband.

"Ilya," Shane whispers.

Ilya’s arms come around him instantly, pulling him in with a crushing, desperate strength that Shane feels in his soul.

"I'm sorry," Shane murmurs against the warmth of Ilya’s neck, inhaling the scent of home. "I'm sorry I made you worry. I'm sorry I took so long to say it."

"You are spectacular idiot, Hollander. Most stubborn man in entire league. But..." Ilya pauses, the arrogant mask finally dropping away. "You were magnificent. I have never been more proud. You are finally playing for right team."

Shane’s lungs finally empty, his ribs hitching as the last of the tension breaks. He doesn't look at the coaches, the teammates, or the hovering cameras. He just loops his arms around Ilya’s neck and pulls him down, capturing his mouth in a messy, heated kiss.

Ilya smiles into the contact, shifting his footing as one arm locks around Shane’s waist like a steel band and the other cradles the base of his head. Then he tips Shane backward, deep and low, taking his entire weight against his chest. Shane clings to him, kissing him wildly, letting the world fall away.

A flashbulb pops in the doorway—white light catching the shot of the century—but the distraction doesn't matter.

Boodram and Troy let out a piercing whistle. Across the middle of the locker room, Hazy is a triumphant mess, hoisting a confused Wyatt into the air.

“Get a room!” the goalie bellows.

The rest of the roster joins in, a deafening, rhythmic thunder as twelve men begin pounding their sticks against the floorboards. The wood-on-wood vibration rattles the stalls, a primal tribute to their captains.

"I love you," Shane breathes.

Ilya’s mouth curves into that cocky, brilliant grin. "Love you more." He kisses Shane one last time, then starts inspect him, shifting seamlessly into practical Rozanov bossiness. "Now. Can you actually walk? Or do I need to get forklift?"

Shane wipes his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. "I’m fine," he lies, though his voice is thick. He leans his weight against Ilya, heavy and trusting. "And if I’m not, you can just drag me. As long as we’re going home."

Ilya snorts, wrapping a strong arm around Shane’s waist to take his weight. They make their way out of the locker room, moving slowly into the concrete corridor. The media scrum has dispersed, leaving the hallway quiet, but it isn't empty.

Yuna and David are standing near the security checkpoint. The moment Shane limps into view, Yuna makes a small, wounded sound. Her face is wet with tears she hasn't bothered to wipe away.

"Mom," Shane says.

She closes the distance between them in two seconds flat. She doesn't care about the sweat, she reaches out and cups Shane’s face in both hands.

"Shane," she says, searching his eyes. "Oh, honey."

"I'm okay," Shane says quickly, leaning into her palms. "I promise, Mom. I'm okay."

"I know," she chokes out, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. "I know you are. I’m just… I am so proud of you." She rises on her tiptoes, pressing a fierce kiss to his cheek. "You were wonderful. You were so brave."

For years, he thought his parents’ pride was tied to the C on his jersey, to the goals, to the records. But looking at his mother now, seeing the sheer relief in her eyes, he realizes they didn't care about the player. They just wanted their son to stop hurting.

David steps up behind her. He puts a heavy hand on Shane’s shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.

"You made the right call, son," David says, his voice thick with emotion. "It was time. You did good."

"Thanks, Dad," Shane manages to say, his voice cracking.

Ilya tightens his grip on Shane’s waist. "We are going to get him home," he tells them softly. "He needs ice. And maybe very large cheeseburger."

Yuna laughs through her tears, patting Ilya’s cheek. "Take care of him, Ilya."

"Always."

They say their goodbyes, promising to call in the morning, and continue the slow trek to the parking garage. When they reach the SUV, Wyatt is asleep again, draped over Hazy’s shoulder. The Alpha had carried him out behind them, giving the family their moment.

Hazy carefully transfers the toddler into the car seat, buckling the straps.

"Thanks, Haze," Shane says, leaning against the doorframe.

"Anytime, Cap," Hazy says, grinning. "Go home. Fix the hip. We got this."

Ilya rounds the car, helping Shane into the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel. The engine purrs to life, and Ilya pulls out of the parking lot, merging onto the highway.

The drive is peaceful. Streetlights flicker past in a rhythmic blur of orange and black.

"So," Shane says, watching Ilya drive. "I won."

Ilya briefly glances at him. "Congratulations."

"No," Shane says, shaking his head against the headrest. "I mean... I won. Tonight. The announcement. The... everything."

Ilya returns his gaze to the road, his expression smoothing into fondness. "Yes. You were acceptable."

"I was magnificent," Shane corrects, quoting Ilya back to him.

"You were okay.”

"I won," Shane says again, feeling a sudden surge of boldness. "So. What’s my gift?"

Ilya lets out a low chuckle. "Require gift for doing right thing? You are spoiled, Hollander."

"Maybe," Shane says. "But I still want one."

"Fine,” Ilya concedes. “What is it you want?"

"A baby," he says bluntly.

The car goes silent. Shane holds his breath, waiting for Ilya to shutdown the idea of another child. But his mate simply slides slow, comforting caress across his knuckles. A warm spark answers in Shane’s chest, and he can’t stop the slow, sultry smile that spreads across his face. He shifts in the seat and reaches out with his hand to cup Ilya’s jaw.

"What?" he says, giving Ilya’s cheeks a small press. "What are you thinking, Rozy?"

Ilya keeps his eyes on the road. "Later," he says with a straight face. "Once you are rested... we do practice."

An overwhelming joy bursts in Shane’s chest. He launches himself across the divide despite the seatbelt, throwing his arms around Ilya’s neck, and peppers his husband’s face with kisses. Quick, messy, frantic kisses. One on his jaw. One on his cheek. One on his temple. One right on the corner of his mouth.

"Shane!" Ilya complains, dipping his head to avoid the loving assault while keeping the car steady in the lane. "I am driving!"

"No," Shane says, kissing his ear, then his neck, then his cheek again. "I love you. I love you. We’re gonna practice. We’re gonna practice so much."

"Yes, yes, okay," Ilya grumbles, fighting a losing battle against the smile taking over his face. He takes one hand off the wheel to shove gently at Shane’s chest, pushing him back, but his fingers tangle in the buttons of Shane’s blue shirt. "Sit back. Before we crash and die. And never get to practice."

Shane falls back into his seat, breathless, his heart racing faster than it ever did in overtime. "Okay," he says, grinning like a fool. "Drive fast, then."

Ilya shakes his head, but his foot presses just a little harder on the gas. "Am driving, Hollander. Am driving."

To be continued…

Chapter End Notes:

Hello lovelies!

I hope this chapter makes up for all the recent angst. We only have two chapters to go!

Thank you so much for reading and giving this story a chance. Take care of yourselves!

Love,

Azi 💜

More than Life

Two days later…

Waking up after surgery feels slowly clawing your way through layers of heavy sediment. Shane is aware of a thirst so profound it feels like he’s swallowed a desert, and a deep, throbbing ache in his right side. He blinks his eyes open and turns his head. Ilya is there. He looks like he hasn’t moved in hours, though he’s holding a cup of ice chips now.

“Hey,” Shane croaks.

Ilya carefully brings him a spoon of ice to his lips. The cold is a shock, melting into sweet relief on his tongue. “You did good. Surgery went perfect. Dr. Morrison says hip looks like new. Better than new. Bionic.”

Shane tries to shift, and a sharp line of fire shoots down his leg. He gasps, freezing.

“Don’t move,” Ilya commands gently. “Block is still working, but you are sore. Is normal.”

“It hurts,” Shane whimpers.

“I know,” Ilya says soothingly. “I am here.”

For the next two days, Shane Hollander, who once played a third period with a broken rib, now requires a walker and the assistance of a nurse to pee. It is truly humbling. But Ilya is there. He sleeps in the chair, unfolding his massive frame into impossible angles. He’s ensuring Shane’s ice packs are changed exactly every twenty minutes.

And then there is Wyatt. On the second day, Yuna and David brings him in. The toddler stops in the doorway as he takes in the hospital bed and the tubes.

“Daddy owie?” Wyatt asks, clutching his stuffed bear.

“Yeah, honey,” Shane says, forcing a smile through the haze of oxycodone. “Daddy has a big owie. But the doctors fixed it.”

Wyatt approaches slowly, unlike his usual cannonball velocity. He reaches out a hand and pats Shane’s arm, avoiding the IV line. “I kiss it better?”

Shane feels tears prick his eyes—probably the drugs, definitely the love. “Please. That would help a lot.”

Wyatt leans in and presses a wet, loud smack to Shane’s forearm. “Better?”

“Much better,” Shane says.

Ilya scoops Wyatt up before he can try to climb onto the incision site. “Okay, Dr. Wyatt. Daddy needs rest. We go get juice.”

“Juice!” Wyatt cheers, his energy returning instantly.

Home is better, but harder. The stairs are an insurmountable mountain range, so Shane is relegated to the guest bedroom on the main floor. Ilya transforms into a house manager overnight. He sets up a station next to the bed: water, meds, iPad, chargers, and a bell that Shane refuses to ring because he feels ridiculous.

“You are terrible patient,” Ilya informs him on day four, as he changes the dressing on Shane’s hip. His hands are gentle, despite his grumbling. “You try to do things when I am in kitchen. I hear you. The crutches make noise, Hollander. You are not ninja.”

“I needed water,” Shane defends, gritting his teeth as the tape pulls at his skin. “I can get my own water.”

“I put pitcher right here.” Ilya gestures to the full pitcher on the nightstand. “You just want to prove you can walk. You cannot walk. You hop. Like wounded rabbit.”

“I’m not a rabbit.”

“You are stubborn ass,” Ilya fires back, smoothing the new bandage down. He leans back, inspecting his work, then looks at Shane. “Stop fighting recovery. You promised. You said you would heal.”

“It’s slow,” Shane mutters, chewing his inner cheek. “I feel useless.”

“You are healing bone. Is not useless.” Ilya leans down and kisses him, a soft pressure against Shane’s mouth. “Let me take care of you. I am good at it. I have extensive experience taking care of high-maintenance stars.”

Shane huffs a laugh. “You’re the high-maintenance star.”

“I am retired legend,” Ilya says with a sniff. “Is different.”

Physical therapy begins two weeks later. It is a dungeon of torture disguised as a well-lit gym. Shane’s therapist, a cheerful woman named Sarah McBride who possesses the grip strength of a rock climber, takes no pity on him.

“Okay, Shane, let’s get that range of motion. Push against my hand.”

Shane pushes. His leg shakes. Sweat beads on his hairline.

“Come on, Hollander,” Ilya says from the corner where he’s sitting with Wyatt, who is currently busy watching Ms Rachel in Ilya’s phone. “Push. I have seen you squat 400 pounds. This is nothing.”

“Shut up,” Shane grunts, straining. “This is… harder.”

“Is only leg lift,” Ilya teases, though his eyes are keen, watching every wince Shane makes.

The progress is agonizingly incremental. Shane tracks it in a spreadsheet on his phone—degrees of flexion, minutes walked, pain levels. He obsesses over the numbers. If he isn’t 2% better than yesterday, he spirals.

One afternoon, three weeks post-op, Shane tries to walk the kitchen without his crutches. He makes it three steps before his leg gives out. He catches himself on the counter, knocking a glass of water onto the floor. It shatters.

Shane stares at the shards, at the water spreading across the hardwood. He just stands there, gripping the granite, shaking.

Ilya rushes in from the living room. “Shane? You okay?”

“I can’t,” Shane mutters. The frustration boils over. “I can’t even walk to the fucking fridge, Ilya!”

Ilya steps over the glass, offering neither pity nor coddling. Instead, he moves right to Shane’s side, gripping his waist to hold him up. “You are an athlete who had bone sawed off,” he says firmly. “You are not weak. You are healing. And you are idiot for walking without sticks.”

“I hate being like this,” Shane says, his chin quakes.

“I know.” Ilya pulls him into a hug, pressing Shane’s face into his shoulder. “But you are doing the work. I see you. Every day, you fight. That is strong, Shane. That is the strongest thing.”

Ilya holds him until the shaking stops. Then his husband picks him up, bridal style, ignoring his protest, and carries him to the couch.

“Sit,” Ilya orders. “I clean glass. You watch Bluey with son.”

Six weeks in, the crutches are gone, replaced by a slight limp that Shane is determined to erase. But the mental weight isn’t lifting. He finds himself snapping at Ilya for being too loud. He wakes up at 3:00 AM, staring at the dark, terrified that even if the hip heals, the player he was is gone. He feels empty.

He is sitting on the back porch on Thursday, watching the sun go down, when Ilya joins him with two mugs of tea.

“You are brooding,” Ilya tells him, sitting in the wicker chair opposite him. “I can feel the angst from inside. Is interfering with WiFi signal.”

Shane wraps his hands around the warm mug. “I’m not brooding. I’m thinking.”

“About hockey?”

“About everything.” Shane sighs. He looks at Ilya—calm, retired, content Ilya. “I’m struggling, Rozy. My head… it’s not right. The hip is getting better, but I feel stuck. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep thinking about what happens if I can’t go back. Or if I do, and I’m terrible.”

Ilya nods slowly. He doesn’t offer a platitude. “Is heavy transition. Even without surgery. Identity is tricky thing when you take off skates.”

Shane just listens.

“I talk to someone,” Ilya says. “You know this. Galina. She helps me sort the garbage in my head.”

He knows Ilya sees a therapist, but he’s always respected that as a specific remedy for a specific kind of wound. Ilya carries scars from a past Shane can’t even imagine—deep, structural damage that required rebuilding. In contrast, Shane’s history is boringly idyllic: supportive parents, backyard rinks, a linear path to the draft.

“I think,” Shane says, “I think I need that. I think I need to talk to someone. Not just you.”

Ilya reaches across the small table and clasps Shane’s hand. “Is good idea, Shane. Very good idea. You carry too much. You always have. Is time to put some of it down.”

Finding the right therapist is harder than Shane expected. He tries a sports psychologist recommended by the team. She’s competent but focused on performance metrics and goal-setting, and Shane leaves the session feeling more anxious than when he arrived.

“I don’t think this is working,” Shane tells Ilya after the second unsuccessful consultation.

“Then we keep looking,” Ilya says. “Right person is out there. Sometimes takes time.”

The right person turns out to be Maya Kudo. Shane finds her through a recommendation from Ryan. They’ve been texting occasionally since that night at the bar—nothing deep, just check-ins—and when Shane mentions he’s looking for a therapist, Ryan sends him a name and number.

Ryan Price:

She helped me a lot.

Worth a try.

Shane makes an appointment for the following week.

Maya Kudo’s office is in a converted Victorian house in the Glebe. Her waiting room is small and welcoming, with comfortable armchairs and soft lighting and a collection of plants that look genuinely cared for. She isn’t what Shane expected. He expected a normal doctor type. Maya looks like she could be an artist. She is a Japanese-Canadian beta, maybe in her late thirties, with a mass of wild, auburn curls, and expressive eyebrows that seem to hold a conversation of their own.

“Shane,” Maya says as she sits in a green velvet armchair. She offers him a warm smile but not a handshake, respecting the distance. “Come in. Take a seat wherever feels right.”

Shane sits on the grey sofa, clasping his hands between his knees. “Hi,” he says.

“So,” Maya says as she crosses her legs, opening her notebook. “How are you feeling today?”

“Tired. Sore.” Shane pauses. “Nervous.”

Maya smiles kindly at him. “Nervous is normal. This is new. New things are often uncomfortable before they become familiar.”

Shane nods, not sure what to say. There’s a pregnant silence between them, but it doesn’t feel awkward. She seems content to wait.

“I don’t really know how this works,” Shane finally admits. “I’ve never done this therapy before.”

“There’s no right way to do it,” Maya says. “We talk. You share what feels comfortable. I ask questions. Sometimes I offer observations. Mostly, I listen.”

“That’s it?” he says stupidly.

“That’s quite a lot, actually. You’d be surprised how rarely people truly listen. Or are truly heard,” she says.

“I guess I’m not sure where to start,” he says.

“Start wherever you are. Right now. This moment.”

He looks around the room, then back at her calm, open face. It feels safer than he thought it would.

“I’m Shane.” He stares at a vibrant green fern in the corner of the room, unable to look at Maya directly. “I’m a captain. I’m an Alpha. I’m a husband. A father. And I don’t know who I am if I’m not winning.”

He waits for her to write that down. Patient exhibits classic athlete identity foreclosure. But the scratching of a pen doesn't come.

“Winning, that’s a very specific metric,” she say, tapping the tip of her pen against the corner of her mouth. “When you say winning, in the context of your daily life right now, what does that look like?”

Shane shifts, the ache in his hip flaring up as he moves. “It looks like… functioning. It looks like hitting my rehab numbers. It looks like being able to carry my son up the stairs without my leg shaking. It looks like not being a burden.”

“And because you can’t do those things perfectly right now, you feel you’re losing?” she asks.

“I feel useless,” Shane says. “I’m supposed to be the one who takes care of things. I’ve always been the reliable one. Now, my husband is doing everything. He’s running the house, he’s raising Wyatt, he’s taking care of me. And I’m just sitting on the couch, watching my muscle mass atrophy.”

Maya nods slowly, her keen gaze landing on his knees. “Shane, I want you to pause for a second. I notice that as you’re speaking, your hands are gripping your knees very tightly. Can you feel that?”

Shane looks down. He hadn’t realized he was doing it. He consciously relaxes his fingers, flexing them. “Yeah.”

“What is that tension protecting you from?”

Shane frowns instantly. What does she mean? “It’s not protecting me. It’s just frustration.”

“Okay. Let’s look at that frustration. You mentioned feeling ‘useless’ because you aren’t performing at your usual standard. If you were a car, and your engine needed repair, would you call the car useless while it was in the shop?”

“That’s different,” he argues immediately. “A car doesn’t have a family depending on it. A car doesn’t have a contract that expires in two years.”

“True. But the expectation you have for yourself—that you must be running at one hundred percent efficiency at all times to have value—is that a fair standard for a human being?”

Shane falls silent. He dislikes when the logic traps him. “It’s the standard required to be the best,” he says stubbornly. “It’s how I got here.”

“I don’t doubt that. It sounds like that drive has served you incredibly well in your career,” Maya validates him, and Shane feels a small relief. “But right now, your body has forced you to stop. And when the motion stops, the noise in our heads tends to get much louder. Tell me, Shane, when you sit on that couch and watch Ilya manage the house… what is the fear that comes up? What is the worst-case scenario your brain is writing?”

Shane swallows a few times. This is the thing he hasn’t even told Ilya. The dark, rot-filled thought that keeps him awake at 3:00 am.

“That he’ll realize he doesn’t need me,” Shane says. He risks a glance at Maya. Her expression is carefully neutral, and that urges him to continue. “Ilya… he’s retired. He’s happy. He’s found this whole new life with the Foundation and our son. He’s evolving. And I’m just… the broken hockey player on the sofa. If I can’t play, and I can’t be the provider, and I can’t even pick up our kid… then what am I bringing to the table? Why would he stay?”

“That is a very heavy fear to carry alone,” she says gently. “It sounds like you’ve equated your lovability with your utility. That if you aren’t useful, you aren’t safe.”

“I just want to be good,” he says, almost desperate. “For my husband, for our son.”

“Shane,” Maya says. “We are going to do something now. It might feel a little silly, but I want you to try it with me. Can you close your eyes for a moment?”

His control-freak brain throws up a red flag, but he nods. And closes his eyes.

“I want you to picture Wyatt,” she says. “Picture him sitting on the floor, maybe playing with his toy. Can you see him?”

“Yes,” Shane says instantly. He can always see his son. “He’s wearing his yellow hard hat. Playing with his legos.”

Maya smiles; he can hear it in her voice. “Okay. Now imagine Wyatt is sick. Or maybe he hurt his leg and he can’t run around. He’s just sitting there, crying, needing help. Does he have less value to you in that moment?”

“No,” Shane says, almost offended. “Of course not. He’s my son. I love him no matter what. I’d do anything for him.”

“Does he need to win a game or build a perfect tower for you to love him?”

“No. He just has to exist.”

“Okay,” Maya says softly. “Keep your eyes closed. Now, I want you to try to extend that same compassion to the man sitting on my sofa. Can you imagine that Shane—the one who is hurting, the one who is recovering—deserves to be loved just because he exists? Not for what he does. Just for who he is.”

Shane really tries. He searches for that feeling, that unconditional grace he gives so easily to Wyatt and Ilya. But when he tries to turn it inward, he hits a wall of static. A lifetime of be better, skate faster, don't make mistakes.

He opens his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I can’t,” he admits roughly. “Sorry.”

Maya doesn’t look disappointed. She nods, reaching for her notepad. “That’s okay. That’s why you’re here. We aren’t going to fix that in one hour. But we’ve identified the target. You know how to train, right? You know how to build muscle?”

“Yeah.”

“This is the same thing. We’re going to retrain your brain to believe that you are a human being, not a human doing. It’s going to be reps. It’s going to be practice. And it’s going to be uncomfortable.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Are you willing to do that work?”

“I’m willing.” He’s quite surprised at how fast he agreed.

“Good. Then let’s talk about this week. I’m not going to give you a big assignment. I just want you to notice whenever that ‘useless’ voice pops up. Don’t fight it. Just notice it. Say, ‘Oh, there’s that thought again.’ Can you do that?”

“Just notice it?”

"Don’t fight it. Fighting it just gives it energy. Instead, acknowledge it. Like a car driving past your house. You don’t have to run out and stop the car. You just say, 'Oh, there goes the I'm useless car again.'"

Shane nods. He stands up, his hip stiff but manageable. “Okay. I can do that.”

“Same time next week?”

“Yeah,” Shane says. He hesitates at the door, his hand on the knob. “Maya?”

“Yes, Shane?”

“Thanks. For… listening.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she says.

He sees Ilya waiting in the parking lot. He’s leaning against the Range Rover, his arms crossed, watching the door of the building. When Shane emerges, Ilya straightens immediately, his eyes checking Shane’s face for pain, maybe. Or relief.

“How was it?” Ilya asks as he opens the passenger door.

Shane climbs into the car. “Hard,” he admits. “But good, I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Shane looks at Ilya. “Thank you. For pushing me to do this.”

Ilya starts the car but doesn’t pull out of the parking spot. He sits there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead “When I first went to Galina,” he says quietly, “I thought was stupid. Talking about feelings. Like I was weak.”

“You’re not weak,” he says, and the words carry all the conviction he can muster. Ilya is the strongest man he has ever known.

“I know. I know that now.” Ilya finally turns to look at Shane, his smile wistful. “But it took long time to learn. And I wanted you to have that too. The knowing.”

Shane’s eyes sparkles with unshed tears. “I love you.”

“I love you more.” Ilya shifts the car into gear. “Now. Home. Wyatt has been building ‘surprise’ for you all morning. Is very large. Possibly dangerous.”

“Lead the way,” Shane says eagerly.

The months following the surgery are a learning curve about grinding patience for Ilya. He learns to read the specific tightness of Shane’s jaw that means pain versus the one that means boredom. He learns that Shane hates chamomile tea but will drink it if Wyatt brings it to him with Ilya’s guidance. March is the stationary bike. It sits in their living room instead of their gym like an ugly metal sculpture.

Every morning, Shane is on it, spinning his legs in slow circles. The whirring sound drives Ilya crazy, but he sits on the floor nearby, reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar to Wyatt for the thousandth time, keeping one eye on Shane’s cadence.

“You are pedaling like grandmother going to church,” Ilya chirps one Saturday, just to see the flash of fire in Shane’s eyes.

“I’m hitting my target RPM, asshole.” Shane flips him off, but he smiles. The grey cast to his skin—the one that had lived there since the injury—is slowly replaced by a flush of effort.

The snow in Ottawa turns to grey slush in April, and Shane trades the crutches for a cane. He’s not a fan of the cane, calling it “the old man stick.”

And he talks to his therapist.

Ilya doesn’t ask what they talk about. He just knows that on Thursday is therapy day, and Ilya is proud to see the progress, little by little. Shane starts sleeping through the night. He starts laughing at Ilya’s jokes without that tightness in his chest.

By the first week of May, the construction site in Kanata finally looks like a building instead of a hole in the ground. Ilya stands on what will eventually be the mezzanine viewing deck. Right now, it is just a platform of corrugated steel decking and rough plywood. Below him, the main rink is a vast, grey cavern of cured concrete. A team of workers is currently kneeling in the center, laying out the complex grid of miles of refrigeration piping that will eventually sit beneath the ice slab. It looks like the veins of a giant, sleeping mechanical beast.

Shane had his nearly four-month post-op assessment with Dr. Morrison this morning. The big one. The one that decides if the bone has fused enough for impact training.

He hasn’t called.

Ilya stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over Shane’s name. The noise of the construction site—the high-pitched whine of a saw, the clatter of steel—fades into a buzzing anxiety in his ears. He looks down toward the temporary entrance—a gap in the drywall framing covered by a heavy plastic tarp. The tarp is pushed aside.

Ilya grips the rough wooden safety railing.

Shane walks in.

He is wearing jeans and a light green bomber jacket. On his head is the white visitor’s hard hat. But Shane isn’t using the cane. And he isn’t alone. Wyatt is with him, wearing his yellow helmet which looks comically small compared to the real construction gear around him. And Shane is carrying him.

For four months, his husband hasn’t been able to lift anything heavier than a coffee mug. He has had to sit on the floor to hug Wyatt. He has had to watch Ilya do the lifting, the carrying, the tossing in the air. But now, his husband is standing on the rough, dusty concrete of the lobby, three-year-old Wyatt perched comfortably on his left hip—the surgical side.

Wyatt is wiggly and heavy. And Shane is just… standing there. He looks strong. His posture is upright, his core engaged, compensating for the weight effortlessly. He points up at the exposed steel beams of the ceiling, telling something in Wyatt’s ear, and their son giggles, wrapping his arms around Shane’s neck.

Ilya moves, practically running to the temporary stairs. He hits the ground floor and strides toward them, dodging a stack of drywall sheets.

“Hey,” Shane says as Ilya approaches. He looks brighter than they have been in a year. “We thought we’d crash your work day. Rob let us in.”

Ilya stops two feet away. He looks at Shane’s legs. He looks at the way Shane’s right hip is hitched to support their son. “You are carrying him,” he says, his voice flat with shock.

Shane shifts Wyatt’s weight, bouncing him slightly. “Dr. Morrison cleared me. Full weight-bearing. Lifting restrictions gone.” He grins, a boyish, reckless thing that makes Ilya’s heart skips a beat. “I’m allowed to pick up my kid, Ilya.”

“You are supposed to ease into it,” Ilya scolds, though he knows he is smiling like idiot. He reaches out, running a hand down Wyatt’s back. “He is heavy. He is basically bag of cement.”

“Papa! I’m not cement!” Wyatt protests, patting his own hard hat. “I’m a foreman!”

“You are loud foreman,” Ilya says. He looks at Shane. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” Shane says, honest. “But it’s a good hurt. It’s muscles waking up. Glutes firing. Not the joint.” He closes the gap between them. “I missed this. I missed holding him while standing up.”

Ilya feels a burn behind his eyes as he wraps his huge arms around both of them—sandwiching Wyatt between their chests. “I missed you holding him too,” he mumbles.

They stand there in the middle of the construction zone, surrounded by exposed wires and half-built walls, ignoring the foremen discreetly glancing at them.

“So,” Shane says, pulling back slightly. He nods toward the vast, grey slab behind the safety netting where the rink will be. “Is that the ice?”

“Is the concrete for the ice,” Ilya explains. “Pipes go in this week. Then more concrete. Then sand. Then… eventually… ice.”

Shane looks at the grey expanse. It’s dusty and dark, lit only by temporary work lights strung from the rafters. It looks nothing like a hockey rink yet.

“Dr. Morrison said something else,” Shane says softly.

“What?”

“He said that by September, if the rehab holds… I can skate.”

Ilya looks at the unfinished floor, then back at his husband. September. The building will be done in September. “Well,” he says, his throat suddenly gone dry. “Is good timing. Because I know the owner. I think he will let you be the first one on it.”

Shane smiles, and it is the smile he wears when he scores a goal—fierce and beautiful. “Yeah? You think he’ll give me a discount?”

“For you?” Ilya smirks, taking Wyatt from Shane’s arms to give his husband a break, settling their son easily onto his own hip. “For you, Hollander, is free. But you have to help me paint the locker rooms.”

Shane gives him a peck on the cheek. “Deal.”

Wyatt, watching the exchange, jabs a finger into his own chubby cheek. “Me too!” he insists, puffing out his lip. “Daddy! Me too!”

Shane exchanges a quick, conspiring glance with Ilya. “Oh, you want kisses?” he teases their son, edging closer.

“We have plenty of kisses for little foreman,” Ilya agrees, his voice dropping to a playful growl.

They attack at the same time. Shane presses loud, smacking kisses to Wyatt’s left cheek while Ilya attacks the right, blowing raspberries into the sensitive skin of their son's neck. Wyatt shrieks with laughter, squirming in Ilya’s grip, the sound echoing purely off the concrete walls.

“No! Papa! Tickles!” Wyatt gasps, trying to push their faces away but giggling uncontrollably.

Ilya pulls back, bouncing his giggling toddler in his hip. When he looks up, he notices a burly electrician on a scaffold nearby. The man is leaning on the railing, watching the three of them with a genuine grin. Even the drywall guys seem to have paused, smiling at the them.

“Okay, okay,” Shane says, wiping a smudge of dirt from Wyatt’s nose, his face flushed with happiness. “Enough. Let’s go get some lunch before we disrupt the whole work site.”

The morning of May tenth, Ilya stands in the hallway outside their bedroom door, balancing a tray that contains a very small, very chocolate cake with three flickering candles, two mugs of coffee, and a glass of orange juice.

“Papa,” Wyatt says beside him. “Is it time? Is it time to wake Daddy?” He is clutching a handmade card that looks like it was constructed from glitter glue and sheer will.

“Shh,” Ilya hisses, crouching slightly so they are eye-to-level. “Remember the plan, bear. We are ninjas. Silent. Deadly. Until the signal.”

Wyatt lifts both hands and slaps them over his mouth to stifle a giggle that is bubbling up. “Okay, Papa.”

“Okay,” Ilya mouths. “On three. You know the song?”

Wyatt nods behind his hands.

“One.”

Anya, sensing the energy shift, trots up the stairs. She nudges Wyatt’s leg with a wet nose, her tail thumping against the wall.

“Two,” Ilya says, shifting the tray to one hand so he can grab the doorknob. Wyatt removes his hands from his mouth, taking a massive gulp of air, preparing his small lungs for maximum output.

“Three!”

Ilya throws the door open.

The room is dim, the blackout curtains doing their job against the May sunshine. A teetering stack of books on the nightstand next to Shane’s eyeglasses. For a man who used to claim he only read playbooks and nutritional labels, Shane’s recovery has turned him into a voracious, almost obsessive reader. A dog-eared paperback of Andre Agassi’s Open—which he’s read twice now, underlining the parts about physical pain—sits atop a history of the Romanovs that Ilya bought him as a joke but which Shane actually finished.

Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air is lying face-down on the spare pillow, marking the spot where he finally passed out at 10:00 am. And in the center of the king-sized bed, a lump under the grey duvet stirs.

“Happy Birthday to you!” Ilya bellows, his baritone booming off the walls.

“Happy Birfday to YOU!” Wyatt screams, launching himself across the threshold.

Anya barks, and bounds into the room, her paws scrambling for traction on the rug. Ilya marches forward, keeping the tray balanced. “Happy Birthday, my dear Shane! Happy Birthday to you!”

On the bed, the lump groans. An arm emerges, flailing blindly, followed by a head of messy, dark hair. Shane’s eyes are crusted with sleep, and he looks bewildered.

“What…?” Shane doesn’t get to finish the question.

“Daddy!” Wyatt yells, and he scrambles up the side of the bed, knees digging into the mattress.

Ilya watches, his instinct to protect the hip flaring up for a split second but even half-asleep, his husband’s reflexes are sharp. Shane rolls onto his back, opening his arms just as Wyatt face-plants onto his chest.

“Oof,” Shane grunts, the breath leaving him in a rush. But he catches Wyatt instantly, his hands coming up to cradle the back of Wyatt’s head and his back. “Whoa. Incoming.”

“Happy Birthday!” Wyatt shouts directly into Shane’s face. “Daddy!”

Ilya reaches the bedside table. He sets the tray down quickly before the candles can set off the fire alarm, then sits on the edge of the mattress. Anya arrives a second later, resting her heavy head on the mattress and licking Shane’s exposed ear.

Shane is laughing now, a raspy, morning sound that is Ilya’s favorite music. He wrestles an arm free to wipe the dog slobber off his face, blinking against the sudden activity.

“Okay, okay, I’m up,” Shane says, squinting at them. He shifts his legs under the covers—moving the left one easily, Ilya notes with satisfaction—and props himself up on his elbows. He looks from Wyatt to Ilya, a loving smile spreading across his face. “You guys are loud.”

“We are celebratory,” Ilya corrects. He leans over, grabbing Shane’s chin gently and planting a kiss on his mouth. “Happy forty-six, old man.”

“Thirty-six,” Shane corrects automatically, leaning into the kiss. “Don’t age me up, Rozanov.”

“Is same thing. Halfway to seventy. Basically ancient.” Ilya pulls back, grinning lazily. “Look. We made you breakfast. Well, we made you cake. Wyatt insisted that birthdays require sugar before protein.”

Shane looks at the tray. The cake is a lopsided chocolate affair that they bought from a bakery but which Wyatt has “enhanced” with an aggressive amount of rainbow sprinkles. The candles are melting fast.

“It’s perfect,” Shane says. He looks at Wyatt, who is bouncing on his knees beside Shane’s ribs. “Did you help Papa with this?”

“Yes!” Wyatt beams, puffing out his chest. “I put the sprinkles! And I made a card!” He shoves the glitter-glue creation into Shane’s face. “For you daddy !”

Shane takes the card. It’s folded crookedly. Ilya immediately leans over Shane’s shoulder to finally see the classified intelligence he’s been barred from viewing all morning. Every time he’d walked past the kitchen table during production, Wyatt had dramatically thrown his entire upper body over the paper, shouting, “No looking, Papa! Only for Daddy!”

Now, the masterpiece is revealed.

“Wow,” Shane says, and he sounds genuinely choked up.

Ilya squints at their family portrait. It’s four wobbly, floating potato-shapes with no torsos, just stick legs sprouting directly from their chins.

“That’s incredible, honey,” Shane says, careful not to touch the wet glue.

“See?” Wyatt points a finger at the orange potato shaped. “That’s Papa. And that’s Anya.” He points to the green scribble, which has three four and one very long ear.

“You really got Papa’s hair right,” Shane says seriously, catching Ilya’s eye with a smirk. He pulls Wyatt down for a hug, and kisses twice Wyatt’s chubby cheek.

“Blow out candles, Daddy!” Wyatt says, squirming in Shane’s arms until Shane lets him go. “Hurry!”

Shane shifts to sit up fully against the headboard. “Okay, okay.” He scoots closer to the tray. The candlelight dances in his irises.

“Make a wish,” Ilya says softy.

Shane looks at the cake. Then he looks up. He looks at Wyatt, who is watching the flame with mesmerizing intensity. Then he looks at Ilya. The look is heavy.

“I don’t need to,” Shane murmurs and blows. The smoke curls up.

“Yay!” Wyatt cheers, clapping his hands. “Cake time!”

“It is seven in the morning,” Shane says, though he is already reaching for the fork Ilya is holding out.

“Is birthday rules,” Ilya declares. He cuts a massive slice, ignoring the plate, and holds a forkful up to Shane’s mouth. “Open up. Vitamin C is tomorrow. Today is chocolate.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but he takes the bite, humming in appreciation.

“Good?” Ilya asks.

“Too sweet,” Shane says, chewing. “Terrible for my glycemic index.” He swallows and grins, licking a bit of frosting from his lip. “Give me another piece.”

Ilya eagerly feeds him again, while Wyatt steals a fingerful of frosting from the side of the cake. Anya barks for a crumb. The bed is covered in dog hair and glitter and sprinkles. It is the best morning of Ilya’s life.

July heat in Ottawa is a humid blanket that presses against the windows of Maya’s office. The air conditioning in the office is a low white noise that usually lulls Shane into calmness, but today, his leg is bouncing. Not from pain. The hip feels good—functioning at about ninety percent. He’s bouncing because his brain is moving faster than his mouth.

“You’re smiling,” Maya observes from her green velvet armchair. She has a mug of tea balanced on her knee. “That’s a shift from last week’s frustration with the lunges.”

“I had a good week,” Shane says. “I… I made a decision. About the timeline.”

Maya nods, uncapping her pen. “The contract?”

“Yeah.” Shane takes a breath. “I have one year left on my deal with Ottawa. One season. I’m going to play it.”

He waits for the anxiety to hit, for the fear of re-injury to claw at his throat, but it doesn’t come. There is just a quiet sense of inevitability.

“How does saying that out loud feel?”

“Right,” Shane says immediately. “It feels fair. To the team, to the fans… and to me. I don’t want to go out on a stretcher, Maya. I don’t want my last memory of the NHL to be waking up in recovery with a screw in my femur. I want to finish the shift. I want to play the year, take the face-offs, maybe make a playoff run. And then…” He shrugs. “Then I hang them up. On my terms.”

“That sounds like a very Shane Hollander way to approach it,” she says with a small smile. “Methodical. Complete.”

“Yeah. But that’s the easy part.” Shane leans forward, elbows on his knees. This is the part he hasn’t even told Ilya yet. “I’ve been thinking about what comes after. The ‘void’ we talked about. The silence when the cheering stops.”

“And?”

“I’ve been reading—on the couch, on that godforsaken bike. Ilya kept bringing me books: fiction, biographies, histories, memoirs. And I realized I want to write a book. My book. Not about hockey, but about the closet, about fear… about falling for your rival while everyone thinks you hate each other. I want to do it myself, learn how to do it. I’ve been taking notes, a notebook hidden in my nightstand. I think… that’s who I am when I’m not winning games.”

Maya beams, a full genuine expression that lights up her face. “Shane. That is a wonderful ambition. It honors your need for truth, and your need for precision. Have you told Ilya?”

“Not yet,” he says. “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t just a fever dream first.”

“It doesn’t sound like a fever dream. It sounds like a plan.” She glances at the clock, then back at him. “We have a few minutes left. You mentioned earlier that there was one other factor in the ‘one more year’ decision.”

Shane feels the heat rise in his cheeks, a different kind of warmth than the July sun. He shifts in his seat, the friction of the mesh shorts suddenly annoying against his skin.

“Yeah. The baby.”

“We talked about your desire for another child. How does that fit with the final season?”

“It fits at the end,” Shane says firmly. He has run the simulations in his head a thousand times. “I thought about trying now. But… I can’t. Not if I want to actually play the way I need to play. I want to give my body to the game one last time,” Shane says softly. “I want to empty the tank. I want to leave everything on the ice. And then… the minute the season is over. The minute I hang my jersey… I want to get pregnant.”

“So, the retirement party doubles as a baby shower?” Maya jokes lightly.

Shane laughs, a rough, happy sound. “Something like that. Ilya is… he was born to be a dad. You should see him with Wy. And I loved it. Though I hated the morning sickness and the swollen ankles, but I’m willing to go through it again. I love our son and the future children we’ll have. But I want to do it when I don't have to worry about cross-checks and travel schedules. I want to just… be a dad. And husband. A writer. And a coach. ”

“It sounds like a beautiful future,” Maya says, closing her notebook. “And a well-earned one.”

Shane blasts the AC on his way home, but he can’t cool down. He’s been tracking his rut cycle in his head like face-off percentages. After the trauma of the surgery and the months of stress, his body is finally coming back online. And it is screaming for one specific person. Ilya. His mate. His Alpha.

Shane unlocks the front door and the scent hits him instantly. A dark roast coffee hits his olfactory sensors like a drug, bypassing logic and going straight to the primitive part of his brain that just wants to claim. He drops his keys in the bowl and walks toward the kitchen. Ilya is there, standing at the island, scrolling Wyatt’s photos in his phone. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt that strains across his broad shoulders and a pair of gym shorts that show off the thick muscles of his calves.

“You are home early,” Ilya says, giving him a quick glance. “Did you make Maya cry again with your emotional constipation?”

“Shut up,” Shane grunts.

The scrolling stop. Ilya turns slowly, his hazel eyes narrowing as he scans Shane. He drops the iPhone.

“Shane?”

Shane walks right up to his husband and presses his chest against Ilya’s back. Ilya freezes, then turns in the circle of Shane’s arms, catching him. A possessive look floods his gaze.

“It’s coming,” Shane murmurs, pressing his hips forward, grinding the front of his jeans against Ilya’s thigh. The friction sends a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. “Two days early.”

He wraps a hand around Ilya’s neck, pulling him down. Then brushes his lips against Ilya’s, and the tip of Ilya’s tongue instantly meets his. Oh, God. Ilya’s surrender, the way he gives himself over to the moment with total focus, is absolutely bewitching. His large hands slide up to cup Shane’s jaw, and he opens his mouth against Shane’s, letting Shane stroke and suck on his tongue. As always, his husband tastes incredible.

Shane is fully erect and throbbing against his zipper, the slick already gathering hot and heavy between his thighs. Ilya breaks the kiss before Shane can drag him onto the floor.

“The hip,” Ilya pants, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Shane. We have to… careful. Cannot… not like this. Not against counter.”

“Screw the hip,” Shane hisses, biting at Ilya’s jawline. “I’m fine. I’m strong.”

“You are recovering,” Ilya argues, though his hips buck forward involuntarily, trapping Shane against the island. “Dr. Morrison would kill me. I would kill me.”

“Ilya,” Shane whines. He rubs his cheek against Ilya’s scruff. “I need you. I need you to help me through this. We have to… we have to practice.”

Ilya shudders. He pulls back just enough to look Shane in the eye. The lust is there, heavy and drugging, but the protectiveness is stronger “Bedroom,” he commands, his voice rough. “Mattress. Soft surfaces. I am not breaking you before the fun even starts.”

Shane smirks, breathless and flushed. “You think you can break me?”

Ilya’s hand slides down, cupping Shane’s ass, squeezing firmly through the denim. He pulls Shane flush against his erection, leaving no doubt about the threat level.

“Hollander,” Ilya growls, his Russian accent thickening the way it always does when he’s turned on. “Do not test me.”

Shane shivers, the anticipation pooling hot and slick inside him. God, he wants that. He wants Ilya to wreck him. He wants to spend the next year playing the best hockey of his life, and then he wants to come home, retire, and let Ilya fill him up until there’s no doubt about who he belongs to.

Next year, he thinks dizzyingly. Next year they make a baby. Right now… they just make a mess.

“Promise?” Shane breathes.

Ilya sweeps him up and heads for the stairs. “I promise. But for now… we practice. Very. Gently.”

Shane buries his face in Ilya’s neck, inhaling deeply. “Okay. Practice. I’m really good at practice.”

Thank God for Yuna and David. Thank God for his parents’ cottage and the promise of "Grandma’s special pancakes," because it means the house is empty. Wyatt is two hours away, probably covered in maple syrup and sand, which means Shane doesn’t have to stifle the sounds currently clawing their way up his throat.

For months, their sex life has been a routine of harm reduction. Ilya has been terrified of the hip, treating Shane like he’s made of antique glass. There has been no fucking. No matter how much Shane has begged, no matter how wet he’s gotten or how brazenly he’s presented himself, Ilya has refused to cross that line.

So the last six months have been a haze of blowjobs and handjobs, of slick friction and dry humping like teenagers. It’s been hot—intense, intimate, desperate—but Shane misses being taken. Right now, as they stumble to the top of the stairs, Shane doesn’t feel fragile. The testosterone flooding his system makes him feel invincible. He gets down on his feet and shoves his husband backward.

Ilya hits the hallway wall with a heavy thud. A spark of surprise—and delight—flares in his hazel gaze. “Aggressive.”

“I’m not invalid,” Shane growls. He pins him there, and kisses him hard. He bites Ilya’s lower lip, tasting iron, and smiles sultrily when Ilya’s hands come up to grip his waist, holding him steady.

“I know,” Ilya murmurs against his mouth. “I know you are not.”

Shane pulls back, breathless. He grabs the hem of his t-shirt and yanks it over his head, tossing it blindly down the stairs. The air is cool against his skin, against the scars on his chest, but he’s burning up from the inside out. Ilya’s eyes drop to Shane’s torso, darkening as they trace the lines of muscle Shane has fought so hard to keep during rehab.

“Shirt,” Shane commands.

Ilya obeys instantly, stripping off his grey tee in one fluid motion. The sight of him—the bear tattoo, the gold chain, the sheer expanse of skin—makes Shane’s mouth water. They stumble into the master bedroom, lips locked again.

Ilya guides them toward the bed, his hands protective even in his lust, steering Shane clear of the doorframe. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his legs spread, looking up at Shane with that devastating mix of worship and hunger that still, after all these years, makes Shane go weak.

He steps between Ilya’s knees and climbs on, straddling the Alpha’s lap. The denim of his shorts rubs against the bulge in Ilya’s gym shorts, and Shane groans. “Fuck.”

He grinds down, rolling his hips in the slow, circular motion he’s perfected on that damn stationary bike. Ilya’s hands slide up his back, hot and heavy, fingers digging into his lats.

“You are eager,” Ilya rumbles, kissing the pulse point on Shane’s neck. “Climbing me like tree.”

“Shut up,” Shane gasps, bucking his hips forward, chasing the pressure. “Just… help me.”

Ilya’s hands move to the button of Shane’s jeans and pops it open. Then the zipper, the sound loud in the quiet room. He slides his hands inside, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above his pelvic bone.

Then Shane slides off Ilya’s lap. He backs up a step, putting just enough distance between them. Ilya stays seated on the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the mattress on either side of his hips. He looks like a man who has been starving for months and just had a banquet set in front of him.

Shane hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his denim shorts as he holds Ilya’s gaze—challenging, arrogant, entirely Shane Hollander—and slowly pushes the fabric down over his hips. He has to wiggle a little to get the denim past the thickest part of his thighs, the muscles that have spent months screaming on a stationary bike to get back to this size.

He steps out of the shorts and kicks them aside. They hit the wall. Now he is standing in just his boxer briefs. The black cotton clings to him, straining against the erection that is throbbing, heavy and wet, against his stomach. Shane doesn’t hide.

He stands tall, squaring his shoulders. He flexes his quads, deliberately showing off the definition, showing off the power that has returned. Turning slightly, he angles his right hip toward the light streaming in from the window. Ilya’s eyes track the movement, devouring him.

“You look…” Ilya starts, he shakes his head, as if words are failing him. His gaze lingers on the scar before dropping to the bulge in Shane’s underwear. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

Shane smirks. He feels powerful. As if he just scored the overtime winner in Game 7. He hooks his fingers into the elastic waistband of his boxers, pulling it out just an inch, letting it snap back against his skin with a sharp thwack.

Ilya’s breath hitches.

“You want this?” Shane taunts. He runs his hands up his own torso, tracing the lines of his abs, over his pectorals, tweaking his own nipples through the haze of lust. Then he slides his hands back down, framing his package.

“Shane,” Ilya warns, a low growl of warning and want.

Shane ignores him. He pushes the underwear down. Slowly. Inch by agonizing inch. The fabric catches on his erection, dragging, teasing, until it springs free. He shoves the boxers down to his ankles and steps out of them.

He stands there, completely naked, chest heaving, flushed with adrenaline and arousal. He is leaking pre-come, a clear drop pearling at the tip, betraying just how desperate he actually is. Ilya looks up. He scans Shane from his toes to the messy hair on his head, his expression shattering into pure, unadulterated worship.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya breathes, the words punched out of him. “You are… magnificent.”

He moves with a predatory grace, stepping right between Ilya’s spread knees. Tangling his fingers into Ilya’s hair, he pulls his husband’s face into his stomach first, letting Ilya breathe him in. Then, with a needy whimper, Shane drags Ilya’s head up and crashes his mouth down on his. A sloppy collision of open mouths and desperate tongues.

Shane moans into it. He’s drowning in the sensation, his knees going weak as Ilya’s large hand wraps around the base of Shane’s erection possessively. He gives a long, slow stroke upward, spreading the slick pre-come over the sensitive head, and Shane’s hips snap forward involuntarily.

“Oh, god,” Shane groans against Ilya’s mouth, his fingers tightening in Ilya’s curls. He bucks into the hand, seeking the rough callouses of Ilya’s palm. “Ilya, please. Please.”

Ilya breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale. He pulls back, his lips slick and swollen, leaving Shane chasing him for a second before he realizes what’s happening. Ilya isn’t looking at his face anymore. He’s staring at Shane’s cock—hard, weeping, and twitching just inches from his face.

“Beautiful,” Ilya whispers, the word ghosting over Shane’s skin like a fever. He leans forward. Shane holds his breath. Ilya opens his mouth and exhales hot air against the tip, teasing him for one agonizing second, before he closes his lips around the head and takes him in.

Shane’s head falls back. “Fuck.”

The sensation is overwhelming. It’s the wet heat of Ilya’s mouth, the suction of his cheeks, the scrape of stubble against Shane’s inner thighs. Ilya slides down, swallowing him inch by inch. Shane’s legs tremble.He looks up at Shane through his lashes—hazel eyes dark with intent—Shane feels it in his soul.

Shane has to grab Ilya’s shoulders to stay upright, his fingers digging into the trapezius muscles. “Yeah,” he pants, watching through half-lidded eyes as the man he loves, worships him. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

Ilya finds a rhythm, bobbing his head, using his hand to work the base while his mouth works the top. Shane’s hands tighten in Ilya’s hair, snapping his hips forward, fucking himself in Ilya’s mouth. "Ilya," he moans. "I’m close.

Ilya doesn't back off. The suction is absolute. Shane cries out, his legs seizing as he spills into his husband’s mouth. He pulses through the release, bucking weakly, emptying himself completely while Ilya drinks every drop, his hand milking the final aftershocks with maddening tenderness. When Shane finally sags, breathless and trembling, Ilya draws back. He stands up slowly, his lips slick and swollen, a drop of white caught at the corner of his mouth.

Then he cups Shane’s face, and occupies Shane’s mouth.Shane tastes himself—salt and bitter musk—mixed with the taste of Ilya. It’s filthy and possessive. Shane moans into the kiss, his tongue sweeping Ilya’s mouth, reclaiming the fluids.

The rut energy is still a restless need to consume. He places his hands flat on Ilya’s chest and shoves. His husband goes down willing, tumbling back onto the duvet with a surprised huff. Shane follows him instantly, crawling over Ilya’s body, settling firmly on top of Ilya’s thighs and dives for his neck. He finds the scent gland at the junction of Ilya’s neck and shoulder.

Shane presses his nose into the skin, drugging himself on the pheromones. He licks the pulse point, dragging his tongue flat over the gland, and feels Ilya shudder beneath him.

"Shane," Ilya groans, his hands coming up to grip Shane’s chest, giving it a squeeze.

He kisses his way down Ilya’s chest, nipping at a pectoral muscle, licking a stripe down the center of his abs until he reaches the waistband of Ilya’s gym shorts. Ilya’s breath hitches, his stomach muscles clenching tight as Shane yanks the shorts down in one rough motion, throwing it on the floor. The scent is stronger here—concentrated, potent Alpha musk.

Shane buries his face in the black cotton crotch. He inhales greedily, filling his lungs with the smell of Ilya’s arousal. He licks the fabric, dampening the cotton right over the head of Ilya’s cock.

"Fuck," Ilya hisses.

He can feel the rock-hard ridge of Ilya’s erection twitching against his cheek. It drives him wild. He lifts his head, peeling the damp boxers down, freeing Ilya.

Ilya’s long cock springs free, thick and angry. It’s beautiful. The only thing Shane wants to look at. He sits back on his heels, then wraps his hand around the base, feeling the heavy pulse of blood, and leans down. He kisses the head, swirling his tongue over the slit, tasting the salty pre-come.

Watching Ilya’s face contort with pleasure, Shane opens his mouth, taking just the head, swirling his tongue, then sliding down an inch, then back up.

Ilya lets out a broken, strangled noise, his hips bucking off the mattress. "Yes," he pants, his voice wrecked. "Solnyshko… yes."

Shane works him with focused intensity, hollowing his cheeks, taking Ilya deeper with each pass. Ilya’s thighs are trembling beneath him, the muscles bunching and releasing involuntarily.

“Shane,” Ilya warns, his fingers tangle in Shane’s hair, holding on. “I am… I am going to—”

Shane sees Ilya’s abs clench, his hips lifting off the mattress, chasing the heat of his mouth. And Shane pulls off. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, watching Ilya’s face with undisguised satisfaction.

“Blyad!” Ilya half sits up, propping himself on his elbows, his chest heaving. His cock twitches against his stomach, angry and neglected, a strand of pre-come connecting it to his navel. His expression is a wreck of frustration and disbelief. “What are you doing, Hollander?”

Shane smirks, he runs a finger up the underside of Ilya’s shaft, feather-light, just enough to make Ilya’s hips jerk. “Practice, remember?”

Ilya blinks, his lust-fogged brain struggling to catch up. “What?”

“I said we have to practice.” Shane’s voice drops, husky and commanding. He holds Ilya’s gaze as he shifts forward, crawling up Ilya’s body until he’s straddling those narrow hips again. “Which means you don’t get to come in my mouth, Rozanov.”

He settles his weight, pressing his ass down against the hot, slick length of Ilya’s cock. The contact makes them both gasp. “You come inside me,” he finishes, grinding down slowly. “Or you don’t come at all.”

Ilya stares up at him. For a long, breathless moment, he doesn’t move. His hands hover at Shane’s hips. Then the frustration melts into something darker, hungrier. A predatory gleam that makes Shane’s stomach flip.

“You drive me crazy,” Ilya breathes. His hands finally land on Shane’s hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. “You are evil man.”

“You love it.”

“I love you,” Ilya says. “The evil part I just tolerate.”

His breathless laughs dissolves into a moan as he lifts his hips and reaches back. He wraps his hand around Ilya’s cock, positioning it, feeling the blunt head nudge against his entrance.

Ilya’s breath catches. His fingers dig into Shane’s hip bones. “Wait. Wait—slow. We have not… in months, Shane. You need—”

“I’m fine.” Shane is already slick, embarrassingly so, the hormones doing their job. He can feel the wet heat gathered between his thighs, his body opening, desperate to be filled. “I’m ready. I’ve been ready.”

He doesn’t give Ilya time to argue. He sinks down an inch, just enough to take the head, and the stretch is exquisite. A sharp, burning fullness that makes his eyes roll back.

“Fuck,” Ilya chokes out. His head falls back against the pillows, the cords of his neck straining. “So tight.”

Shane holds himself there, hovering, he can feel the desperate twitch of Ilya’s cock inside him, the way his husband is fighting every instinct to thrust up.

“Look at me,” Shane commands.

Ilya’s eyes snap open. They’re almost black, the hazel swallowed by blown pupils. Shane rolls his hips. Just a small, teasing circle. He lifts up until only the tip remains inside, then sinks back down another inch. The drag is perfect, the angle hitting something deep that makes sparks scatter behind his eyes.

“You feel that?” He clenches deliberately, squeezing tight around Ilya’s cock. “You feel how much I want you?”

“Yes,” Ilya groans. His hands slide around to Shane’s ass, gripping the muscle, spreading him wider. “I feel. I feel everything. Please, solnyshko. Please move.”

Not yet. He’s drunk on the power, on the way Ilya is looking at him like he’s the center of the universe. He rises up again, almost all the way off, letting the head catch at his rim.

“Tell me what you want,” Shane says.

Ilya’s jaw clenches. A muscle ticks beneath his eye. “I want to be inside you.”

“You are already inside me, Rozy.”

“More.” The word is a growl. “I want all of you. I want to fill you up until you forget your own name. I want to feel you come apart on my cock.”

Shane’s breath stutters. “Then take me.”

Ilya’s hands immediately tighten on Shane’s hips and he pulls down, hard, at the same moment he thrusts up. Shane cries out as Ilya buries himself to the hilt in one smooth, devastating stroke.

“Yes,” Shane gasps, his nails raking down Ilya’s chest. “Yes, like that. Just like that.”

Ilya sets a deep, grinding thrusts that hit Shane exactly where he needs it. Shane braces his hands on Ilya’s shoulders and matches him, rolling his hips down to meet each stroke. The sound of skin on skin fills the room.

“Beautiful,” Ilya murmurs, his eyes fixed on Shane’s face. “Most beautiful thing I ever see. My Shane. My captain. Moya lyubov.”

Shane leans down and captures his mouth, swallowing the Russian endearments, tasting his own desperation on Ilya’s tongue. The angle shifts, driving Ilya even deeper, and Shane keens into the kiss.

“Harder,” he begs against Ilya’s lips. “The hip is fine. I promise. Just—harder.”

Ilya plants his feet flat on the mattress and drives up, snapping his hips with a force that makes the headboard crack against the wall. Shane throws his head back in pleasure. The angle is devastating. Every thrust punches the air from his lungs and sends lightning bolts of pleasure radiating from his core.

“Yes,” Shane gasps. “Fuck, yes—”

The rut has him now. Fully. The last vestiges of civilized thought burn away. Ilya seems to sense the shift, his fingers digging into the meat of Shane’s ass as he hauls Shane down to meet each punishing thrust.

“Look at you,” Ilya growls. Sweat rolls down his temples, his chest heaving with exertion. “So hungry for it. Cannot get enough.”

“Shut up and fuck me—”

Ilya surges up, one arm wrapping around Shane’s waist to yank him close while the other hand fists in Shane’s hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat. Ilya’s teeth find his pulse point. The scrape of enamel against sensitive skin makes Shane whimper, makes his cock twitch where it’s trapped between their stomachs.

“You want to be wrecked?” Ilya’s breath is hot against his ear. “You want me to ruin you, Hollander?”

“Yes—”

Ilya flips them.

One second Shane is on top, the next he’s on his back, the breath knocked out of him as Ilya looms above. His husband’s eyes are almost feral, the hazel swallowed entirely by blown-black pupils. The gold chain swings between them, catching the light.

“Then hold on.”

Ilya hooks Shane’s knees over his shoulders, folding him nearly in half, and slams back in. The sudden motion sends the golden chain around Ilya’s neck swinging forward. The pendant slaps against Shane’s cheek.

The new angle is deep. Ilya’s cock is hitting something that makes his vision white out, that makes his whole body seize with pleasure so intense it borders on pain. His hands scrabble at at Ilya’s biceps as the thrusts come faster, harder, merciless.

“There,” Shane babbles, barely coherent. “There, there, fuck, right there—”

“I know where.” Ilya catches the swinging pendant in his mouth, biting down hard on the metal to keep it still. He grins around it, teeth scraping against the initials of their son and Shane. “I know your body, Shane. Every. Single. Spot.”

He’s going to come again. He can feel it gathering like a storm, inevitable and overwhelming.

“Ilya—” A warning and a plea.

“I feel you.” Ilya’s rhythm stutters, grows erratic. His tendons standing out in his neck. “Feel you getting tight. You going to come on my cock, solnyshko?”

“Yes! please—” Shane shatters. The orgasm tears through him like wildfire, stealing his breath. His whole body convulses, clenching impossibly tight around Ilya’s cock as he spills between them, hot and wet and endless. He’s dimly aware that he’s shouting—Ilya’s name—but he can’t hear anything over the roaring in his ears.

And Ilya keeps fucking him through it. The overstimulation is brutal. Shane writhes, caught between pushing into the sensation and trying to escape it, but Ilya’s grip is ironclad. He pins Shane to the mattress with his weight, hips pounding, chasing his own release with single-minded focus.

“Take it,” Ilya snarls, his composure finally cracking. “Take all of it. You wanted this—you begged for this—”

“I know—I know—fuck—”

Shane feels it when Ilya starts to swell.

The knot.

Even after all these years, the sensation still takes his breath away. The impossible stretch as Ilya’s cock thickens at the base, locking them together. The pressure against his rim, the fullness that goes beyond anything else. It’s not like an Omega’s heat-knotting—Alphas aren’t built for this, their bodies weren’t designed to take knots. But Ilya isn’t a normal Alpha.

Ilya is an Enigma.

The rarest of the rare. An Alpha whose biology can bridge the gap, whose knot can catch even in another Alpha, whose seed can take root where it shouldn’t be able to. It’s why Wyatt exists. Why, next year, when the contraceptive shot wears off and they’re ready, there will be another.

The knot swells to its full size, and Shane keens—high and desperate—as his body stretches to accommodate it. The burn is exquisite, the fullness sublime. He feels split open, impaled, complete.

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice cracks. His hips give a few more shallow jerks, grinding the knot against Shane’s prostate, and then he’s coming too.

Shane feels the hot pulses of release flooding his insides, filling him up. His cock twitches weakly, another dry spasm of pleasure wracking his oversensitive body. Ilya collapses on top of him, barely catching himself on his forearms, his face pressed into the crook of Shane’s neck. They lie there, locked together, breathing in ragged tandem.

“Fuck,” Shane finally manages. His voice is destroyed. “That was…”

“Mm.” Ilya’s response is more vibration than sound. He turns his head just enough to press a kiss to Shane’s sweat-damp temple. “Good practice?”

“A-plus. Gold star.”

“Good.” Ilya shifts slightly, and they both groan as the knot tugs at Shane’s rim. “Do not move. Will be few more minutes.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

The minutes stretch, hazy and warm. Shane’s heart rate slowly returns to normal. The rut-fever is sated for now—banked to embers instead of a roaring flame. He knows it won’t last. In an hour, maybe two, the hunger will return with a vengeance. But for now, there’s peace.

He runs his fingers through Ilya’s sweaty curls, watching the afternoon light shift across the ceiling.

“Hey,” Shane murmurs.

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

Ilya lifts his head. His eyes are soft now, the predator gone. “I love you too,” he says simply. “Always. Even when you are stubborn ass who tries to walk without crutches.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never.” Ilya grins, and Shane’s chest aches with how much he loves that crooked smile. “Is in marriage vows. To love and honor and remind you of stupid decisions forever.”

The knot begins to deflate. Shane hisses at the slow release of pressure, the shift as Ilya’s cock softens inside him. There’s a gush of warmth when Ilya finally slips free, and Shane shivers, feeling suddenly empty.

“Roll over,” Ilya murmurs, his hand already sliding down Shane’s flank. “On your side.”

“Bossy.”

“You like bossy.” Ilya helps him turn, spooning up behind him. The warmth of his chest against Shane’s back is solid. “This position is better for hip. Less strain.”

“Always thinking about the hip.”

“Someone has to. You certainly do not.”

Ilya’s hand slides between his thighs, fingers finding the slick mess at his entrance, and all coherent thought evaporates.

“Already?” Shane breathes.

“The rut.” Ilya’s voice is low against his ear. “It comes back fast, yes?”

It does. Shane can feel again the restless energy pooling in his belly. His cock stirs against his thigh, already filling again despite the orgasm he just had. Ilya’s fingers press inside him, two at once, sliding through the slick mix of cum and natural lubrication. Shane groans, pushing back against the intrusion.

“Shh.” Ilya withdraws his fingers and replaces them with the head of his cock, already hard again. “Let me take care of you.”

He pushes in slowly this time. The angle is different like this, less intense but deeper somehow. More intimate. Ilya’s arm wraps around his chest, pulling him close, and Shane lets himself be held.

“Good?” Ilya whispers.

“So good.”

Ilya begins to move—slow, rolling thrusts that rock them together in a gentle rhythm. “I have you,” he murmurs against the back of his neck. His hand finds Shane’s and threads their fingers together over Shane’s heart. “I always have you.”

Shane closes his eyes. The pleasure builds gradually this time—a slow swell rather than a crashing wave. Ilya’s cock drags against all the right spots with each thrust, his hand stroking Shane’s length in counterpoint.

“The baby,” Shane breathes, not sure why he’s saying it now except that it feels right, feels true. “Next spring. When the season ends. The shot will wear off.”

Ilya’s rhythm falters for just a second. He goes still behind Shane. Then his arms tighten convulsively, crushing Shane against his chest.“Shane. The pregnancy with Wyatt—was hard on you. The recovery—”

“I know you’re scared. I know you’re thinking everything that could possibly went wrong.” Shane turns his head, trying to catch Ilya’s eye. “But we can’t be scared forever.”

He brings their joined hands up to his lips, kissing Ilya’s knuckles. “I want to feel life inside me again, growing, and know that it’s yours. I want to give us another miracle. You were built for this. To be a father.”

Ilya is silent for a long moment. Shane feels the rise and fall of his chest, the steady beat of his heart.

“You will let me take care of you,” Ilya tells him after a moment. “When you are pregnant. You will not try to do everything yourself. You will rest when I tell you to rest.”

Shane smiles tiredly against Ilya’s fingers. “I’ll try.”

“You will do.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, and he starts moving again—slow, deep strokes that make Shane lets out a full moan.“Okay. Next year. We make another baby. A sister or brother for Wyatt.”

Shane tips his head back against Ilya’s shoulder, surrendering to the pleasure. The rut crests gently this time. He comes with a soft cry, Ilya following moments later, and they stay locked together as the afternoon sun paints shadows across the walls. He feels himself slipping, the darkness rising up to meet him, soft and welcoming. Just before the conscious world dissolves completely, he feels Ilya’s lips press against the shell of his ear.

The words are a vow breathed directly into his soul. “Ya lyublyu tebya bolshe zhizni.” I love you more than life.

To be continued…

Chapter End Notes:

Hello!

I hope you enjoyed the fluff and the heat to start your Monday! 🔥

I know sticking with a multi-chapter work takes commitment, and I appreciate every single one of you who checks in when a new chapter drops. 💜

Please note: I have updated the tags for this chapter, so please check them!

Thank you again, and I’ll see you all for the final chapter.

Love,

Azi 💜

P.S Their "practice" better be fruitful! 😉

Kanata, Ontario
20 September 2031

Ilya pulls into the parking lot of the Irina Foundation Hockey Academy. The exterior blends cedar cladding with sleek panels of charcoal-gray metal. Floor-to-ceiling windows with the early light blazing gold against the morning sky. Above the main entrance, steel lettering gleams: IRINA FOUNDATION HOCKEY ACADEMY.

The automatic doors slide open. Ilya enters the spacious lobby with exposed beams overhead and a concrete floor painted to look like a rink. To his right, a glass wall overlooks the main ice. But the far wall stops Ilya in his tracks.

A mural.

Twenty feet high, spanning the entire back of the lobby. He had approved the artist’s sketches months ago, but seeing it finished is something else entirely. It depicts a frozen pond at twilight, the sky streaked with orange and purple. A group of children skate in a loose cluster—different sizes, different shapes, different skin tones. One small figure at the edge has a leg brace visible beneath their hockey pants.

In the background, barely visible in the gathering dusk, a woman watches from the shore. Her face is not detailed—just the suggestion of a gentle smile. But Ilya knows exactly who she is.

His throat closes. The foundation is named for his mother, but this is the first time he has truly felt her presence in it. It’s as if some part of her has been woven into the paint and plaster and glass.

Mama, he thinks. We built this.

He forces himself to keep moving, past the administrative wing with its walls of framed action shots, toward the ice. Rink A—or “The Big Show”—seats five hundred in steep tiers of navy blue. Ilya walks down the concrete steps to ice level, his eyes drawn to the logo gleaming at center ice: a stylized snowflake cradling a hockey stick. He and Shane had rejected seventeen drafts before they got it right. It had to be elegant, but approachable.

This one does.

He bypasses the practice rink to reach the gym. Everything is top of the line. Ilya had insisted on that. Mirrors line one wall, reflecting the motivational quotes painted in clean white text on the opposite side: It is not whether you get knocked down, it is whether you get up.

He moves through the gym to the rehabilitation clinic at the back of the building. This is the part that makes Ilya proudest. Hockey culture has a problem with injury. Players are expected to play through pain, to hide weakness, to sacrifice their bodies for the team. Ilya and Shane have done it themselves, countless times.

He wants the kids to understand that taking care of their bodies is not weakness.

The clinic is soothing, painted in soft blues and greens. There are treatment rooms, ultrasound machines, and a hydrotherapy suite with plunge pools maintained at precise temperatures. He backtracks to the main corridor and takes the stairs to the second floor when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Shane Hollander-Rozanov:

Just arrived.

We’re on rink B. Come find us.

Ilya smiles and takes the stairs down two at a time. The corridor to Rink B has much less noise. Through the glass doors, he can see the ice. His son is bundled in so much padding he looks like a tiny marshmallow—yellow helmet, bright blue skates that are probably a half-size too big. He is gripping a miniature hockey stick with the fierce concentration.

Shane is moving in slow, careful circles around him.

Even from this distance, Ilya sees the changes. His husband’s stride is smoother than it was a month ago. The hitch in his right hip has almost disappeared. His edges are deeper, his turns more controlled. He is not moving at full speed, not even close, but there is a fluidity to his movement that had been missing for so long.

Ilya pushes through the doors and descends to ice level. He leans against the boards and watches until Shane spots him. His face breaks into a grin, and he glides over.

“How does it look?” Shane asks, slightly breathless.

“The building or you?”

“Both.”

Ilya pretends to consider for a few seconds. “Building is okay. You are passable.”

“Passable,” Shane says dryly. “High praise from a retired legend.”

“I am a modest man.”

“Papa! Papa, look!”

Ilya turns. Wyatt is waving his stick in the air, nearly overbalancing in the process. His skates slide apart on the ice, but he catches himself with the reflexes of a natural athlete.

“I see you, bear!” Ilya calls back. “Very good!”

“Come skate!” Wyatt demands. “Come skate with me and Daddy!”

Ilya looks at Shane. “I am being summoned.”

“Better not keep the foreman waiting.”

Ilya jogs to the nearest equipment room, where a pair of skates has been waiting for him. He laces them quickly and steps onto the ice. The surface is perfect—freshly resurfaced, smooth as glass beneath his blades. He takes a few easy strides. His body still remembers. It always will.

He skates to center ice, where Wyatt is vibrating with impatience. Shane has already positioned himself on Wyatt’s left side, one gloved hand extended.

“Papa! We go fast now?”

“Medium fast,” Shane says. “Papa’s old.”

“I am not old,” Ilya protests, taking Wyatt’s right hand. “I am seasoned. Like fine wine.”

“Fine wine doesn’t creak when it stands up.”

“That is character.”

Wyatt, bored with the banter, yanks on both their hands. “Go! Go go go!”

They go.

The three of them move across the ice together, Wyatt suspended between his fathers’ grips. His little legs pump furiously, his skates more sliding than stroking, but his balance is improving every time. Shane moves with careful steadiness on the left, absorbing Wyatt’s wobbles, compensating for the unpredictable shifts in momentum. Ilya matches him on the right, their movements synchronized without conscious thought.

“Faster!” Wyatt shrieks. “Daddy, faster!”

“This is pretty fast, buddy.”

“Is slow! Papa, tell Daddy to go faster!”

“Your daddy is right,” Ilya says. “This is very fast. The fastest anyone has ever gone.”

Wyatt seems suspicious but willing to be convinced. “Really?”

“Really. We are breaking records right now. World records.”

“World records,” Wyatt breathes, awestruck.

They complete another lap, then another.

Shane is laughing, breathless and flushed, and for a second, the reality of the coming weeks hits Ilya hard. The season will start soon. Shane will put on the Centaurs jersey one more time and give everything he has left to the game.

“Again!” Wyatt demands when they slow to a stop, pulling Ilya back to the present. “Again, again, again!”

Shane meets Ilya’s eyes over their son’s helmet. He looks happy. Healthy.

“Your son is demanding,” Shane quips.

Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand, just for a second, before turning his attention back to the boy.

“Again,” Ilya agrees. “As many times as you want, bear.”

The Academy opens its doors in the third week of September, and suddenly Ilya is not just Ilya Rozanov, retired legend; he is Mr. Rozanov, the guy parents want to corner in the lobby to ask why their kid is on the B-team instead of the A-team. He is the guy who has to explain to the Zamboni driver that, yes, he does need the ice cut before the 6:00 AM mites practice because mites deserve clean edges too.

Ryan joins the staff in early-October, strolling in with a latte in one hand and a permanently bored expression on his face.

“You’re going to make me wear a tracksuit, aren’t you?” Ryan asks, eyeing the Academy logo on the wall.

“Is dress code,” Ilya says, leaning against the reception desk. “No skinny jeans on ice. Is safety hazard. Your circulation will cut off.”

“My circulation is fine.” Ryan takes a sip of his coffee. “But fine. Tracksuit. What age group am I torturing?”

“Under fifteens. They are hormonal and think they know everything. You will fit right in.”

Ryan actually laughs at that. “Fair enough. And Fabian? Is he allowed in the building, or is there a ban on musicians?”

“Your husband is welcome. As long as he does not try to teach goalies to play guitar. We need them to stop pucks, not shred solos.”

Having Ryan around helps. He doesn’t treat Ilya like a boss or a celebrity. He treats him like a former teammate who happens to sign his checks. They complain about the coffee in the break room, trading stories about the kids who show real promise versus the ones whose parents just have deep pockets. It fills the hours while Shane is gone.

Because mentally, Shane Hollander has checked out of their domestic life and checked back into athlete mode. One Friday night, Ilya finds him in the gym. The house is quiet, Wyatt asleep upstairs. Shane is doing box jumps. He is shirtless, sweat gleaming on his back. The scar on his hip is a pale line against his skin, moving fluidly with every jump.

Shane lands a jump and stays in the squat for a second, breathing hard. He looks up and sees Ilya. “Hey,” he pants, wiping sweat from his forehead with the towel on his shoulder.

“Hey yourself. You trying to jump to moon?”

Shane grabs a water bottle from the floor and pushes himself up. “Dr. Morrison said the fast-twitch fibers take the longest to come back.”

“You look fast,” Ilya says honestly.

“I feel fast.” Shane takes a long drink, then lowers the bottle and looks at Ilya again. “I leave for camp in three days.”

“I know.”

“It’s going to be different. Being away.”

“Is only three weeks of camp, Shane. Then regular season. You will be home for half games.”

“I know, but I got used to this. Being here. With you. With Wy.”

Ilya steps forward, resting his hands on Shane’s sweaty shoulders. “We will be here. We are not going anywhere. You go play. When you come home, we will still be boring family who eats too much pancake.”

Shane smiles wryly, leaning his forehead against Ilya’s chest. “You’re not boring.”

“I am extremely boring,” Ilya says. “Today I argued with a vending machine supplier about the price of pretzels. Is thrilling life.”

Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist, holding on for a minute. “I’m going to miss you.”

He fights the urge to beg Shane to stay, knowing this is something Shane needs to do for himself.

“Go win some games, Hollander,” he says. “Make it worth it.”

After years of playing, Ilya knows by heart that the NHL does not do things quietly. Shane’s return is headline news. Every sports network, every hockey blog, every Twitter armchair expert has an opinion.

HOLLANDER RETURNS: CAN THE VETERAN CAPTAIN STILL LEAD?

THE BIONIC MAN: SHANE HOLLANDER’S HIP SURGERY AND THE RISK OF RE-INJURY.

IS THIS THE END OF AN ERA FOR OTTAWA? (This one is from a Toronto writer, obviously.)

He swears he won’t look, but inevitably finds himself scrolling through Twitter while Wyatt watches Winnie the Pooh. It makes Ilya want to punch something. Or someone. Preferably the guy with the handle @PuckDaddy69 who keeps tweeting that Shane is “too old and brittle.”

But then comes the first game.

Home opener. Ottawa vs. Boston.

Ilya is once again in the suite with Wyatt, Yuna, and David. The arena is shaking. When the announcer says Shane’s name—“Number 24, your CAPTAIN, SHANE HOLLANDER!”—the roar is deafening. Shane skates to center ice for the opening face-off. He taps his shin pads with his stick—the same ritual he has done thousands of times.

The puck drops.

Shane wins the draw cleanly, snapping it back to the defense.

The game is on.

Shane Hollander is flying.

He isn’t the fastest player on the ice anymore, but he is the smartest, seemingly everywhere at once. Anticipating the play before it happens, Shane strips the puck from a winger in the neutral zone and feeds a perfect saucer pass to Luca for a scoring chance. Even when he takes a hit in the corner—a hard, crunching check from a defenseman who has fifty pounds on him—he just bounces off.

Midway through the second period, it happens.

Power play.

Shane controls the puck, faking a pass to the point, freezing the penalty killers. Then, seeing a lane no one else saw, he walks in. He drags the puck around a sprawling defenseman. He loads up his stick.

Snap.

Top shelf. Water bottle pops.

The goal horn blasts. The red light spins. The crowd goes absolutely feral. Shane raises his arms. He just smiles and lets his teammates mob him. Ilya watches from the suite, holding Wyatt up on his shoulders so he can see.

“Daddy scored!” Wyatt screams. “Daddy scored a goal!”

“Yes,” Ilya says proudly. “Daddy scored.”

Later, in the post-game interviews, the reporters are falling all over themselves.

“Shane, how did the hip feel?”

“Did you expect to score in your first game back?”

“Is this a statement to the doubters?”

Shane stands there in his suit, looking wrung out but happy. He answers their questions. “Honestly, the hip felt good. Dr. Morrison did great work. I just wanted to help the team win. I don’t listen to the doubters. I just play.”

But then, a reporter asks one more question.

“Shane, you mentioned in the summer that this might be your last year. Has scoring tonight changed your mind? Do you think you have more in the tank?”

Shane pauses. He looks directly into the camera. And Ilya knows, instantly, that Shane is talking to him.

“I have exactly enough in the tank for this season,” his husband says confidently. “I’m going to enjoy every minute of it. And then I’m going home to my family.”

Ilya stares at the screen from the family waiting room. Come home, Hollander, he thinks. We are waiting.

Ottawa, Ontario
3 November 2031

Shane stands in front of the full-length mirror of their walk-in closet, adjusting a pair of yellow felt ears that are currently sliding precariously down his forehead. He sighs and tugs at the hem of his yellow polo shirt.

"I look ridiculous," Shane says to the room at large.

"You look aerodynamic," Ilya chirps from the doorway. "Like Rabbit. Very organized. Very stressed about carrots. Is perfect casting."

Shane throws a tiny glare at Ilya, who is lounging in the doorway in a blindingly orange tiger onesie. With eyeliner whiskers on his cheeks and a spring-loaded tail bobbing behind him, he looks vibrant and hot

"You're enjoying this too much," Shane accuses.

"Is Wyatt's fourth birthday, Hollander. We go big or we go home. And we are already home, so we go big." Ilya actually bounces over to Shane and wraps his arms around Shane’s waist, the synthetic fur of the Tigger costume scratching against Shane’s forearms. "Besides, I like yellow. On you."

"You're colorblind," Shane reminds him, though he hugs him back.

"I am selective.” Ilya kisses Shane’s nose. "Come. The Hundred Acre Wood awaits. Guest of honor is so excited he might phase through floorboards."

They head downstairs. The transformation of their open-concept living space is aggressive. Ilya—who Shane suspects has been secretly planning this since July—has turned the main floor into a literal forest. There are cardboard trees taped to the walls, green streamers hanging from the ceiling like willow branches, and a terrifyingly large "Hunny" pot made of papier-mache sitting on the kitchen island.

And in the center of it all is Wyatt. Their son is wearing a fuzzy, padded Winnie the Pooh costume that adds about six inches to his circumference.

"Daddy! Papa!" Wyatt yells, waddling toward them. "I'm a bear!"

"You are best bear," Ilya agrees, scooping him up. Wyatt is getting heavy, but Ilya lifts him like he’s a feather. "Are you ready for party? Your friends are coming."

"I want cake," Wyatt says seriously.

"Cake is for later," Shane says, smoothing the fur on Wyatt’s hood. "First, friends. Then pizza. Then cake."

The doorbell rings.

"Friends!" Wyatt shrieks, struggling to get down.

Shane hurries to open the door. The Pikes have arrived first. Hayden enters, carrying a gift bag the size of a compact car.

"Shane!" Hayden booms, sweeping Shane into a bone-crushing embrace before he can protest. He pulls back, takes in the yellow ears, and snorts. "Rabbit? Really? That’s almost too on the nose, Cap. Let me guess, you organized the vegetable garden schedule?"

"Shut up, Hayden," Shane says, adjusting the rabbit ears. "Where’s Jackie?"

"Parking. She said my driving was giving her a migraine."

Behind Hayden, the Pike brood files in. They aren’t the little kids Shane remembers from the early days. Jade and Ruby are huddled together over a single screen in Ruby’s iPhone, snickering at a video as they walk, but they both wave upon seeing Shane.

"Hi, Uncle Shane," Ruby says, popping her gum. She looks at Ilya behind Shane. "Nice tail, Uncle Ilya."

"Is tactical tail," Ilya says. "For maximum bounce."

Jackie breezes in a moment later, looking gorgeous in her yellow sheath dress that matches Wyatt’s birthday theme. She kisses Shane’s cheek. "You look adorable. Don't let Hayden tease you. He wanted to wear his old mascot costume but I forbade it."

The house fills up fast as the Centaurs arrive. It’s a strange mix of Shane’s current teammates and their old friends. Hazy walks in with his wife, Lisa. The Alpha immediately drops to his knees to high-five Wyatt.

“Little Wy!” Hazy grins. “Four years old. You ready to put on the pads yet? I got a blocker in the car.”

“No goalie!” Wyatt exclaims. “I’m a Center! Like Daddy and Papa!”

Shane feels a flush of pride warm his chest, even as Hazy feigns a heart attack.

Ryan Price arrives fashionably late. He’s dressed in severe black, cutting a menacing silhouette against the festive streamers, though Shane forgives him when he sees the tiny girl clinging to Ryan’s leg. She has a wavy red hair and thick brows that are a carbon copy of Ryan.

“Aria!” Wyatt yells, abandoning Hazy to run to her.

Aria Price stares at Wyatt with intense scrutiny. She just holds out a small, wrapped box. “For you,” she says simply.

“She insisted on wrapping it herself. It’s ninety percent tape,” Ryan says, patting his daughter’s head. “And don't ask about the bow—Fabian would have fixed it, but he’s stuck at home trapped under a sleeping baby.”

“Thanks, Ry,” Shane says, shaking his hand. “Glad you guys made it.”

By 1:00 pm, the “Hundred Acre Wood” is at full capacity. Everyone seems to be in the living room or spilling out onto the back deck where Ilya has set up a bounce house. Hazy is on the floor, letting Wyatt and Aria climb over him like a jungle gym. Meanwhile, Lisa is chatting with Yuna and David near the food spread.

“He’s getting so big,” David says, catching Shane’s gaze as he refills the veggie platter (which is labeled Rabbit’s Garden, naturally).

“Skating well, too. Ilya showed me the video,” Yuna adds proudly.

“He loves it,” Shane says, watching Wyatt attempt to tackle Hazy. “We can’t keep him off the ice.”

“It’s in the blood,” Yuna says, beaming. She’s wearing a yellow sweater with Grandma Kanga written on it. “Just don’t let him be a goalie. My heart couldn’t take it.”

“I heard that!” Hazy yells from the floor.

Shane moves through the party, playing the perfect host—refilling drinks, directing teenagers to the soda stash in the garage, and ensuring the younger kids aren’t destroying the furniture. Yet, his gaze keeps drifting to the backyard. Ilya is in the center of the bounce house, still wearing the Tigger costume, bouncing with Wyatt, Aria, and Amber. He looks happier than Shane has ever seen him.

Ryan sidles up to him near the patio door. He’s watching the bounce house too, a rare, soft smile playing on his lips as he watches his daughter attack Ilya’s ankles.

“He’s really great with kids,” Ryan says, offhanded.

“Yeah,” Shane says.

“Aria talks about him all the time. ‘Coach Ilya said this, Coach Ilya did that.’ I think she likes him more than me.”

Shane smiles. “Ilya has that effect. He’s magnetic.”

Ryan hums in agreement, then turns slightly, leaning his back against the glass door. He studies Shane for a second, his gaze shrewd.“How about Maya?” he asks casually. “You stuck with her?”

Shane pauses, glancing at Ryan. His mind goes back to the text Ryan sent months ago, the lifeline when Shane felt like he was drowning in his own head.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I did. She’s… she’s really good, Ryan.”

“She doesn’t let you get away with the athlete-speak bullshit, does she?”

“Not even a little bit. I tried to tell her I was just ‘focusing on the process’ last week, and she asked me to define who I was without the process. It was brutal.”

Ryan knowingly smirks. “Sounds like her.”

“She’s helping me figure out the book,” Shane says, the admission slipping out before he can stop it.

Ryan’s eyebrows shoot up. “The book?”

“I’m writing,” Shane says shyly. “Or, I’m going to. My story. The real one.”

Ryan stares at him for a second, then claps a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “That’s good, Hollander. That’s really good. The world needs to hear it.”

“Thanks,” Shane says. “And thanks for the recommendation. Seriously.”

“Anytime.” Ryan glances back to his daughter. “Now, excuse me. I have to go save your husband. Aria looks like she’s about to attempt a takedown.”

Shane watches him go, feeling a warm swell of gratitude.

“Cake time!” Wyatt yells, suddenly appearing at the mesh netting of the bounce house, face flushed pink. “Papa! Cake time!”

Shane finds himself herding twenty people around the island. The cake is ordered by him from a fancy bakery in ByWard Market. It’s shaped like a tree stump, with fondant figures of Pooh, Tigger, Piglet, and Rabbit sitting on top. Four gold candles flicker in the center.

Wyatt stands on a chair, supervised closely by Ilya. Their son looks overwhelmed in the best possible way. Wyatt glances at the crowd, at his grandparents, at his uncles, at Aria scowling in her pink dress.

Then he looks at Shane.

“Daddy,” Wyatt says, reaching out a hand.

Shane takes it, giving those fingers a kiss. “I’m here, honey.”

“Make wish,” Ilya says softly, his hand resting on Wyatt’s back.

Wyatt squeezes his eyes shut until his whole face is scrunched in concentration. He holds the pose for a long, silent moment, making the room wait for it, before opening his eyes and blowing with all his might. The candles go out. Smoke curls up toward the pendant lights.

The room erupts in cheers.

“What did you wish for?” Hazy asks, clapping.

“No!” Wyatt shakes his head vigorously. “Secret! If I tell, the Heffalumps will steal it!”

Ilya’s arm comes around him instantly. “Heffalumps,” Ilya murmurs into his ear. “I wonder where he learned that.”

“Mystery,” Shane says.

As the cake is cut and distributed, he feels a pull on his sleeve. It’s Wyatt, face smeared with red frosting, holding up a piece of cake on a plastic plate. “For you, Daddy,” his son says seriously. “Because you are the Rabbit.”

Shane takes the plate and looks at the little fondant Rabbit—ears stiff, posture upright, looking a little stressed.

“Thanks, Wy,” he says. Apparently, even his four-year-old has clocked his anxiety levels.

“Rabbit is the best,” Wyatt says, hugging Shane’s leg. “He takes care of everyone.”

“Oh, baby.” Shane drops to his knees and holds him tight, ignoring the transfer of frosting onto his shirt.

He doesn't know what he did in a past life to earn this. He must have been a saint, or saved a whole civilization, to be rewarded with a soul as pure and intuitively kind as Wyatt. Because he knows his track record in this life, and it mostly involved being stubborn and stressed. Yet somehow, the universe looked at him and decided he deserves to be this boy’s father.

It was the only trophy he’d ever truly been afraid he wasn’t good enough to win, and holding Wyatt now, he promises himself he’ll spend the rest of his life earning it.

A calloused hand lands on the back of his neck. Shane squeezes Wyatt one last time before looking up, blinking back the sudden, embarrassing sting of moisture in his eyes. Ilya is watching them. His husband doesn’t make a crack about him getting emotional over a piece of fondant cake. Instead, Ilya crouches down beside them, effectively closing the circle around their son.

“Wyatt is right,” Ilya says, reaching out to wipe a rogue smudge of red icing from Wyatt’s cheek, his eyes darting to Shane’s with a burning intensity. “Rabbit is very good at taking care of us.”

Shane smiles through the sudden tears and places a kiss to the top of Wyatt’s head. “I love you, Wy. I love you so much.”

“Love you, Daddy!” Wyatt chirps, already squirming out of their embrace. “Now come bounce! Papa says he can bounce higher than you!”

Shane stands up, his gaze snapping to Ilya. Ilya just winks.

“Oh, really?” Shane says. He sets the cake down on the island with deliberate care, then reaches up to straighten his yellow ears. “We’ll see about that.”

He follows his son out the door and into the November air, ready to jump.

Belle Centre, Montreal
17 June 2032

The hockey gods have a sick sense of humor. Shane’s former team, the organization that broke his heart and tried to break his spirit, is the only thing standing between him and the end. The media loses its collective mind.

HOLLANDER VS. HIS PAST: THE ULTIMATE REVENGE TOUR?

REDEMPTION OR REGRET? SHANE HOLLANDER FACES THE GHOSTS OF MONTREAL.

Games One and Two are in Ottawa. They split them. Games Three and Four are in Montreal, and the hostility is palpable. The crowd boos him every time he touches the puck. Signs in the stands call him a traitor, a quitter, worse.
He blocks it out.

They split the Montreal games too. The series is tied 2-2. Then a 4-1 win in Ottawa.

Game Six. Montreal. One win away.

Fifteen years of sacrifice, of pain, of joy. Fifteen years of loving a sport that demanded everything from him.

Today, it ends. One way or another.

He plays the best twenty minutes of his life in the third period. He wins the board battle, takes the hit, and spins the pass into the slot. When the buzzer sounds, the silence of the Bell Centre is the loudest thing Shane has ever heard. He lifts the Cup. It’s lighter than he remembers or maybe he’s just stronger now.

He lifts it over his head, his screams lost in the celebration, and looks up at the suite. He can’t see them through the glare of the lights, but he knows they are there.

He retires three days later.

No press conference. No tearful goodbye tour. Just a statement released through the team’s PR department and a photo posted to his rarely-used Instagram: his skates hanging in his locker, next to a tiny pair of blue ones. He turns his phone off before the notifications can start rolling in.

The transition to civilian life is surprisingly smooth. Ilya keeps the foundation solid—the Academy, Wyatt, their home—so the big things take care of themselves. It’s the margins that are hard. The silence of mornings without practice. The strange emptiness of afternoons that used to be filled with video review and treatment and interviews.

So he starts writing in July.

The first few weeks are terrible. He sits at the desk in his home office and stares at the blank document on his laptop screen. The cursor blinks. Shane’s mind goes empty. He writes a sentence. Deletes it. Writes another one. Deletes that too.

I knew I was different when I was fourteen years old.

No. He wasn’t fourteen. He was younger than that, though he didn’t have words for it until later. He deletes the sentence.

The problem, Shane realizes after a week of producing nothing, is that he doesn’t know how to tell the truth. He’s spent so long hiding it—from his teammates, from the media, from himself—that the act of confession feels physically impossible.

He calls his mom.

“You’re not writing this to hurt anyone,” his mom reminds him. “You’re writing it to help people. The kids who are where you were. The adults who are still hiding.”

“What if I get it wrong?”

“You’ll revise. That’s what writing is, Shane. Revision after revision until it’s right.”

He hangs up with Mom and goes back to the blank document.

My name is Shane Hollander. I played hockey for sixteen years, won four Stanley Cups and two Olympic gold medals, and spent most of my adult life hiding who I really am. This is the story of how I finally stopped.

He stares at the words for a long moment. Then he keeps writing.

The draft takes four months.

Shane works on it in the mornings, after he drops Wyatt off at preschool and before his afternoon meetings at the Academy. He writes in his office with the door closed, a cup of coffee going cold beside his laptop, losing track of time until his phone alarm reminds him to pick up his son. Some days the words come easily. He writes about his childhood, about the first time he realized he was attracted to Alphas, about the careful mask he learned to wear in public. He writes about the NHL, about the culture of silence, about the teammates who used slurs casually and never knew how much it hurt him to laugh along.

Other days, nothing works. He sits in front of the screen for hours and produces three usable sentences. He writes pages that feel honest in the moment, then reads them back the next morning and deletes everything in a fit of self-loathing.

The hardest parts to write are the parts about Ilya.

How do you describe falling in love with someone you were supposed to hate? How do you capture the terror and the joy and the sheer improbability of it—two rivals, two enemies, finding each other in hotel rooms and apartments, building a life together in secret while the world watched them compete?

Shane tries a dozen different approaches. Chronological. Thematic. Fragmented and nonlinear.

Nothing feels right.

The words on the page can’t capture what Ilya has always meant to him.

He revises and rewrites and revises again. He cuts whole chapters and starts over from scratch. By December, he has something. A hundred and fifty pages. It’s rough, unpolished, probably embarrassing. But it exists.

He saves the document, backs it up to the cloud, and closes his laptop.

“I finished the draft.”

Ilya looks up from the couch, where he’s been watching hockey highlights on his phone with Wyatt drowsing against his shoulder. “The book?”

“Yeah.” Shane hovers in the doorway of the living room, suddenly nervous. “I mean, it’s not finished finished. It needs a lot of work. But there’s a complete draft now. Beginning, middle, end.”

“You want me to read?”

“Only if you want to. There’s no pressure. You can say no.”

“Shane.” Ilya shifts Wyatt gently, settling their sleeping boy more securely against his chest. “Of course I want to read. I have been waiting for this.”

“You might not like how I wrote some things. Or you might think I got it wrong, or—”

“Shane. Stop. I will read. Then we will talk. Okay?”

“Okay.” He takes a long breath. “Okay. Yeah.”

He doesn’t give Ilya the draft that night. Wyatt is cranky because of toothache and demanding all evening, crying all night. By the time they finally get him settled, they are too exhausted to do anything but collapse. Shane is secretly relieved for the delay, though he lies awake for hours anyway, listing every way this could go wrong.

The next evening, he runs out of excuses. After Wyatt is asleep, Shane hands Ilya his laptop with the document already open

“You don’t have to read it all tonight,” he says. “It’s long. You can take your time.”

Ilya looks at the screen and then at Shane. “I will read now.”

“Are you sure? It’s almost ten.”

“Shane.” Ilya pats the bed beside him. “Sit. Be quiet. Let me read.”

So Shane sits. He lies back against the pillows, listening to the soft click of the trackpad as Ilya scrolls through pages. His heart pounds. After what feels like hours, Ilya finally closes the laptop.

Shane sits up straighter, clearing his throat. “Well?”

Ilya sets the laptop aside, slowly. Then he looks at Shane, and his face is blank.

“You didn’t like it,” Shane says. His stomach drops. “I knew it. I knew I should have—”

Ilya cups Shane’s face in both hands and kisses him like he’s trying to communicate a love so overwhelming it can’t be contained.

Shane makes a startled noise against his mouth, his hands fisting in Ilya’s shirt, his whole body trembling.

When Ilya finally pulls back, they’re both breathing hard. “Is beautiful,” he says. “Is true. Is us, Shane. You wrote us.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. You are going to help so many people with this book. So many kids who feel like they are alone. Who think they have to hide forever.”

“That’s the hope,” Shane says.

“Is not just hope.” Ilya kisses him again, slowly this time. “Is certainty. I am so proud of you, Shane. So proud.”

They start trying for another baby in January.

It takes four months of negative tests, leaving Shane staring at a wall and wondering if his body was a one-hit wonder. Then, in May, the nausea hits.

Shane is at the Academy, sitting through a budget meeting when the smell of someone’s bagel sends his stomach lurching sideways. He freezes mid-sentence, his mouth flooding with saliva, and for one horrible moment he thinks he’s going to throw up right there on the conference table.

“Excuse me,” he manages, and bolts for the bathroom. He makes it to the toilet just in time. He heaves until there’s nothing left, then kneels on the cold tile floor, panting. He knows this feeling. He remembers it.

Shane fumbles his phone out of his pocket and pulls up the calendar app. He counts backward, does the math, counts again.

His rut is four days late.

He didn’t even notice. He’s been so busy with the book revisions and the Academy holiday party and Wyatt’s preschool activities that he completely lost track.

Four days.

Shane flushes the toilet and washes his hands. He rinses his mouth, splashes water on his face, stares at himself in the mirror. He terrified. Hopeful.

He goes back to the meeting and somehow gets through the rest of it. The second it ends, Shane grabs his coat and drives to the pharmacy. The test takes three minutes. He sits on the toilet in the Academy bathroom and stares at the little plastic stick balanced on the edge of the sink. His leg bounces.

The first line appears almost immediately.

Shane holds his breath.

And then, slowly, faintly, a second line begins to form.

He looks again, thinking his imagination is cruelly playing with him. But the line is still there, getting darker by the second.

Two Pink lines

Two fucking lines.

He sits there on the toilet in the Academy bathroom, alone, crying over a pregnancy test like a teenager in a movie. When he can breathe again, he takes a photo of the test. Then he washes his hands, pockets the stick, and drives home. Ilya is in the kitchen when Shane gets there, trying to convince Wyatt that broccoli is delicious, actually, and not a torture device invented specifically to ruin four-year-olds’ lives.

“Papa!” Wyatt abandons his standoff with the vegetable and launches himself at Shane’s legs. “Papa, Daddy is making me eat trees.”

“They’re good for you,” Shane says automatically. He looks at Ilya over Wyatt’s head.

Ilya’s smile fades. “Shane? What is wrong?”

Shane doesn’t answer. He just crosses the kitchen, reaches into his pocket, and holds out the pregnancy test. The spoon Ilya was holding clatters to the floor. Neither of them moves to pick it up.

“Is that—” Ilya’s voice cracks. “Shane. Is that—”

“Yeah.” Shane’s eyes are stinging again. “Yeah. It is.”

Ilya stares at the test. At Shane. At the test again. His mouth opens, closes, opens. And then he’s shoving back from the counter and crashing into Shane with enough force to knock them both off balance.

Shane catches himself on the edge of the table, and Ilya wraps around him.

“Again,” Ilya tells him, and Shane sobs from hearing the awe in Ilya’s voice. “We are having another baby.”

“A baby.” The words feel like a miracle in his mouth. “I can’t believe—I thought maybe it wasn’t going to happen. I thought—”

“I know.” Ilya breaks the hug to cup Shane’s face in his hands. His smile is enormous. “I know. But it did. It did, Shane.”

“Papa?” Wyatt stands between them, confused by Shane’s reaction. “Papa, why is Daddy crying? Is he sad about the broccoli too?”

Shane scoops Wyatt up into his arms. “No, buddy,” he says, pressing a loud kiss to his son’s cheek. “Daddy’s not sad. Daddy’s really, really happy. This is happy tears.”

Ottawa, Ontario
5 September 2033

The bedroom is dim, the sun having set hours ago. Shane lies propped against the pillows, naked, one hand resting on the taut curve of his five months belly. His cock lies heavy against his thigh, half-hard already, because that’s just how it is now. The hormones have turned him into a creature of constant want.

He hears the shower shut off. His hole clenches in anticipation, slick gathering, and he spreads his thighs wider against the sheets. Ilya appears in the doorway, towel slung low, water droplets still clinging to the dark hair on his chest. He stops when he sees Shane displayed for him.

“You are supposed to be resting,” Ilya says, the towel is already tenting.

“I am resting.” Shane runs his hand down his belly, over the curve, letting his fingers drift lower. He traces the crease of his thigh, watches Ilya’s eyes track the movement. “Resting right here. Waiting.”

The towel hits the floor.

Ilya climbs onto the bed, settling between Shane’s spread legs, and just looks. His gaze travels from Shane’s flushed face to his swollen chest to the heavy curve of his stomach to his leaking cock and the glistening mess between his thighs. Shane should feel self-conscious. But he feels powerful because he has captured the full, undivided attention of a man who rarely lets his guard down, and he holds it effortlessly just by existing.

“Beautiful,” Ilya breathes. “Every time I think you cannot get more beautiful, you do.”

“I’m huge,” Shane says.

“You are ripe.” Ilya’s hands find his belly, cradling the swell. “Full of our child. Full of me.” He bends down and presses his mouth to the stretched skin, kissing just below Shane’s navel. The baby kicks against his lips, and he laughs. “See? They know Papa is here.”

“They’re telling you to hurry up.”

Ilya grins crookedly. “Demanding. Just like their daddy.” He kisses his way up Shane’s body, pausing at his chest. Shane’s nipples have been aching for days. Ilya circles one with his tongue, and Shane’s whole body jerks.

“Ah—sensitive—”

“I know.” Ilya does it again, a slow, wet circle, then closes his lips around the swollen nub and sucks.

Shane feels himself clench around nothing, more slick leaking onto the sheets.

Ilya sucks harder. He cups Shane’s other pec, kneading the swollen tissue, and Shane feels a tingling, and then—

“Oh,” he gasps. “Oh—”

Ilya pulls back to look at him. A bead of white crowns Shane’s nipple, glistening in the low light.

“There,” Ilya drawls. “I was waiting for this.” He leans back in and wraps his lips around the nub, suckling gently, and Shane moans. The milk flows in a thin stream, and the relief is immediate.

“Ilya—” Shane’s hips buck involuntarily. His cock is fully hard now, leaking against his belly, and his hole is throbbing. “Ilya, please, I need—”

Ilya releases him with a wet sound. His lips are shiny, his eyes dark. “What do you need?”

“You. Inside me. Now.”

Ilya doesn’t argue. He shifts back, his hands sliding down Shane’s sides, gripping his hips with that particular firmness that makes Shane’s brain go fuzzy.

“Turn over,” Ilya murmurs. “On your knees.”

Shane’s limbs feel uncooperative, but he manages to roll onto his side. Ilya helps him the rest of the way, large hands guiding him until Shane is on all fours, his belly hanging heavy beneath him, his back arched. The position takes pressure off his spine, and he groans with relief.

“Good?” Ilya asks, running his palm down the curve of Shane’s ass.

“Yeah,” Shane breathes. “Yeah, that’s—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Ilya’s hands spread him open, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of his cheeks, and then there’s hot breath against his hole.

Shane’s arms nearly give out.

“Ilya—”

“Shh.” The word ghosts over his slick entrance, and Shane shivers. “Let me.”

A gentle lick over Shane’s rim makes his whole body clench. He drops his head between his shoulders, pressing his forehead into the pillow, his breath coming in sharp little pants. Ilya licks him again. Slower this time. A long, flat stroke, gathering the slick that’s already leaking from Shane’s body.

Shane whimpers. The sound is embarrassing, needy, but he can’t help it. His cock hangs heavy between his thighs, dripping onto the sheets, and every nerve in his body seems to be concentrated in that one small point where Ilya’s tongue is working him open.

Ilya pushes inside.

Shane gasps, his hands fisting in the sheets and Ilya’s tongue sliding past the ring of muscle, licking into him. Shane’s hole flutters around the intrusion, trying to pull him deeper.

“Fuck,” Shane chokes out. “Oh fuck, that’s—”

Ilya responds by pressing his face harder against Shane’s ass, his nose nudging Shane’s tailbone, his tongue plunging as deep as it can reach. He fucks Shane with his mouth, slow and thorough, licking and sucking and devouring.

Shane curses when Ilya pulls away, and he suddenly feels empty. Slick is leaking out of him, dripping down his inner thighs. Ilya looms behind him. A wall of heat. Massive. Encompassing.

“Look at you,” Ilya growls. “So heavy with it. Leaking like a bitch.”

Shane bites his lip to stop a whine. “Just do it,” he pants. “Ilya. Fuck.”

“Impatient.”

Ilya’s large hands splay over Shane’s hips. His thumbs dig into the dimples of Shane’s ass, holding him in place. Then, without warning, Ilya spreads Shane’s cheeks again.

Cool air hits Shane’s wet, gaping hole. Then, hot, firm flesh presses against it. The head of Ilya’s cock. It is blunt, broad, and terrifyingly large.

Shane gasps, his toes curling into the sheets.
“Ilya…”

“Relax,” Ilya commands.

Shane cries out, his head thrown back, as he is impaled. He feels every ridge, every vein, the sheer, impossible circumference of Ilya claiming him inch by agonizing inch.

“Fuck!” Shane screams into the pillow. “You’re so big.”

“And you take it,” Ilya grunts, driving his hips forward until they slap wetly against Shane’s ass. “You take every inch. Good hole.”

The emptiness in his belly, the ache in his chest, it all vanishes. He is stuffed with his husband. The pressure reaches all the way into his throat, pushing his organs aside to make room for the intruder.

It feels magnificent.

Then Ilya begins to move. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving Shane bereft and empty for a split second, before slamming back in.

Shane is lost. He is floating in a haze of sensation. His prostate is being hammered, sending waves of electric heat through his nervous system. He drools into the pillow, unable to close his mouth.

“That’s it,” Ilya growls, his hand sliding under Shane’s belly to cradle the bump. He lifts the weight of it, supporting their unborn child while he ravages Shane’s hole. “Good boy. Taking it so good for Papa.”

The praise hits Shane like a drug. He whines, pushing back, meeting Ilya’s thrusts with his own desperate rhythm. He wants to be ruined. He wants Ilya to leave a mark on his soul that never fades.

“Deep,” Shane gasps. “Hit it. Hit the womb.”

Ilya moans, taking the invitation. He drives harder, faster. Each thrust drags against Shane’s sensitive walls, stoking the fire that’s already building again in his core. Shane pushes back, urging him deeper, harder.

“So good for me,” Ilya groans. “Taking me so well. My pregnant mate. Carrying my child.” His hand leaves Shane’s hip to grip his cock instead, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Going to fill you up. Give you more. Never stop giving you more.”
“Please—”

Shane feels the knot begin to swell.

The knot.

It’s coming. Shane’s insides flutter wildly. His hole stretches to its absolute limit as the knot begins to flare inside him, a bulb of hard, hot flesh expanding against his prostate.

Ilya folds over him, biting the sensitive cord of Shane’s neck. The knot locks into place. Shane is trapped. The orgasm rips through him, he squeezes his eyes shut, seeing spots of light behind his lids.

His cock spurts onto the sheets, messy and ignored, as his internal muscles spasm around the knot, milking Ilya for everything he’s worth. Ilya groans, a sound of pure, wrecked pleasure. He pumps his hips one last time, grinding the knot against Shane’s entrance, and pours himself into Shane.

It feels like a flood. Hot, heavy, endless. Shane can feel the warmth of it spreading deep inside him, claiming him. He sobs through the aftershocks, completely undone.

They stay like that for a long time. Locked together. Shane is panting, sweat dripping from his nose, his body gone boneless. Ilya has his face buried in Shane’s neck, his hand still protectively cupping the baby bump.

Shane feels the baby kick—a strong, indignant thump against the mattress.

Ilya laughs breathlessly against his skin. “She is awake. wondering why there is earthquake.”

“She,” Shane wheezes, his lips slowly curving in a blissful smile. “You think it’s a she?”

“I know.” Ilya kisses the sweat-damp hair at Shane’s temple. “Because she is stubborn. Like you.”

Shane closes his eyes, savoring the fullness. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Ilya whispers, the knot slowly beginning to soften inside him. He plants the softest kiss on Shane’s shoulder blade. “Always you, Shane.”

Japan
10 October 2033

The flight to Tokyo is thirteen hours. With a six-year-old, it feels like thirteen years. His son has beaten three levels on Mario Kart. He has eaten the bribes. Now he is leaning over the armrest, poking Ilya’s bicep.

“Papa.”

“Yes, bear.”

“How many more minutes?”

“Four hundred.”

“That is too many numbers,” Wyatt groans, slumping back into his seat. “My legs feel twitchy.”

Shane stirs in the seat next to them. He has the window seat, a pillow wedged behind his lower back. He blinks, his eyes groggy and soft. “Is he rioting yet?”

“He is,” Ilya says, putting a hand on Wyatt’s knee to keep it from bouncing. “Go back to sleep.”

“I’m hungry,” Shane mumbles.

“I have protein bar. Or apple slices.”

Shane makes a face. “I want noodles. Spicy ones.”

“We are on plane, Shane. They have pretzels.”

Shane sighs, shifting uncomfortably. His hand drifts to his belly, rubbing the high, tight curve of it through his blue hoodie. “She’s kicking my bladder again. She’s running out of room.”

Ilya reaches over, covering Shane’s hand with his own. He feels the distinct thump against his palm. It never gets old. It is terrifying and miraculous every single time. “She is training,” he says. “Future Olympian.”

“Future karate master,” Shane quips, and Ilya kisses the tip of Shane’s nose.

Shane takes the lead the moment they landed.“We need three Suica cards,” he murmurs, his fingers flying over the touch screen. He switches the language to English for Ilya’s sake but reads the Japanese characters on the overhead signs with narrowed eyes.

Ilya watches him, adjusting the strap of the heavy duffel bag on his shoulder while keeping a vice grip on Wyatt’s hand. Wyatt is busy looking around, reading the English signs out loud to himself.

“You are showing off,” Ilya says fondly to Shane.

“I just want to get to the hotel before my feet fall off,” Shane grumbles.

Shane had come here in Japan only three times as a child with his parents to visit his grandmother in Sapporo. Those trips were hazy memories. He hadn’t returned in his twenties at all. Hockey made it impossible. This is only his fourth trip in his entire life. But for the last six months, he has been listening to Japanese language to sharpen his language skills, terrified that he won’t be able to pass this part of himself down to their children.

They check into the hotel in Shinjuku. The room is small, because everything in Tokyo is small, but the view is incredible. Neon lights stretch out forever, a galaxy of pink and blue and gold.

Wyatt presses his face and hands against the glass. “Whoa. It looks like a video game.”

“Is big city,” Ilya agrees, coming up behind him.

“Is it bigger than Toronto?” Wyatt asks, turning to look up at him.

“Much bigger.”

Shane collapses onto the bed with a groan of pure pleasure. “Oh my god. Finally.”

The next day, they start with the Ghibli Museum in Mitaka. Shane loves the movies. He makes fun of Ilya for watching action movies, but Shane watches Totoro and cries. Ilya bought the tickets months ago, the second they went on sale. The museum is whimsical. There are spiral staircases and stained glass windows.

Wyatt is enchanted. He spots the giant plush vehicle in the play area and gasps. “The Catbus!” he yells. “Papa, it’s the Catbus!”

“I see it,” Ilya says. “Go. But take off shoes first.”

Wyatt scrambles out of his sneakers with impressive speed and dives onto the plush bus. He is taller than the other kids there.

Ilya watches him, then looks at Shane. His husband is leaning against a wall, smiling, but Shane’s hand is rubbing his lower back again.

“You okay?” Ilya asks immediately.

“Yeah. Just feeling heavy today.”

“We sit. There is cafe.”

They sit in the Straw Hat Cafe. Ilya orders strawberry shortcake and a massive sandwich for Shane. Shane eats like he hasn’t seen food in weeks.

“This is cool,” Shane says, wiping crumbs from his lip. “I’m glad we came.”

“Is good for Wyatt,” Ilya says. “To see world.”

“Do you think he’ll remember it?” Shane looks at Wyatt, who is currently trying to use chopsticks to eat a french fry, concentrating hard. “He’s six. I barely remember trips from when I was six.”

“He will remember feeling,” Ilya says firmly. “He will remember he was safe. And happy. And that his daddies took him everywhere.”

Shane smiles. “Yeah.”

“I always win.”

“Don’t push it.”

It’s raining when they reach Tokyo Disneyland the following day. Just a little. A fine mist that makes the lights on Main Street glow. They buy clear plastic umbrellas at the gate. Wyatt is wearing a plastic poncho that makes him look like a very small, very excited garbage bag.

“I can see the castle!” Wyatt shouts, pointing.

“Is Cinderella’s castle,” Ilya says, checking the app on his phone. “Okay. Shane, you cannot do Space Mountain. Or Big Thunder Mountain. Or Splash Mountain.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I know the list. I’m pregnant, not invalid.”

“I’m tall enough for Space Mountain now,” Wyatt argues, standing on his tiptoes. “I checked the sign.”

“You are tall enough,” Ilya agrees. “But Daddy cannot go. And I am not leaving Daddy alone.”

Wyatt pouts for a second, but he is a good kid. “Okay. What can we do?”

“We do Pooh’s Hunny Hunt. Is trackless. Very gentle. Then It’s a Small World. Then we eat churro.”

“I like the churro part,” Shane says.

Pooh’s Hunny Hunt is, actually, mind-blowing. The honey pots dance around the room without a track. Wyatt laughs the entire time, pointing out the characters he recognizes. They do the Teacups next. Ilya spins the wheel so fast that Shane turns green and threatens divorce, while Wyatt helps spin it faster, shrieking with joy.

“Stop! Stop!” Shane gasps, leaning against a railing afterward. “You two are monsters.”

“Is centrifuge training,” Ilya says, though he is also slightly dizzy. “Good for G-force.”

By late afternoon, the rain stops. The sky turns a bruised purple. They buy popcorn—curry flavor for Ilya, caramel for Wyatt, sea salt for Shane. They find a bench near the castle to wait for the parade. Shane sits heavily. He stretches his legs out, his ankles swollen over the tops of his sneakers.

Ilya sits next to him, pulling Shane’s legs into his lap to massage them. Shane sighs, his head tipping back.

“You’re a very good husband,” Shane tells him. “I’m very lucky.

Ilya digs his thumbs into Shane’s arches. “How is she?”

“Quiet. Think the walking rocked her to sleep.”

Wyatt is sitting on the ground, organizing his popcorn bucket. He looks up, sharp eyes tracking the conversation. “Is the baby sleeping?”

Ilya and Shane exchange a look. They had told Wyatt about the baby months ago, of course, but the reality of it is becoming more physical every day.

“Yeah,” Shane says. He sits up, wincing a little. “Come here, Wy.”

Wyatt climbs up onto the bench between them. He’s getting too big for laps, but he still leans his side against Shane. “Did she kick you today?”

“A lot,” Shane says. He takes Wyatt’s hand and places it on his belly. The sweatshirt is thick, but the bump is undeniable underneath. “She’s getting strong.”

Wyatt frowns, pressing his hand harder. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes,” Shane admits. “But it’s a good hurt. It means she’s growing.”

Wyatt stares at Shane’s stomach. He is quiet for a moment.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, hon?”

“When she comes out,” Wyatt says. “Are you going to be too busy?”

Ilya feels a sudden twist in his chest. He forgets, sometimes, how observant Wyatt is. How much he understands even for such a young age. Just like him.

“Too busy for what?” Shane asks gently.

“For me,” Wyatt says quietly. “Arthur said babies cry all the time and you have to hold them forever.”

Ilya reaches out, tilting Wyatt’s chin up. “Hey. Look at me.”

Wyatt looks at him, eyes glassy.

“Babies do cry,” Ilya says. “And they need lots of help. But you are first. Nothing changes that. Papa and Daddy love you so much.”

“But your hands will be full,” Wyatt argues, his logic typically sound. “You only have two hands.”

“I have two hands,” Shane says, circling his arm around Wyatt. “And Papa has two hands. That is four hands. Plenty of hands for you and for your sister.”

“And we have big couch,” Ilya adds. “And big hearts.”

Wyatt sniffs. “So I don’t have to move out of my room?”

Shane throws his head back in laughter, pulling Wyatt into a squeeze. “No! God, no. You’re stuck with us, kid. You’re never moving out.”

“Well, maybe when I’m twenty,” Wyatt says reasonably.

“Not even then,” Ilya says. “I lock the doors.”

Wyatt giggles. He looks at Shane’s belly again. He leans forward and puts his ear against it, listening. “She’s awake,” he mumbles.

Just then, the baby kicks. Hard. Right against Wyatt’s ear.

Wyatt jerks back, eyes wide. “She punched me!”

“It was high-five,” Ilya says. “She knows you are there. She is saying hello to Big Brother.”

Wyatt looks amazed. A slow grin spreads across his face. “She is strong,” he decides. “Maybe she will be a hockey player too.”

“Maybe,” Shane agrees, kissing the top of Wyatt’s head. “But she has to learn to skate first. You’ll have to teach her.”

Wyatt puffs up his chest, taking the responsibility seriously. “Okay. I can do that. I’m a good skater.”

“The best,” Ilya confirms proudly, giving Wyatt a fist bump.

“Okay.” Wyatt reaches out and pats the belly, gentle but firm. “You can come out, baby. But I’m the captain.”

Shane chuckles as he rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya holds them both—his husband, his son, his unborn daughter. The lights of the castle start to twinkle as the sun goes down completely.

“He is the captain,” Ilya agrees.

“We’re outnumbered,” Shane says, but he sounds perfectly happy about it.

“We are fine,” Ilya says. He kisses Wyatt’s hair, then Shane’s temple. “I make sure of it.”

The Ottawa Hospital
7 January 2034

The hospital room is too bright, the white light bouncing off the linoleum and stinging Ilya’s tired eyes. He grips Shane’s hand, careful not to crush the IV line taped to the back of it. Shane is awake, but he’s hazy, his dark eyes drifting out of focus as the drugs do their work. He stares at the blue drape suspended between them and the rest of Shane’s body. It’s a thin, flimsy wall, but it’s the only thing separating Ilya from the surgical reality happening on the other side.

It is so different from the last time that he cannot accompany Shane when he gives birth to Wyatt.

“Ilya,” Shane says. His voice is a dry rasp.

“I’m here.” Ilya brings his face down into Shane’s line of sight. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

“Is she…” Shane swallows, his throat clicking audibly. “Is she out?”

“Not yet. Soon.” Ilya forces himself to sound calm, the same way he does when they’re down a goal with a minute left on the clock. But inside, his chest is a knot of panic.

The murmuring on the other side of the curtain soon stops. There’s a wet, heavy silence that lasts a second too long.

And then, a cry.

Ilya stops breathing for few seconds.

Shane’s eyes fly open, focus snapping back with sudden clarity. “Ilya.”

“I hear her,” Ilya chokes out, the air rushing back into his lungs. “I hear her, Shane.”

“Go,” Shane says, pushing weakly at Ilya’s hand. “Go see. Tell me.”

Ilya doesn’t want to leave him, but he moves around the head of the bed, past the anesthesiologist who gives him a curt nod. The nurses are huddled around the warmer. And there, in the center of the activity, their furious, wriggling baby. She is covered in vernix, her skin a mottled, angry red. She looks nothing like the porcelain dolls in the commercials. She looks real and alive.

“Dad?” one of the nurses says, smiling behind her mask. “You want to take a look?”

Ilya steps forward slowly. He looks down.

She has dark hair, wet and matted against a skull that looks impossibly fragile. Her hands are balled into tiny fists, punching at the air. When Wyatt was born, Ilya felt a terrifying rush of responsibility. This is different. It’s expansion.

The fear he’d been nursing—that his heart was a finite vessel—shatters. Looking at her, Ilya feels his heart grows new chambers. It is a physical sensation, painful and sweet.

“She’s perfect,” the nurse says, wrapping the baby in a white blanket and placing a tiny pink hat on her head. “Do you want to bring her to him?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Yes. Please.”

The nurse settles the bundle into Ilya’s arms. She is heavier than he expected. Warm heat radiates through the blanket and into Ilya’s chest. She stops crying the moment she is held, settling into the crook of his arm. Ilya traces the line of her nose—Shane’s nose—and the stubborn set of her mouth.

“Hello,” he whispers in Russian and walks back to Shane.

Shane is watching him with a hunger that hurts to look at, straining against the numbness, trying to lift his head. “Ilya?”

“I have her,” Ilya says. He brings the bundle to Shane’s eye level. “Look, Shane.”

Shane turns his head, and Ilya watches his husband fall in love instantly. The pain lines in his face are replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated wonder. Tears pool in Shane’s eyes and spill over.

“Oh,” Shane breathes. “Oh my god.”

“She is strong,” Ilya says thickly. “She was fighting the nurses. She has your temper.”

“She’s so small,” Shane says. He struggles to free one arm from under the sterile drapes. Ilya helps him, guiding Shane’s numb hand to the baby’s cheek. Shane touches her with one finger, terrified. “Hey. Hey, baby girl. I’m your daddy.”

The baby shifts. She lets out a small, warbling sound. It sounds hauntingly familiar to Ilya, a sound from the lakes of the Cottage in the early morning mist. A sound that matches the tattoo etched into his skin.

“Did you hear that?” Shane laughs weakly.

“I heard,” Ilya says. He presses his cheek against the top of the baby’s hat. “She sounds like a bird.”

“A loon,” Shane says, smiling through his tears.

“Irina Mei, my little loon,” Ilya agrees softly.

Shane looks up at him. His eyes are soft, understanding. He knows what it costs Ilya to say the name. He knows what it gives.

“Irina,” Shane says. He strokes the baby’s cheek. “Irina Mei Hollander-Rozanov. It’s a big name for a little bird.”

“She will grow in it,” Ilya says. “We will make sure.”

Irina Mei shifts in his arms, turning her face toward Shane’s touch. Ilya feels a fierce, protective heat rise in his chest. He has lifted the Stanley Cup. He has heard arenas chant his name.

None of it compares to this.

He leans down and kisses Shane—salt and sweat and tears—and then he kisses the tiny, warm forehead of his daughter. “Welcome home, Irina,” he whispers into the crown of her head. “We have been waiting for you.”

The nurses take her eventually, to weigh her, but Ilya doesn’t take his eyes off the small clear bassinet for a second. He tracks her movement across the room like he tracks a puck—singular focus, everything else blurring into the periphery. When they finally move to the recovery room, Shane sleeps, then wakes, then sleeps again, the morphine pulling him under.

Ilya sits in the uncomfortable vinyl chair, Irina sleeping in the bassinet next to him, and watches them both. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t want to miss a single breath. By the next morning, Shane is sitting up in the hospital bed, propped by pillows. He is drinking apple juice through a straw, grimacing slightly every time he has to shift his hips.

“They are here,” Ilya says, looking up from his phone. “Dad texted. Parking lot.”

Shane sets the juice down on the rolling table. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to tame the bedhead. “Do I look okay? I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“You look beautiful,” Ilya says.

He stands up and walks over to the bassinet. Irina is awake, blinking up at him. He picks up his daughter. She is so light compared to Wyatt, a dense little weight that fits entirely in the cradle of his arm. He adjusts the blanket, making sure her head is supported, and moves to stand beside Shane’s bed. They wait.

A minute later, there is soft knock, and door creeps open. David pokes his head in first, smiling when he sees them. He opens door wider, and Yuna walks in, holding Wyatt’s hand. Wyatt is wearing his favorite dinosaur sweatshirt. He hesitates in the doorway. Their son is six now, old enough to be intimidated by the machines, and his grip on Yuna’s hand tightens.

“Hi, bear,” Shane says brightly, waving at their son. “Come here.”

Wyatt instantly lets go of Yuna’s hand and walks into the room. He looks worried. “Daddy? You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Shane says. He reaches out a hand. “I just have a sore tummy from the surgery, so I can’t pick you up right now. But I really need a hug.”

Wyatt hurries to the side of the bed. He climbs up onto the step stool the nurse left there and leans over the rail to wrap his arms carefully around Shane’s neck. Shane closes his eyes, and Ilya watches the visible relief of having their firstborn in his arms.

“I missed you,” Wyatt mumbles into Shane’s shoulder.

“I missed you too, honey. So much.”

Yuna and David move further into room. Yuna’s eyes are shining with tears as she walks to other side of bed. She reaches out, stroking Shane’s head, her touch infinitely gentle.

“Oh, Shane,” she whispers. “My brave boy.”

“Hey, Mom,” Shane says, pulling back from Wyatt slightly to look at her.

“You did so well,” Yuna says as she kisses his forehead, lingering there for long moment. “We are so proud of you. Look at this beautiful family you have made.”

“Proud of you, son,” David adds, his voice gruff but warm. He rests hand on Shane’s shoulder, giving it a tiny squeeze. “Doctor said everything went smooth?”

“Yeah.” Shane nods. “Yeah, it went great. Just sore.”

David looks at Ilya then, his eyes crinkling at corners. “And you, Papa. You holding up?”

“I am good,” Ilya says, swaying Irina gently.

Wyatt turns on the step stool, his attention finally shifting to Ilya. Or, more specifically, to pink bundle in Ilya’s arms.

The room goes quiet.

“Is that her?” Wyatt asks, his voice hushed.

“Yes,” Ilya confirms. He moves closer. “Wyatt, come. Come meet your sister.”

Wyatt hops down from stool. He walks over to Ilya.

Ilya crouches down, angling his arm so Wyatt can see. Irina is awake. She makes small, squeaking sound and shifts against Ilya’s chest.

Wyatt stares, his nose almost touching blanket. He studies her face, her closed fists, the dark fuzz of hair on her head. He looks at her as if she is alien species that has landed in his living room.

“She’s tiny,” Wyatt says.

“She is,” Shane says from the bed, watching them with watery smile. “You were small like that too, once.”

“What’s her name?” Wyatt asks, not looking away from the baby.

“Irina,” Ilya says. “Irina Mei.”

Wyatt frowns slightly, testing the name on his tongue. “Reena.”

“Close enough,” Ilya says fondly. “Want to touch her hand? Gentle. Like with cat.”

Wyatt reaches out a finger. He touches back of Irina’s hand. Immediately, her tiny fingers splay out and then curl around his index finger, gripping it.

Wyatt gasps. His gaze flies up to meet Ilya’s. “Papa! She grabbed me!”

“She knows you,” Ilya says seriously. “She knows you are Big Brother. She is saying hello.”

Wyatt looks back at the baby, his expression shifting from curiosity to awe. He stands a little straighter. “Hi,” he whispers to her. “I’m Wyatt.”

Irina gurgles, blowing small bubble of spit.

“She likes you,” Shane says. “I can tell.”

Wyatt keeps his finger in her grip, unwilling to let go. He looks at Shane, then at Ilya, making a calculation. “She doesn’t take up much space,” he suddenly says. “Daddy still has room on his lap.”

Ilya feels lump form in his throat size of a puck. He looks at Shane, and sees same emotion mirrored in his husband’s eyes.

“Loads of room,” Shane promises. “Come here, Wy. Help Papa bring her to me.”

Ilya stands up, keeping his pace slow so Wyatt can keep his finger held in Irina’s grip as they walk the three steps to bed. A clumsy, beautiful procession. When they reach bed, Ilya settles Irina into Shane’s waiting arm, and Wyatt immediately climbs up to sit in empty space on Shane’s other side. Shane adjusts, wincing slightly but refusing to let go of either of them. He pulls Wyatt close with one arm and cradles Irina with the other.

Yuna and David stand at foot of bed, arms around each other, watching.

Ilya stands back for second, just breathing it in. His family.

“Ilya,” Shane calls, he tilts his head toward edge of mattress. “Come here. Stop hovering.”

“I am here,” Ilya says, but he moves anyway. He sits on edge of bed, his hip pressed against Shane’s leg, his hand coming up to rest on Wyatt’s back, and his fingers brushing soft cotton of blanket wrapped around Irina.

“Okay,” Yuna says, and Ilya can see that she is getting emotional now. She rummages in her large leather handbag and pulls out a digicam. “You have to let me take one. Just one. For album.”

Shane groans, letting his head fall back against pillow. “Mom. I haven’t showered in two days. My hair is a disaster.”

“Your hair is perfect,” Ilya says. “You look like rock star.”

Shane leans into Ilya, putting on a soft smile. “Okay. One picture.”

“David, come,” Yuna commands. “Get in.”

“No, no,” David waves his hand. “This is for them. The new family of four.”

Yuna hesitates, then nods. She lifts the camera. “Okay. Squeeze together.”

Ilya wraps his arm tighter around Wyatt, pulling him snug against his side. He leans his head in until his cheek is resting against Shane’s hair, smiling.

“Wyatt, look at Grandma,” Shane says softly.

Wyatt is busy staring at Irina’s nose. “She has a small nose.”

“Wyatt,” David calls from behind Yuna. “Look here, sport! Look at Grandma!” He makes loud, funny duck noise—one that used to make Wyatt laugh when he was baby.

Wyatt’s head snaps up, a grin breaking across his face at his grandfather’s silliness.

Click.

Yuna lowers camera. She looks at screen, and her hand comes up to cover her mouth. She doesn’t say anything, just wipes at her eye with her knuckle.

“Good?” Shane asks.

“Perfect,” Yuna says. “It is perfect.”

The house changes, too. The hallway becomes a timeline of their joy. There is a photo of Wyatt holding Irina for the first time on the sofa, his expression a mix of terror and pride, pillows stacked around. There is a candid shot Yuna took: Shane asleep in the recliner, mouth slightly open, with Irina asleep on his chest, their breathing synced. And then there is a selfie Shane took in the mirror with Ilya holding both their children, his biceps straining, looking like a victorious king.

Ilya walks past it at night when he goes to get water, and he has to touch the frames, just to make sure they are real.

By June, Irina is rolling over. Ilya puts her on the playmat in the living room and turns his back for two seconds to ready Shane’s drink. When he turns back, she is on her stomach, looking surprised.

“Shane!” Ilya yells. “She flipped! Like pancake!”

Shane comes running from the office, but of course, she refuses to do it again.

She looks like Shane. Everyone says she has his stubborn chin, which is true, but the eyes? The eyes are all Shane. They settle into a warm, dark brown, thoughtful and watchful. She has Shane’s quiet observation skills. She does not scream as much now; she watches. She tracks Wyatt around the room like he is the sun and she is a small, orbiting planet.

Wyatt brings her toys. He explains the plot of Paw Patrol to her in serious detail. He warns her about the dangers of broccoli.

“Don’t eat it, Reena.” Ilya catches Wyatt saying to her one morning while he is making breakfast. “It tastes like trees.”

Irina blows a raspberry.

“Exactly,” Wyatt says.

Ilya flips the eggs and smiles. This is the life. It maybe loud and exhausting. But it is nothing like the life he thought he would have when he was twenty, angry and closeted and terrified.

Is infinitely better.

Ottawa, Ontario
4 July 2034

Today is their wedding anniversary. It is also launch day. Shane’s book is out in the world. Real people are walking into bookstores and buying it. Amazon drivers are dropping it on doorsteps.

The secrets are gone.

Ilya is lying in the large rope hammock strung between two ancient cedar trees near the water’s edge of the Cottage. Shane is asleep on his chest. He is wearing old swim trunks and a faded blue button down. Down on the grass, the rest of the clan is loud. David and Wyatt are hitting a volleyball back and forth. Wyatt is terrible at it, mostly flailing his arms and shrieking, but David is patient, tapping the ball gently so it lands right in front of him.

“Get under it, Wy!” David calls. “Use your knees!”

“I am!” Wyatt yells, jumping three seconds too late.

To the left, on a picnic blanket, Yuna is holding Irina. The baby—six months old now and sturdy—is sitting up between Yuna’s legs, wearing a sun hat and yellow floral dress. She is chewing on a plastic ring with single-minded determination. Anya is happily barking while running in circles around them.

Ilya shifts slightly, adjusting the book held in his hands.

The Hows of Us: A Memoir.
By Shane Hollander.

The cover is simple. Black and white. A pair of skates hanging in a locker, laces undone.

Ilya has been reading it for two days. He got the first copy—the author copy—fresh from the box. He has been reading it slow. He reads a chapter, then has to stop and stare at the lake for twenty minutes because his chest feels too full.

He lived it. He was there. But reading it through Shane’s eyes is different. He reads about the first time they met in the World Junior Hockey Championships. He reads about the hatred that wasn’t really hatred. He reads about the crushing, suffocating fear that Shane lived with every single day.

I didn’t want to hide, Shane wrote in Chapter 9. I just didn’t want to lose him. And I thought I had to choose.

Ilya tightens his arm around the sleeping Shane. He reads about the leak. The heartbreak that is called Montreal. It is honest. Shane does not paint himself as a hero. He writes about his selfishness, his stubbornness. He includes the dark years. The pain pills. The depression.

Ilya had lived through that, too, but seeing Shane’s internal monologue—the self-loathing, the fear that he was broken beyond repair—hurt more than thousands of cross checks. But Shane also writes about him with an affection that makes Ilya’s face heat up.

There’s four pages written about him.

Ilya Rozanov is not a person, Shane wrote. He is a gravitational force.

Ilya turns the page. He is near the end. The last chapter covers the retirement, the Cup, the quiet life in Ottawa. And then, the acknowledgments. He reads them quickly. Thanking the agent. The editor. Friends. His parents for the love.

And then, the dedication.

Ilya stops.

Shane stirs on his chest. He lifts his head, blinking against the dappled sunlight coming through the trees. His glasses have slid down the bridge of his nose, sitting slightly askew on his face. He nudges them back up with a knuckle, looks at the book in Ilya’s hand, then up at Ilya’s face.

“You finished it?” Shane asks groggily.

“Almost.” Ilya coughs, a stifled, heavy sound. “I am at the end.”

Shane props himself up on one elbow. The hammock sways dangerously, but they balance. He looks nervous, biting his lip, his eyes wide behind the lenses, waiting.

“Is it okay?” Shane asks. “I was worried the ending was too cheesy.”

Ilya looks at the face that has been the center of his universe for seventeen years and counting.

“Is not cheesy,” Ilya says. “Is perfect.”

He looks back down at the page.

For Ilya,

I’ve said “I love you” a thousand times in my head, but it never feels like enough to hold everything you are to me.

People always ask what it was like to play against you, or what it was like to finally play with you. But the hockey part was easy compared to the rest of it. The hard part was figuring out how to be with you when I was barely sure of who I was.

For a long time, I thought the goal was to be the best. Then I thought the goal was to keep up with you. It took me years to realize that the only goal that mattered was coming home to you.

Home is hearing your voice in the morning, still raspy with sleep. Home is the way you say my name, even when I’m frustrating the hell out of you. Home is knowing that no matter where the road goes, you’re waiting at the end of it, probably holding our kids and distracting them with Lego towers so you don’t have to cook dinner.

You saw through every wall I put up. You loved me when I was seventeen and terrified. You loved me when I was thirty-five, and convinced I was nothing without the game. You made me believe I could be someone worth knowing, even without a jersey on.

The real terror wasn’t losing hockey. It was the fear that once I stopped being Shane Hollander—the captain, the winner—you would look at me and realize there was nothing underneath worth keeping. That I was just a boring guy who didn’t know what to do if he wasn’t holding a stick.

I remember the night you found me at the bar. I thought: This is it. This is when he gets tired of the baggage. This is when he realizes I’m not worth the fight.

But you didn’t leave.

You carried me. You stayed through the surgery I was too scared to get. You stayed through the rehab. You stayed when I didn’t know who I was supposed to be anymore. You stayed, and the sun came up. Just as you promised.

I wish I could have met your mother. I wish I could thank her for you. I’d tell her that her son made me want to actually live—not just survive the season, not just win the next game, but really live. I’d tell her that you taught me joy is something I can have in our kitchen on a Saturday morning, just watching you dance with our children around the living room.

You aren’t just my husband, Ilya. You’re the reason I get up in the morning and the reason I can finally sleep at night. You’re the best decision I ever made.

The “hows” of us wasn’t easy. It was messy and complicated and sometimes impossible. But I’d do every single second of it again—the fear, the hiding, the time apart—because it all led me here. To you. To this life.

I love you. Always, in all ways.

Yours,
Shane

P.S. I’d marry you a third time if you asked. I’d marry you in every lifetime. You’re the only vow I’ll ever need to keep.

Ilya closes the book. He rests his hand on the cover, feeling the texture of the paper.

“Ilya?” Shane says. His hand comes up to cup Ilya’s jaw, his thumb brushing away the wetness on Ilya’s cheek. “Hey. You okay?”

“I am fine,” Ilya says, clearing his throat. “Is pollen. Allergies.”

“You don’t have allergies,” Shane says.

“I developed them. Just now.”

“Well?” Shane asks with a lopsided smile. “Too much?”

Ilya shakes his head. He cannot speak. If he does, he will sob, and he has a reputation to maintain. “You mentioned Legos,” he manages finally. “That was unnecessary attack on my parenting.”

Shane cackles, the sound bright and happy in the summer air. “That’s what you took from it? The Legos?”

“And cooking,” Ilya says, sniffing loudly.

“You’re a great cook,” Shane says. “I meant it. All of it. Especially the P.S.”

“Third time is expensive,” Ilya mutters, but he turns his head, claiming Shane’s lips in a torrid kiss. “But I accept.”

“You accept what?” Shane drawls.

“The vow,” Ilya murmurs against his mouth. “In every lifetime, Hollander. You are stuck with me.”

From the grass, a shout goes up.

“Papa! Daddy! Look!”

They break apart. Wyatt is pointing at the sky. Above the lake, a loon is flying low, its call echoing across the water. A long, haunting wail.

Irina, hearing the sound, claps her hands and squeals.

Ilya looks at his children adoringly. “I see it, bear,” he says to Wyatt. “Is good omen.”

He pulls Shane back down against his chest, picks up the book, and holds it close. “Happy anniversary, Hollander,” he says.

“Happy anniversary, Rozy,” Shane says, capturing his mouth again for another breathless kiss.

End.

Chapter End Notes:

Hello!

We finally reached the shore! Aaaaaah!

I can truly say that the several sleepless nights were worth it.

I drafted the last part of this chapter before I even finished Chapter 1 because I already knew this was how I wanted it to end. I can’t remember the last time I was so fixated on a story, so completely locked in. It’s crazy.

Btw, I wanted to share a little note about their daughter’s name! She is named Irina as a tribute to Ilya’s beloved mother, and Mei (a Japanese name that means "Life" or "Bright").

To every single person who left kudos and sent kind messages—thank you.

To my RWRB babies who joined me here: Thank you for your understanding and patience with me jumping from fic to fic. You know me and accepted my craziness 😭. I promise I’ll finish Karma once I return from hiatus, because I have made the questionable life choice to go back to grad school. (Though my true calling is clearly writing mpreg and not research).

Thank you to everyone who gave this fic a chance and spent your precious time reading through it. I hope you enjoyed your stay in this universe and that you continue to find comfort every time you come back to it.

If you ever see me again, it’s definitely going to be for another omegaverse fic because, apparently, that’s all I know how to write. If you ever find me writing something else, please call the authorities because that’s definitely not me!

I’m sorry I yap a lot; I promise I don’t do this all the time.

On a serious note, please remember to make your mental health a non-negotiable priority. We live in a world that often demands constant productivity and resilience, and it is easy to feel crushed by it. But please know your well-being is the foundation upon which everything else is built.

Be kind to your mind. Treat yourself with the same gentleness you would offer a friend in crisis. Whether it is reaching out to a trusted friend, leaning on a family member, or seeking the guidance of a professional therapist, please allow yourself to be supported. You are worthy of support, and you are worthy of feeling better.

I hope we get to see each other again in another story, in another universe. Until then, please take care, and please don’t be like me—actually get some sleep!

This is AzraelRiego signing off 💜

Special Chapter

Ottawa, Ontario
5 July 2035

The bass of a hyper-pop Russian anthem vibrates through the floorboards of the Ottawa house, aggressive enough to create a miniature tidal wave in Shane’s ginger ale. He sits in the oversized armchair—the one Ilya bought because it looked “statuesque” but which swallows Shane whole like a plush velvet whale—and watches his life unfolding in the middle of the living room rug.

It is exactly three hundred and sixty-five days since The Hows of Us hit bookshelves and effectively nuked Shane’s carefully curated privacy. Three hundred and sixty-five days of people knowing the truth, and somehow, the world hasn’t imploded. The sun still rises. The coffee still brews. And Ilya Rozanov still dances like he is trying to seduce the entire concept of rhythm.

“Knees, bear! Use knees!” Ilya shouts over the synth beat. He is wearing gray sweatpants and a tight black T-shirt that clings to him with the desperation of a teenage fanclub president. He drops into a squat, pops back up, and spins. “Is all in the core!”

Wyatt, seven years old and lanky with a growth spurt that seems to happen exclusively between the hours of midnight and 6:00 AM, mimics him with fierce concentration. He has a mop of black curls—the color is all Shane, but the unruly texture is a direct inheritance from Ilya’s chaotic gene pool—bouncing against his forehead.

“Like this, Papa?” Wyatt asks, dropping into a squat that is technically perfect but spiritually stiff.

“Yes! But more flavor!” Ilya demonstrates flavor by adding a hip roll that is so fluid it should probably be illegal in several conservative states.

Wyatt giggles and tries the hip roll. He looks like a baby giraffe learning to walk on a frozen pond. He has Ilya’s hazel eyes, and right now they are wide with the sheer, unadulterated delight of being ridiculous with his father.

Shane takes a sip of his ginger ale. On the other side of the fray, safe from the trample zone, sits Irina. At sixteen months, she is currently the most serious person in the Hollander-Rozanov household. She’s wearing a yellow onesie that makes her look like a very skeptical lemon, and her straight, dark hair—Shane’s hair, mercifully spared the frizz—is cut into a bob that swings as she tracks the movement.

She is holding a squeaky rubber hedgehog in one hand. Anya is lying next to her, resting her chin on her paws with the long-suffering patience of a creature who has seen too much. Irina stares at the dancing men. She looks at Wyatt spinning in circles. She looks at Ilya doing jazz hands. Then, she looks at the dog. She bonks the dog gently on the nose with the hedgehog.

Anya stays still. Irina sighs, evidently deciding that the men in this family are the entertainment and the women are the management.

“Daddy!” Wyatt yells, spotting Shane in the chair. He stops moving, his freckles standing out against his tan skin. “Daddy, come dance! Papa says we are doing the robot next.”

“I absolutely did not agree to the robot,” Shane says, his voice dry, though the corner of his mouth betrays him by twitching upward. “I’m observing. Someone has to document the madness for the insurance claim.”

Ilya stops mid-gyration. He turns, chest heaving slightly, hair damp at the temples. He looks at Shane.

“You are too far away,” Ilya declares. He walks over, ignoring the music, and looms over the chair. “Is anniversary of book. You should be celebrating. Not sitting like old man in library.”

“I am an old man,” Shane reminds him. “I’m allowed to sit.”

“You are just forty. Is prime of life.” Ilya reaches down and, with annoying ease, plucks the glass from Shane’s hand and sets it on the island table. Then he grabs Shane’s hands. “Come. We dance.”

“Ilya, I don’t want to—”

“Wyatt wants,” Ilya counters, playing his trump card immediately. He knows Shane’s weakness is approximately four feet tall and currently staring at him with hope.

Their son is bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Please, Daddy?” Wyatt begs. “Just one song? The fast one?”

Shane sighs, and he lets Ilya pull him up. The moment he’s vertical, Ilya’s arms are around him. Not for the robot, and not for the fast song. The playlist shuffles, because the universe usually listens to Ilya Rozanov, and the tempo drops into something slower. Instrumental. Can’t Help Falling in love.

Ilya pulls him close, right into his space, chest to chest. “Happy book birthday,” Ilya murmurs into his hair, swaying them slowly, ignoring the fact that Wyatt is now freestyle breakdancing around their legs.

Shane rests his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder. “I can’t believe it’s been a year.”

“I can,” Ilya says. “You have been very brave for year. Very loud.”

“Loud?” Shane laughs into the cotton of Ilya’s shirt. “I think I spent three months of it hiding under a blanket.”

“You told truth. Truth is loud.” Ilya’s hand slides down Shane’s spine, resting possessively on his lower back. “I am proud of you, Shane. Still. Always.”

Shane closes his eyes. He can still see the handwritten letters from kids in small towns—hockey players who feel wrong, who read his book and felt a little less alone. It’s the way he walked into the grocery store yesterday without instinctively checking to see who was watching him. There is nothing left to hide.

“Thank you,” Shane says.

Something bumps his leg.

He looks down. Wyatt has abandoned his solo career and is currently hugging Shane’s left leg. On the floor, Irina has decided she is missing out on a critical family meeting. She has crawled over, dragging the hedgehog, and is pulling herself up on Ilya’s sweatpants, her tiny hand gripping the fabric like a vice.

“Up,” she commands. She has Shane’s nose, crinkled in determination. “Up, Papa.”

Ilya chuckles under his breath, releasing Shane just enough to scoop Irina up with one arm, settling her on his hip, while keeping his other arm firmly around Shane’s waist.

“Now we are whole party,” Ilya says.

Shane puts his arm around Wyatt, pulling his son close, and kisses Ilya. “Yeah,” he says, smiling against Ilya’s mouth. “We are.”

Two days later…

Shane is huddled inside his coat, hands shoved deep into his pockets, standing near the glass.He is trying very hard to look like a normal dad watching a U9 game, and not like Shane Hollander, retired captain and newly minted bestselling author, having a mild panic attack about his seven-year-old’s face-off percentage.

When Wyatt was born, Shane drafted a very specific, very ironclad internal treaty. He would not be the Dad forcing a miniature composite stick into the hands of a toddler who still wobbles when he stands on a carpet. He knows the crushing weight of expectation better than anyone—he spent decades living inside the pressure cooker of his own perfectionism, and he wanted something lighter for his son. He wanted Wyatt to be a painter. Musician. Doctor. Botanist. Or literally anything that didn't involve getting body-checked into a wall by a frozen rubber disk.

But when a child is the biological product of two of the greatest players to ever lace up skates, the pull of the ice isn't just a hobby; it’s a biological imperative.

“He is looking good.” Dad appears at his elbow. He is holding a cardboard tray of coffees, looking entirely too cheerful for the hour. “Skating stride is smoothing out. He’s got your edges.”

“He has Ilya’s edges,” Shane corrects, accepting a cup. “He has my hands. Which means he’s going to overthink the pass instead of shooting.”

“He is seven, Shane,” Mom says from his other side. She is bundled in a pristine cream-colored wool coat that somehow repels the grime of the arena. Irina is strapped to her chest in a carrier, sound asleep, her cheek squashed against Yuna’s lapel. “Let him have fun. He looks like a little blueberry out there.”

He does. Wyatt is swimming in his Ottawa Jr. Centaurs black jersey, number 57 emblazoned on the back. He’s playing center for the Kanata Blazers, currently lined up at the dot for a face-off in the neutral zone.

Ilya is standing ten feet down the glass, leaning forward so far Shane worries he might actually phase through the plexiglass through sheer force of will. He is wearing a Blazers toque pulled low over his ears and looking at the ice intensely.

The puck drops.

Wyatt wins the draw. Cleanly. He snaps it back to his defenseman, spins on his skates with a spray of ice, and takes off.

“Yes! Go!” Ilya bellows, his voice booming over the polite murmurs of the other parents.

It’s a surreal experience every time Wyatt steps on the ice. Shane sees the way Wyatt tucks his chin, the way he holds his stick a little too high—habits he learned from watching highlights of his fathers. Wyatt catches a pass in the neutral zone, wobbles for a split second, corrects his balance, and drives toward the offensive zone.

“He’s fast,” David notes, sounding smug. “That’s the Hollander speed.”

“He’s cherry-picking,” Shane mutters, though his heart races fast. “Get back on defense, Wy.”

But defense is going to be a problem, because the opposing team, the Nepean Raiders, has a secret weapon on defense. Gunnar—wearing jersey number 88—is roughly the dimensions of a commercial refrigerator. He has a buzz cut that looks like it was done with a lawnmower in the dark, and a scowl that suggests he has already filed his taxes, was audited, and is now taking it out on the world. He has been hacking at everyone’s ankles since the warm-up. Shane has clocked him. Ilya has definitely clocked him.

Wyatt carries the puck over the blue line. He tries to dangle around Gunnar. It almost works. Wyatt pulls the puck to his backhand, a flashy move Ilya taught him in the driveway that usually results in a broken flower pot, but Gunnar doesn't play the puck and levels Wyatt.

Wyatt goes down hard, sliding into the boards with a sickening thud.

“Hey!” Shane yells, the coffee in his other hand sloshes dangerously.

On the ice, the whistle blows.

Shane watches, breath held, as his son scrambles back to his feet. Wyatt isn't looking at the referee. He isn't looking at the bench. He is looking at Number 88, and even from behind the glass, Shane recognizes the same terrifying calm Ilya gets before he does something reckless.

“Uh oh,” David says softly.

Wyatt skates right up to the bigger kid. He gets right in Gunnar's face, staring up at him because Gunnar has a solid six inches on him. Wyatt says something short and sharp that makes Gunnar’s mouth drop open behind his cage.

Then, Gunnar shoves Wyatt.

And Wyatt, seventy pounds of lanky limbs and stored-up energy, shoves back. Hard.

It devolves instantly.

Wyatt grabs the front of Gunnar’s jersey and effectively wrestles him to the ice, the two of them rolling around in the ice.

“Wyatt!” Shane yells, though the glass muffles it. “Stop!”

He sees Ilya already sprinting toward the gate where the referees—who look about twelve years old themselves—are trying to separate the pile.

“Hey! Off him!” Ilya roars.

The refs finally peel the boys apart. Wyatt is red-faced, his helmet crooked, panting hard. He is still trying to lunge at Gunnar, shouting something that sounds suspiciously like a Russian curse word.

“Oh my god,” Shane breathes, dragging a hand down his face. “My seven-year-old is fighting.”

“Well,” Yuna says, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed laughter as she pats Irina’s back. “He certainly has spirit. And excellent balance.”

Shane looks down the glass. Ilya is leaning over the boards near the penalty box, pointing a finger at the Nepean coach, who looks terrified to be addressed by Ilya. Then Ilya turns his attention to Wyatt, who is being escorted to the penalty box by a ref who looks like he needs a nap.

He watches Ilya lean in as Wyatt sits glumly in the box, his skates dangling inches off the floor. Ilya says something through the glass. Wyatt looks up, his lower lip wobbling, still angry, tears of frustration threatening to spill.

Ilya nods, serious, his face grave. And then—subtly, shielding the motion with his body so the other parents won’t see—he gives Wyatt a thumbs-up.

Shane groans and drops his forehead against the cool glass. “I’m going to have to write another book,” he mumbles into the condensation. “And this one is going to be titled Why My Husband is a Bad Influence and Other Reasons I’m Going Gray.”

“He stood up for himself,” David says, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Old time hockey, son. Old time hockey.”

Shane lifts his head and watches his son in the penalty box, small legs swinging, looking angry and fierce.

“Yeah,” Shane says, watching Ilya walk back toward them, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face that suggests he has never been happier in his entire life. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The silence inside the Range Rover is heavier than the goalie pads. Ilya is driving. His hands are at ten and two, but his knuckles are straining against the steering wheel as if he is trying to strangle it.

They lost the game, 4-3.

It shouldn't matter. It’s U9 hockey. The score is irrelevant. Half the kids were more interested in the concession stand slushies than the third period. But try telling that to the seven-year-old currently radiating a nuclear level of sulk from the backseat.

Shane turns slightly, peering into the rearview mirror.

Wyatt is slumped against the door, his arms crossed so tightly over his chest it looks painful. He has pulled his toque down until it nearly covers his eyes, a protective shell against the injustice of the world. Beside him, in the car seat, Irina is fast asleep, her mouth open in a soft, milk-drunk O, blissfully unaware that her brother is plotting revenge or a jailbreak.

Shane notices a muscle feathers near his husband’s ear. Ilya doesn't look at him, but he lifts one hand from the wheel and rests it briefly, heavily, on Shane’s thigh. A silent check-in.

Shane covers Ilya’s hand with his own, then turns his body to face the back. “Wy,” he says softly.

Wyatt doesn't move an inch, just continuously staring at the window.

“Honey,” He tries again. “You okay back there?”

“No,” Wyatt snaps. The word cracks in the middle.

“You played a great game,” Shane says. “You won almost every face-off. And that backhand? That was NHL level.”

“We lost,” Wyatt mumbles to the glass. “Because I got a penalty. Because the ref is blind.”

“The ref is twelve,” Shane says. “And you can’t tackle people, Wyatt. You know that. It’s a game.”

“It’s not a game!” Wyatt whips his head around, his eyes are watery and angry. “He cheated! He hit me first! And nobody saw it!”

“I know,” Shane says patiently. “I saw it. Papa saw it. But you can’t retaliate. That’s the rule. You retaliate, you get caught. Always.”

“It’s a stupid rule,” Wyatt spits out.

“Maybe,” Shane agrees. “But it’s the rule we have.”

Wyatt sinks lower in his seat, kicking the back of Ilya’s chair with a dull thump. Ilya doesn't flinch and just merges onto the highway.

“He deserved it,” Wyatt says angrily, trying very hard not to cry.

Shane twists as further as he can around his seatbelt, reaching through the gap between the seats. He finds Wyatt’s knee, giving it a gentle shake.

“What did he say to you, baby?” Shane asks.

He saw the conversation on the ice. The moment Wyatt’s posture changed from ‘competitive’ to ‘homicidal.’ He knows his son. Wyatt has Shane’s anxiety but Ilya’s temper, a volatile cocktail that usually results in either a panic attack or a fight. Today, it was a fight.

Wyatt sniffs, wiping his nose aggressively on the heel of his palm. He looks at Shane, then to the back of Ilya’s head, then back to his lap.

“Nothing,” Wyatt mumbles.

“Wyatt,” Ilya coaxes gently from the front. “Tell Daddy.”

Wyatt takes a couple of shuddering breaths. “He said I was weak,” he says. “He said I shouldn't be playing center.”

Shane feels a sudden defensive heat. “Well, he’s wrong. You’re the best skater on the team.”

“He said…” Wyatt stops. He looks up at Shane, and there is a confusion in his hazel eyes that breaks Shane’s heart into a thousand pieces. “He called me a pussy.”

Shane’s whole body stills. The air in the car seems to drop ten degrees. He feels Ilya’s hand stiffen on the steering wheel.

“He said,” Wyatt continues, “that I’m a pussy like my dad.”

Blood drain from Shane’s face. They had spent so many years worried about how their world would affect their kids. They’d worried about the headlines, the trolls, the whispers in the stands. They’d tried to build a fortress around their family, but the world always found a way to leak in.

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

The car swerves.

It’s subtle, just a slight jerk of the wheel, but the Range Rover drifts onto the rumble strip for half a second—brrrrt—before Ilya corrects it.

“He said this?” Ilya asks coldly.

“Yeah,” Wyatt says, looking vindicated by his father’s reaction. “So I hit him. Because you’re not a pussy, Daddy. You’re the Captain. You’re the best.”

Shane’s eyes burn. He reaches back, stretching until his fingers can brush against Wyatt’s cheek.

“I hate him,” Wyatt says, crossing his arms again, staring out the window with renewed fury. “I hope he chokes on his mouthguard.”

“Wyatt,” Shane says automatically, but his heart isn't in the reprimand, “don’t say that.”

“Am I in trouble, Daddy?”

His son’s question floats up from the backseat, small and fragile, effectively popping the tension bubble in the car.

“You’re in trouble for dropping your stick,” Shane says. “We’ve talked about that. It’s physics, Wy. If a blade hits your hand because you threw your gear on the ice, I will literally have a cardiac event right there in the stands. I will die, and then your Papa will never stop crying.”

Ilya nods seriously, his gaze still on the road. “Is true. I would be a disaster. Very ugly crying. Snot everywhere. It would ruin my brand.”

Wyatt’s mouth twitches weakly.

“But,” Shane continues, and he waits until Wyatt’s hazel eyes meet his “You are never, ever in trouble for standing up for your family. Do you understand me?”

The relief that washes over Wyatt’s face is instantaneous. It’s like watching a storm cloud break apart to reveal the sun. His shoulders drop three inches. A small, shaky smile ghosts across his lips. “Okay.”

“However,” Ilya adds. He briefly glances at Wyatt through the rearview mirror, one hand still steering with casual arrogance. “Next time, do not use the hook. Is sloppy. It leaves you wide open for a counter-punch. We will practice in the basement tomorrow. After you do your math homework.”

“Ilya,” Shane groans. “Please tell me we aren’t adding ‘Fight Club’ to the homeschooling curriculum.”

“What? He needs technique, Hollander!” Ilya gestures with his free hand. “If he is going to be a menace to society, he should at least be an elite menace. We have standards.”

Shane shakes his head, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. He reaches across the center console, his fingers seeking out Ilya’s.

Ilya catches his hand immediately, weaving their fingers together, resting it in his lap. “We’re getting pizza,” he announces, guiding the SUV toward the exit for their favorite local spot, the one with the grease-stained cardboard and the garlic dipping sauce that takes three days to leave your pores. “And Wyatt? You’re paying for it out of your allowance. Two minutes for roughing, twenty bucks for the pepperoni.”

“Worth it,” Wyatt chirps, already happily swiping open his iPad, the sulk entirely forgotten.

The next day…

The podcast is called Off the Ice, which Shane initially protested on the grounds that it was too obvious. Ilya countered that obvious was fine because the point was to be accessible, not clever, and Harris backed him up with a PowerPoint presentation about brand recognition that Shane still suspects was mostly fabricated. He lost that argument the way he loses most arguments in this household—comprehensively and with the vague sense that he was outmaneuvered before he even started.

They’ve been recording episodes for seven months now, mostly featuring guests from the foundation—coaches, counselors, former students, the occasional parent willing to share their family’s story. This episode is different. This episode is just them.

Shane adjusts the microphone for the third time in five minutes. The little red light on the interface is steady, a tiny, glowing eye watching him from the makeshift studio they’ve set up in the cottage sunroom. He is sitting cross-legged on the floor, nestling a mug of tea, surrounded by a nest of duvet.

Ilya is opposite him, monitoring the audio levels on a laptop balanced on a stack of hardcover books. Between them sits the guest of honor.

Wyatt is wearing his oversized headphones, which keep slipping down his forehead. He looks very serious, very professional, and entirely too small for the equipment. In his lap, he holds a crinkled sheet of paper with his "talking points" written in orange marker.

Meanwhile, Irina is currently army-crawling under the table, dragging a microphone cable with her teeth.

“Testing,” Shane says into his mic, keeping one eye on his daughter’s progress toward the power strip. “Check, one, two. Are we rolling, producer?”

Ilya taps a key. “We are rolling. Levels are good. Guest is looking handsome. Host is looking… adequate.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “High praise. Thank you.” He turns to Wyatt. “You ready, honey?”

Wyatt gives a quick nod. He adjusts his headphones, pushing them up. “I’m ready. Do I say the intro?”

“Go for it,” Shane says.

Wyatt leans into the microphone, getting so close his nose brushes the pop filter. “Welcome to Off the Ice,” he announces, his voice loud and clear in Shane’s headset. “I’m Wyatt Hollander-Rozanov. And these are my dads. They played hockey a long time ago, but now they just talk about feelings.”

Ilya snorts, a sharp sound that spikes the audio waveform on the screen. “Accurate branding. I like it.”

“Okay.” Shane rests his back against a pile of pillows. “Thanks for the intro, Wy. Today we’re talking about… well, we’re talking about you. About being a kid in sports. How does that sound?”

“Good,” Wyatt says. He pauses, looking down at his paper. “Can I talk about the snack bar?”

“Sure,” Shane says. “What about the snack bar?”

“The slushies are too expensive,” Wyatt declares into the mic. “It’s robbery.”

Just then, a small hand emerges from beneath the table and slaps Shane’s knee. Irina pulls herself up, using Shane’s jeans as a climbing wall. She is wearing a onesie with strawberries on it and drooling slightly. She stares at the microphone, fascinated.

“Ba,” Irina says. She reaches out and smacks the pop filter. Thwack.

“We have a surprise guest,” Shane says into the mic, scooping Irina into his lap before she can dismantle the equipment. “The menace has entered the chat.”

Irina grabs the cord of Shane’s headphones and yanks. Shane’s head is pulled sideways. “Ow. Hey. Gentle, Reena.”

“She has strong grip,” Ilya comments, watching the struggle with amusement. “Forecheck is excellent.”

Wyatt leans forward. “Reena, we’re podcasting. You have to be quiet.”

Irina looks at her brother. She blows a raspberry that sprays a fine mist of spit onto the microphone.

“Okay,” Shane says, wiping the mic with his sleeve. “Let’s pivot. Wyatt, we talked a little bit this week about handling tough moments on the ice. Do you want to tell the listeners what we talked about?”

Wyatt shifts in his seat. The serious expression returns. “We talked about… about how sometimes people say mean things.”

Shane immediately remembers the car ride from yesterday. He looks at Ilya, who has stopped looking at the screen and is watching Wyatt with soft, focused eyes.

“Yeah,” Shane says gently. “And what do we do when that happens?”

Wyatt looks at his orange notes. “We don’t use the hook,” he reads.

Ilya bursts out laughing. He leans back, covering his face with his hand, shaking with mirth.

“That is technically true,” Shane says, trying not to laugh himself. “But what else?”

Wyatt looks up. He abandons the paper. “We remember who is on our team,” he says. “And we remember that if someone is mean, it’s usually because they are sad or scared. Like a raccoon that gets stuck in the garbage can.”

“A raccoon?” Shane echoes, looking confused.

“Yeah,” Wyatt explains earnestly. “Remember when we saw that raccoon at the cottage and it hissed at us? Papa said it wasn't bad, it was just stuck. The mean kid is like the raccoon.”

Shane looks at Ilya. Did you tell him that?

Ilya shrugs, a small, pleased smile playing on his lips. “Is valid metaphor.”

“It’s a great metaphor,” Shane says, feeling a rush of affection so strong it threatens to choke him. He hugs Irina, who is now happily chewing on the zipper of his hoodie. “So, if someone is being a raccoon, we don’t need to hiss back.”

“Unless they push you,” Wyatt adds darkly. “Then you have to stand your ground.”

“Within the rules,” Shane corrects quickly. “Within the rules, Wyatt.”

“Ba!” Irina shouts into the silence. She twists in Shane’s lap, reaches across the gap, and grabs Wyatt’s nose.

“Ow!” Wyatt yells, his voice peaking the audio levels into the red. “Daddy, she’s eating me!”

“She is asserting dominance,” Ilya notes helpfully.

Shane disentangles Irina’s fingers from Wyatt’s face. She immediately pivots and tries to crawl onto the laptop. Ilya catches her mid-lunge, lifting her into the air like Simba on Pride Rock. Irina giggles, kicking her legs.

“Okay,” he says, laughing into the mic as he watches his husband wrestle a fourteen-month-old who is apparently composed entirely of elbows and determination. “I think the studio is being compromised. Let’s pivot to the Q&A before the producer fires us for negligence.”

Ilya settles Irina onto his lap, where she immediately becomes fascinated by the silver watch on his wrist, gumming at the metal band with single-minded focus. “Producer is generous,” Ilya says. “Producer is paid in kisses. He is easy target.”

Shane shakes his head, smiling. He taps the screen of his phone, scrolling past the hundreds of comments that flooded the foundation’s Instagram post when they announced Wyatt would be on the show.

“We have some questions from listeners,” Shane tells Wyatt. “Real people who want to know what it’s like inside the Hollander-Rozanov house. You ready to spill the secrets?”

Wyatt’s eyes go wide behind the oversized headphones. He leans into the mic, his expression serious. “I won’t tell them about the secret candy stash in the laundry room.”

Shane slowly turns his head to look at Ilya. His lovely husband suddenly busies himself with adjusting the audio levels on the laptop.

“Next question,” Ilya says loudly.

“We will circle back to that,” Shane murmurs, making a mental note to raid the laundry room later. “Okay, there’s a question. This comes from… let’s just say ‘Sarah from Toronto.’ She asks: Wyatt, who is the stricter dad?”

Wyatt doesn't hesitate. “Daddy.”

Shane sighs into the mic. “I knew it. I’m the bad cop. I’m the villain of my own podcast.”

“It’s not ‘cause you’re mean,” Wyatt clarifies earnestly, kicking his legs against the table leg. “It’s just… you have the list. You know? The list of things we can’t do.”

“The safety list,” Shane defends. “Things like ‘don’t jump off the roof’ and ‘don’t eat yellow snow.’”

“And ‘don’t put Irina in the dryer,’” Wyatt adds.

“That was one time!” Shane says, his voice pitching up an octave. “And it was a valid safety concern!”

“Papa lets us do dangerous stuff,” Wyatt continues, ignoring Shane’s defense. “Like when he let me drive the boat.”

“He sat on my lap,” Ilya interjects smoothly, though he is grinning like a shark. “hands were on wheel at all times. Was highly supervised chaos.”

“Okay,” Shane says, rubbing his temple. “Moving on before Child Services gets tagged in the comments. Wyatt, are you ready for rapid fire? First thing that comes to your head. Don’t think, just answer.”

Wyatt nods, his eyes narrowing in concentration. He looks like he’s about to take a penalty shot in overtime. “Ready.”

“Favorite pre-game meal?”

“Pancakes,” Wyatt says instantly. “With chocolate chips. Not the healthy kind Papa makes with the protein powder. Those taste like dust.”

Ilya gasps, clutching his chest. “Slander. Complete slander. Those are champions’ pancakes.”

“Dust,” Wyatt doubles down, grinning.

“Okay, next question,” Shane says, fighting a smile. “Best hockey team in the NHL?”

“Ottawa Centaurs,” Wyatt says, dutifully. Then he pauses. “But I like the Montreal jerseys better. They have color blue. I like blue.”

“We will edit that out,” Shane says quickly, while Ilya mutters something in Russian that sounds suspiciously like traitor to the bloodline.

“Next,” Shane presses on. “Who is the better driver?”

“Papa,” Wyatt says without hesitation.

“Hey!” Shane protests hastily. “I am a very safe driver. I follow all the laws.”

“Yeah, but you drive like a grandma,” Wyatt says, brutally honest. “Papa drives like he’s in Mario Kart.”

“I take this as compliment,” Ilya says, looking smug as ever.

“It wasn't one,” Shane mutters. He checks the time on the recording; they have maybe two minutes of battery life left on the toddler’s patience meter. “Okay, last one. And this is the big one. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Shane expects hockey player. It’s the answer Wyatt has given since he could talk. It’s the answer everyone expects from him.

Wyatt scrunches his nose. He looks at his orange marker notes, then at the ceiling, then at Shane.

“I think,” Wyatt says slowly, leaning into the mic until his voice is a warm, fuzzy distortion in Shane’s ears, “I want to write books. Like you, Daddy.”

Shane stops breathing. The air in the sunroom seems to crystallize, suspending the dust motes in shafts of afternoon light.

“Oh,” Shane manages. “Books?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt says, shrugging one shoulder as if he hasn't just strike Shane in the heart. “Hockey is fun, but books are quiet. And you can make up the rules. No refs.”

Ilya looks up from the laptop. His eyes meet Shane’s, and they are brimming with a knowing warmth that makes Shane’s throat clench.

“That is,” Ilya says, his voice rougher than usual, “a very good plan, bear. The best plan.”

“Okay,” Shane whispers. He clears his throat, terrified he’s going to start crying on a podcast recorded in a pillow fort. “That’s… that’s a really good answer, Wy. We’re going to wrap it up there before I get emotional and embarrass you.”

“Too late,” Wyatt says, pointing at Shane’s face. “Your eyes are doing the watery thing.”

“Because of the pillows,” Shane lies, wiping at his eyes with his finger. “Too much dust.”

“Dust pancakes,” Wyatt quips.

“Outro music!” Shane yells, laughing through the wobble in his voice.

Ilya hits the key. The jaunty jazz tune fills the room.

“Thanks for listening to Off the Ice,” Shane says, finding his broadcaster voice just in time. “I’m Shane Hollander-Rozanov.”

“This is Ilya Hollander-Rozanov.”

“And I’m Wyatt!”

“Ba!” Irina adds, right on cue.

“And we’ll see you next week,” Shane finishes.

Ilya cuts the feed.

The little red eye on the screen blinks out.

Shane pulls the headphones off his ears and drops them into the nest of blankets, letting out a long, shuddering exhale. He feels drained in the good way—the way he used to feel after a double overtime win, when his body was wrecked but his spirit was soaring.

“Good episode,” Ilya says softly.

“Great episode,” Shane agrees.

Wyatt is already scrambling up, boredom setting in now that the performance is over, reaching for his paper airplane. Irina is attempting to army-crawl toward the door, presumably to terrorize Anya who’s happily lounging on the porch.

“Books, huh?” Ilya says, looking at Shane like he is the only thing in focus, a grin spreads slowly across his face.

“Yeah.” Shane gives his head a little shake. “God. I think that’s the best thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Better than I love you?” Ilya asks, raising a brow.

“Different,” Shane says. He crawls across the few feet of duvet separating them, and leans in until the tip of their noses touch. “But yeah. Pretty close.”

Ilya pecks him in the cheek. “You are good influence, Hollander. Despite the driving.”

“Shut up,” Shane says, but he’s smiling shyly. “Absolute traitor.”

“Come,” Ilya says, shifting so he can stand up, scooping Irina off the floor before she can make her escape. “We edit later. Now, we make pizza. And Wyatt pays.”

“I heard that!” Wyatt yells from the hallway. “Pepperoni only!”

Ilya swings Irina up onto his shoulders. She grabs his ears like handlebars, shrieking. He looks down at Shane, extending a hand to pull him up from the floor.

“You okay, old man?” Ilya asks, smirking at him.

Shane takes his hand, letting Ilya pull him to his feet. “I’m good,” he says. “So happy.”

End.

Chapter End Notes:

Hello!

I absolutely love writing special chapters for my series, and I really hope this one brought a little extra joy to your day.

Thank you for reading!

Always,

Azi 💜