Game Over

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have conquered the NHL, but their biggest challenge yet is waiting for them at home: a four-month-old named Wyatt who has Ilya’s eyes and Shane’s nose.

From the terrifying ordeal of six-month vaccinations to the heartache of missing first words over FaceTime, Shane and Ilya navigate the messy, exhausting, and perfect reality of fatherhood. But as the season wears on and the milestones fly by, Ilya realizes that being a legend on the ice is no longer enough.

The "Long Game" is over, and Ilya is finally ready to claim his prize—not a trophy, but the life waiting for him when the buzzer sounds.

Author's Note:

Thank you so much. This is will be the final one-shot of this series :)

The first pale slice of March sun slips through the gap in the blackout curtains, cutting a stripe of gold across the hardwood floor. A sound crackles through the baby monitor on the nightstand. A whimper. They have maybe three minutes before it escalates. Shane approaches the crib, and his heart squeezes when he sees his son.

Wyatt is awake, staring up at the mobile of tiny hockey players that rotates slowly above him. His little fists are pumping in the air, and his legs are kicking against the swaddle like he’s trying to break free.

“Good morning, my heart,” Shane says, leaning over the rail. “You’re up early.”

Wyatt turns his head at the sound of Shane’s voice. His face scrunches up—eyebrows drawing together, mouth opening—and then he lets out a cry. Hold me. Now.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane says, smiling despite himself. “I hear you.”

He reaches into the crib and carefully unswaddles the wriggling baby, pulling him free of the soft cotton. Wyatt is wearing a onesie with tiny bears on it—another Ilya purchase. Shane lifts him out, bringing him up to his chest, and settles into the glider rocker by the window.

He shifts Wyatt—exactly fifteen weeks and three days old, because Shane tracks everything—into the crook of his arm. Physically, his son is a blend of both of them, but Ilya clearly won the genetic lottery. Wyatt has the untamable dark Rozanov curls and Ilya’s shifting hazel-gold eyes. When he looks up, it’s like staring into a tiny, unformed version of his husband’s face.

Though Wyatt’s skin tone is closer to Shane’s—a warm tan that suggests he’ll brown up nicely in the summer. The nose is Shane’s too. Small, slightly upturned, with that same particular slope. Ilya complains about it constantly.

“He needs a strong nose,” Ilya had said just last week, inspecting Wyatt’s face with a critical eye. “A Russian nose. This nose is too cute.”

“His nose is perfect,” Shane had countered. “It’s my nose.”

“Exactly. Too cute.”

Shane is still waiting for the freckles. He knows they’ll come. Last week, he thought he saw the first hint of one on Wyatt’s left cheek. A tiny, barely-there dot that might have been a freckle or might have been his imagination. He’d pointed it out to Ilya, who’d squinted at it, then kissed it.

“If he gets your freckles,” Ilya had said, “I will kiss every single one.”

The whimpering finally stops. Wyatt stares back at him. His little mouth works silently, like he’s trying to figure out what to do with all this consciousness. Shan stands up, rocking Wyatt gently, and walks over to the window. He pulls the curtain aside just enough to look out at the backyard. The maple tree in the corner is bare, its dark skeleton standing stark against the pale sky, waiting for spring.

He hears the creak of the bedroom door opening down the hall, followed by footsteps. A moment later, Ilya appears in the doorway of the nursery. There’s a pillow crease running down his left cheek, and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray boxer briefs that sit low on his hips. His eyes are half-closed, squinting against the dim light.

“You left,” Ilya accuses, his voice rough with sleep.

“Wyatt woke up,” Shane says, turning back to the window.

“Cannot sleep without you.” Ilya shuffles into the room, moving with all the grace of a zombie. He stops behind Shane, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist and resting his chin on Shane’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Just… looking.”

“At what?”

“The yard. The tree.” Shane shifts Wyatt slightly, making room for Ilya’s embrace. “Thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Ilya murmurs. He presses a kiss to the side of Shane’s neck, right over the scent gland. His lips linger there, and Shane feels the slow drag of Ilya’s tongue against his skin.

Shane leans back into him, letting Ilya take some of his weight. Between Wyatt in his arms and Ilya at his back, he’s completely surrounded. Completely held. The safest place in the world.

“He’s getting bigger,” Shane says quietly, looking down at Wyatt. “I swear he’s grown since yesterday.”

“He is giant baby,” Ilya agrees, peering over Shane’s shoulder. “Look at his thighs. Like little tree trunks. Very strong.”

“He’s four months old, Ilya. They’re not tree trunks.”

“Thick tree trunks.” Ilya reaches around and gently takes Wyatt’s foot in his hand, giving it a soft squeeze. Wyatt kicks in response, his face scrunching up. “See? Explosive leg drive. This is good genetics.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

Wyatt chooses that moment to let out a loud, wet fart.

Both Shane and Ilya freeze.

“That…” Ilya starts.

“…sounded bad,” Shane finishes.

They look at each other. Ilya’s nose wrinkles.

“I smell it,” Ilya says.

“Yep.”

“That is not a normal smell.”

“Nope.”

They both look down at Wyatt, who is blinking up at them with an expression of complete innocence, as if he hasn’t just committed a biological war crime in his diaper. Ilya reaches out and carefully takes Wyatt from Shane’s arms, holding him up at arm’s length like he’s a bomb that might detonate. “Come, little bear.”

Shane watches him carry Wyatt over to the changing table, already pulling out wipes and a fresh diaper. He leans against the window frame, retying his robe, and just… watches.

Ilya is muttering to Wyatt in Russian as he works, his voice so soothing. Shane doesn’t understand most of it—his Russian is still limited to hockey terms and the handful of phrases Ilya uses during sex—but he recognizes the tone. It’s the same one Ilya uses when he’s comforting Wyatt during a particularly rough diaper change or when he’s trying to coax him to sleep.

It’s gentle. A word Shane never would have associated with Ilya Rozanov when they first met. Well, he’s still arrogant, still competitive, still capable of chirping his own teammates into oblivion. But with Wyatt? And Shane? He’s present in a way Shane has never seen him be with anything else—not even hockey.

“There,” Ilya announces, fastening the new diaper with a satisfied flourish. “You are welcome, Hollander.”

“My hero,” Shane says dryly.

Ilya picks Wyatt up, holding him against his bare chest, and walks back over to Shane. “You should come back to bed. Both of you. We can sleep for another hour before he needs to eat again.”

Shane glances at the clock on the wall. It’s just past six. “Yeah,” he says, pushing off the window frame. “Okay.”

They walk back to the bedroom together, Ilya leading the way with Wyatt cradled against his chest. Shane follows, his hand coming to rest on the small of Ilya’s back. Ilya climbs into bed first, settling against the headboard with Wyatt on his chest. The baby immediately snuggles into him, his tiny fist curling into Ilya’s chest hair.

Shane climbs in beside them, pulling the sheet up over his legs. He shifts until he’s pressed against Ilya’s side, his head resting on Ilya’s shoulder, and drapes his arm across Ilya’s stomach so his hand rests on Wyatt’s back.

“Comfortable?” Ilya asks, his voice already drowsy.

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs. “Perfect.”

Wyatt lets out a soft sigh, his body going limp with sleep. His breathing evens out, matching the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s chest. Shane closes his eyes and listens to the sound of his family breathing.

“I love you,” Shane says quietly, not opening his eyes.

“I know,” Ilya replies, pressing a kiss to the top of Shane’s head. “I love you too. Both of you.”

Shane smiles into Ilya’s shoulder. “Good.”

Wyatt is six months old now—sturdier, heavier, and opinionated. He chews happily on Shane’s thumb, oblivious to the betrayal awaiting him. While Shane bounces him, Ilya paces a nervous circuit, alternating between glaring at the terrified receptionist and rushing back to inspect Wyatt with frantic intensity

“Why are we here?” Ilya demands for the fourth time.

“Because,” Shane says patiently, rescuing his thumb from Wyatt’s drool-slicked grip, “it’s the six-month checkup. He needs his shots.”

“He does not need shots. He is healthy. Look at him.” Ilya gestures wildly at their son, who gurgles and grabs for Ilya’s hand. “He is perfect specimen. His immune system is probably stronger than yours. Stronger than mine.”

“That’s not how science works, Ilya.”

“Science is stupid.” Ilya crouches down so he’s eye-level with Wyatt. He takes Wyatt’s chubby hand in his own massive one, stroking the knuckles with surprising tenderness. “Why do they have to hurt him? He is tiny. The needle is… enormous. It is barbaric.”

“It’s a tiny needle. He’ll cry for ten seconds, and then he’ll forget it ever happened.”

“I will not forget,” Ilya mutters darkly. “I will remember the face of the nurse. I will find where she lives.”

“You are not threatening the pediatric nurse, Ilya,” Shane chides him. “Sit down. You’re scaring the other parents.”

Ilya glances around the room. A mother with a toddler is watching him with wide, alarmed blue eyes. Ilya straightens up, adjusts his jacket, and shoots her a look that is meant to be reassuring but probably comes across as I am going to eat your family.

He sits down next to Shane, his knee bouncing with nervous energy. “I hate this,” he says.

“I know,” Shane says, leaning into him. He rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder. “It sucks. But it’s for him. So he doesn’t get sick later.”

“If he gets sick, I will fight the sickness. Physically.”

“I believe you.”

A door opens. “Wyatt Hollander-Rozanov?” a cheerful voice calls.

Ilya flinches like he’s been shot. He looks at the nurse—a young woman in blue scrubs—with deep suspicion.

“Okay,” Shane says, standing up and hoisting Wyatt onto his hip. “Let’s go. Be brave, Papa.”

The exam room is small and brightly lit. Dr. Morris sweeps in a few minutes later, radiating a calm, commanding authority with her sharp cheekbones and sweeping silver-blonde hair. She peers over her rimless glasses, smiling, and gets right to work. She checks Wyatt’s ears, listens to his heart, and measures his length—ninety-fifth percentile, which makes Ilya puff up with pride like a peacock.

Wyatt is a champ through all of it, charming Dr. Morris with gummy smiles and grabbing at her stethoscope.

Then comes the tray.

Shane sees Ilya’s eyes lock onto the syringes. His husband frowns in displeasure. The scent of distress coming off him spikes, filling the small room.

“Ilya,” Shane says warningly.

“That is too many,” Ilya says, pointing at the tray. “Why are there three? One is enough.”

“It’s the standard schedule, Mr. Rozanov,” Dr. Morris says calmly. She’s used to Ilya by now. She knows he’s a giant teddy bear disguised as a Russian hitman. “One in each leg, one oral. It’ll be over in a minute.”

“A minute is a long time to be stabbed,” Ilya argues.

“Okay,” Dr. Morris says, ignoring him. “Shane, hold him steady on your lap. Ilya, you might want to… distract him.”

Ilya reluctantly nods. He steps in close, his knees bumping against Shane’s. He leans down, bringing his face right into Wyatt’s line of sight. Their son looks up, delighted. He reaches for Ilya’s nose.

“Hey, malysh,” Ilya says softly. “Look at Papa. Don’t look at the bad lady. Look at me.”

Shane fondly watches Ilya puffs out his cheeks, crossing his eyes. Wyatt giggles, a wet, bubbly sound. Ilya makes a popping noise with his mouth, then wiggles his eyebrows frantically. He starts speaking in Russian, fast and rhythmic.

“Smotri na menya,” Ilya croons, bobbing his head. “Kto samiy krasiviy malchik? Kto moy malenkiy medvezhonok?” (Look at me. Who is the most beautiful boy? Who is my little bear?)

Shane watches them. Ilya is putting on a full performance—making fish faces, sticking out his tongue, vibrating his lips to make a motorboat sound. And he still manages to look incredibly handsome.

Wyatt is mesmerized. He’s staring at his father with absolute fascination, his little legs kicking against Shane’s stomach.

“Ready,” Dr. Morris whispers.

She cleans Wyatt’s thigh with an alcohol wipe. The cold wetness makes Wyatt flinch, his eyes darting away from Ilya for a second.

“No, no,” Ilya says quickly, snapping his fingers. “Up here. Look at the ears.” He wiggles his ears—a talent Shane didn’t even know he had until three months ago. “Boop! Boop!”

Wyatt’s gaze snaps back to Ilya. He laughs again.

Dr. Morris strikes.

The needle goes in.

Wyatt freezes. His face goes red. His mouth opens in a silent, O-shaped scream of betrayal.

“Hey, hey!” Ilya says loudly, his own face twisting in sympathy. He leans in until his nose is touching Wyatt’s nose. “Papa zdes. Papa tut.” (Papa is here. Papa is right here.)

He starts making a low, humming sound against Wyatt’s face. It’s the same sound he makes when Shane is stressed or when he’s trying to purr at the cat. Wyatt lets out a single, high-pitched wail, but then he stops. He blinks, distracted by the vibration against his nose. He sniffles, looking at Ilya with wide, watery eyes.

“Good boy,” Ilya whispers, kissing Wyatt’s nose. “So brave. Like a warrior.”

Dr. Morris does the second shot. Wyatt whimpers this time, turning his face into Ilya’s hand, seeking comfort. Ilya cups his cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear before it can even fall.

“All done,” Dr. Morris says cheerfully, applying the colorful Band-Aids.

Shane lets out a breath and kisses the top of Wyatt’s head. “You did it, honey. You’re okay.”

Ilya straightens up. He looks more exhausted than he does after a triple-overtime game. He glares at the used syringes on the tray.

“We are leaving,” Ilya announces. “This place is a house of torture.”

He scoops Wyatt out of Shane’s arms, holding him tight against his chest. Wyatt, seemingly having already forgotten the trauma, grabs Ilya’s shirt and buries his face in the fabric.

“He’s fine, Ilya,” Shane says, standing up and grabbing the diaper bag. “He’s already over it.”

“I am not over it,” Ilya says. “I need emotional support ice cream.”

Shane laughs, reaching out to squeeze Ilya’s arm. “Okay. Ice cream. Let’s go.”

On the drive home, Wyatt falls asleep in his car seat, exhausted by the ordeal. Shane drives, glancing in the rearview mirror every few seconds to check on him.

Ilya is quiet in the passenger seat. He’s watching Wyatt too, his body twisted awkwardly so he can keep a hand on the baby’s leg.

“He was brave,” Ilya says softly.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “He was.”

“He cried,” Ilya adds tightly. “I didn’t like it.”

“I know. Nobody likes it. But it’s part of the job.”

Ilya sighs, leaning back in his seat but keeping his hand on Wyatt. “Being a parent is… terrible. It is just worrying. All the time. Is he eating? Is he sleeping? Is the doctor trying to stab him?”

“It gets better,” Shane lies. “I think.”

“You don’t know. You are making it up.”

“I am absolutely making it up.”

Ilya blows a sharp puff of air upward, sending the curls fluttering off his forehead. He looks at Shane, his expression softening. “You were good in there. Calm.”

“One of us had to be.”

“I was calm.”

“You threatened the receptionist with your eyes.”

“She looked suspicious.”

Shane shakes his head, smiling. He reaches across the console and takes Ilya’s free hand, interlacing their fingers. “You’re a good dad, baby. The best.”

Ilya squeezes his hand tight. “He is everything, Shane. If anything…” He trails off, unable to finish the thought.

“Nothing will,” Shane says firmly. “We’ve got him. He’s ours.”

They pull into the driveway. The house is quiet, waiting for them. Shane kills the engine, but they don’t move for a second. They just sit there in the silence of the car, holding hands, listening to the soft, rhythmic breathing of their son in the back seat.

“Ice cream?” Ilya asks.

“We have the good stuff in the freezer,” Shane says. “Salted caramel.”

Ilya grins. “Acceptable.”

At eight months, Wyatt starts to crawls. One minute their son is sitting on the rug, gnawing on a silicone giraffe, and the next he is launching himself toward the electrical outlet with a speed that suggests he has been training for this moment his entire life. He has Ilya’s aggression. He sees what he wants—Anya’s tail, a speck of dust, an unsecured cord—and he goes for it with zero hesitation. But he has Shane’s stubbornness. If he fails, he doesn’t cry. He just resets, furrows his brow, and tries again until he conquers the obstacle.

Then at ten months, he pulls himself up. Shane finds him standing in his crib one morning, gripping the rails with determination, screaming triumphantly at the ceiling.

“My strong boy,” Ilya declares, lifting Wyatt out and holding him up like Simba.

The house changes with their son. The sleek, minimalist decor Shane favored before parenthood is slowly eroded by the colorful tide of baby paraphernalia. But it’s the walls that change the most. The gallery wall in the nursery was just the beginning. Now, photos of Wyatt have colonized every room.

There’s a framed shot in the hallway of Wyatt’s first solid food experience—avocado smeared from his eyebrows to his chin, grinning with manic glee. There’s a candid on the fridge of Ilya asleep on the couch with Wyatt asleep on his chest, both of them with their mouths slightly open in the exact same way. There’s a black-and-white print in the living room of Wyatt’s hands gripping a mini-stick, his little fingers curled around the tape with perfect form.

It’s a timeline of their life.

Shane’s own timeline is shifting, too.

He’s back on the ice. He started skating seriously again when Wyatt was six months old, pushing his body to remember the rhythm, the power. Though his core felt weak, and his balance off but muscle memory is a powerful thing, and the drive to compete never really left him.

He’s aiming for next season. He’s been training, rebuilding his strength, while Ilya takes over the primary parent role in the mornings.

It’s a Tuesday in November of 2028. Ilya is in Boston for a game against the Bears—his old team, his old barn. It’s always a loaded trip for him, filled with memories and complicated feelings. He’s been tense on FaceTime all week, that specific pre-game edginess that makes him short-tempered.

Shane is home. It’s just him and Wyatt and a rainy afternoon that feels endless.

Wyatt is eleven months old now. He’s cruising furniture, pulling himself along the coffee table, babbling a constant stream of nonsense syllables that sound like a very passionate debate.

“Ba-ba-da-ga,” Wyatt informs the sofa cushion, slapping it for emphasis.

“I agree, honey,” Shane says from the floor, where he’s folding laundry. “It’s a very controversial opinion.”

Wyatt turns, fixing Shane with a serious hazel stare. He watches his son lets go of the couch. Wyatt wobbles, his little arms windmilling for balance, and then he takes a step toward Shane. Then another. He falls, landing on his diapered butt with a soft thump. But he doesn’t cry. He just looks at Shane, beaming.

And then he says it.

“Pa-pa.”

Shane freezes, a tiny sock halfway to the pile.

“What did you say?” Shane says.

Wyatt claps his hands, delighted by the attention. “Pa-pa! Pa!”

It’s clear. It’s distinct. It isn’t Da-da or Ma-ma or Ba-ba. It is Papa. Ilya’s name.

Shane’s heart hammers. Ilya is going to miss it. Ilya is in Boston, probably taping his stick and brooding, and he is missing the one word he has been trying to coax out of Wyatt for months. He carries Wyatt over to the sofa, then grabs his phone on the table. He angles it so Wyatt’s face is in frame, and hits record.

“Okay,” Shane says, settling Wyatt on his lap. He adjusts the angle one more time, making sure they’re both visible. “Alright, we’re recording. Wyatt, can you say it again? Say Papa.”

Wyatt looks at the phone. He reaches for it with grabby hands.

“No, no. Not the phone.” Shane gently redirects his attention. “Look at me, sweetie. Can you say Papa? For Papa?”

Wyatt blinks innocently at him.

“Come on, my love,” Shane coaxes. “I know you can do it. You did it like two minutes ago. Just… Papa. Paaaaa—”

“Pa,” Wyatt says, clear as day.

Shane’s heart wants to jump out of his ribcage. “Yes! Yes, exactly. Keep going. Papa.”

“Pa-pa.”

“There it is!” Shane’s grinning so wide his face hurts. He pulls Wyatt closer, kissing his chubby cheek. “My baby is so smart! Your Papa is going to lose his mind.”

Wyatt grabs Shane’s face with both hands, his fingers digging into Shane’s cheeks. He leans forward and headbutts Shane’s nose.

“Ow. Okay. I love you too.” Shane laughs, adjusting his grip. “Alright, one more time for the camera. Big finish. Say Papa.”

Wyatt looks directly at the phone. His face goes serious—that little furrow between his eyebrows that’s pure Ilya.

“Papa,” he says.

Shane stops the recording and quickly pulls up Ilya’s contact. He attaches the video, types out a message—Your son has something to tell you—and hits send.

Thirty seconds pass. A minute. Shane is about to put the phone down when it starts ringing. FaceTime. Ilya’s name flashes across the screen with that photo Shane took of him sleeping with Wyatt on his chest, both of them drooling.

Shane answers immediately. Ilya’s face fills the screen. He’s in a hotel room—Shane can see the generic beige curtains visible in the background. He’s wearing the team hoodie, his hair wet from a shower, and his eyes are red.

“Shane,” Ilya says, his voice wrecked. “Shane, I just—did he—”

“He said Papa,” Shane confirms, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Like, three times. Clear as anything.”

“Show me.” Ilya leans closer to the camera, his face filling the screen. “Put him on. I need to see him.”

He flips the camera so Ilya can see Wyatt, who is currently trying to eat the remote control. “Hey, baby. Look who it is.”

Wyatt looks at the screen. He pauses, his little brain processing the pixels. He recognizes the face. He recognizes the voice. He smacks the screen with a wet hand. “Pa-pa!”

Ilya makes a noise that sounds like he’s been punched in the throat. On the small screen, Shane sees Ilya cover his mouth with his hand, his eyes squeezing shut for a second. When he opens them, they are wet.

“Hi,” Ilya chokes out. “Hi, my little bear. Yes. Is Papa. Is me.”

“Pa!” Wyatt agrees enthusiastically.

“He waited for you,” Shane says softly, turning the camera back to himself. “He’s been babbling all day, but he saved that for when you were… well, almost here.”

“I hate Boston,” Ilya says fiercely, wiping his eyes. “I want to come home. I want to hear him.”

“You’ll be home tomorrow. He’s not going to forget it by then. Once he starts talking, I have a feeling he’s never going to stop. Just like you.”

Ilya laughs, a wet, ragged sound. “He is smart boy. He knows who is the fun parent.”

“Excuse me?” Shane feigns outrage. “I’m the fun parent. I let him eat floor Cheerios.”

“You are the responsible parent. I am the Papa.”

Ilya looks at the screen, drinking them in. The longing in his expression is visceral. It crosses the hundreds of miles between them, pulling at Shane’s own heart.

“Ilya,” Shane says quietly.

“I am fine.” Ilya’s voice is muffled behind his hand. He drops it, and yeah, he’s definitely crying. His eyes are wet, his face blotchy. “I am completely fine. This is fine.”

“You’re crying.”

“I am not crying. This is… allergies.”

“You don’t have allergies.”

“I have new allergies. From… Boston. The air is different here.” Ilya wipes at his eyes roughly. “He said Papa. His first word is Papa.”

“Yeah,” Shane says softly. He runs his hand over Wyatt’s hair, smoothing down the curls that are already springing back up. “He’s been working on it all morning. I think he’s pretty proud of himself.”

“He should be. He is genius.” Ilya leans closer to the camera again. “Wyatt. My bear. You are the most brilliant, most perfect baby in the history of babies. When Papa gets home, Papa is going to buy you so many things. A car. A house. A hockey team.”

“He’s eleven months old.”

“It is never too early to plan for his future.” Ilya’s smiling now, even though there are still tears on his cheeks. “Can you say it again, malysh? For Papa?”

Wyatt, because he’s apparently a performer, looks directly at the camera and says, “Papa. Papa. Papa.”

Shane watches Ilya completely lose it. His husband—six-foot-three, two hundred and ten pounds of pure muscle and Russian stubbornness—is sitting in a hotel room in Boston, crying over a FaceTime call because their eleven-month-old son learned how to say his name.

It’s the best thing Shane has ever seen.

“I need to come home,” Ilya says suddenly. “I am getting on a plane. Right now.”

“You have a game in four hours.”

“I don’t care. This is more important.”

“Ilya. You’re not getting on a plane.”

“Watch me.”

“You’re going to play your game, you’re going to win, and then you’re going to come home on Friday like you’re supposed to.” Shane shifts Wyatt on his lap, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We’ll be here. He’ll still say Papa. I promise.”

Ilya scrubs at his face with both hands. “I am missing everything.”

“You’re not missing everything. You’re seeing this right now.”

“It is not the same.”

“I know.” Shane’s chest tightens. He knows exactly what Ilya means. He’s been home for eleven months now, living every single moment of Wyatt’s life in real-time, and even he feels like he’s missing things. Like he blinks and suddenly Wyatt has outgrown another onesie, or discovered a new sound, or figured out how to roll from his back to his stomach.

Time is moving too fast. He wants to grab it by the throat and make it slow down.

“I am retiring,” Ilya announces. “This is my last season. I am done.”

Shane stares at him, gobsmacked. “You’re not retiring.”

“I am thirty-two. I have played professional hockey for fourteen years. It is enough. I will stay home with Wyatt. You can go back to playing, and I will be the stay-at-home parent.”

Shane snorts. “You’d lose your mind in a week.”

“I would not. I would be excellent at it. I am meant to be a house husband.”

“You can’t even handle a six-month checkup without threatening medical professionals.”

“That was different. They were attacking our son with needles.”

“Ilya.”

Ilya sighs. He runs a hand through his wet hair, making it stick up in about fifteen different directions. “I just want to be there.”

“I know. And you will be. You’ll be home in three days.”

“Three days is too long!”

“It’s three days. We’ve done longer road trips.”

“That was before Wyatt.” Ilya looks at their son through the screen, his expression softening. “Everything is different now.”

Shane knows the feeling. It’s not just the sleepless nights; it’s the stranger he sees in old photos. The Shane from two years ago—lifting the Cup—was lighter, belonging entirely to himself. He grieves that freedom, but that man never knew the weight of Wyatt asleep on his shoulder or the terror of a 3:00 AM fever. He didn’t know love could obliterate who you used to be. The old Shane is gone, replaced by the terrified, overwhelmed father he became the moment his son took his first breath

“I know,” Shane whispers, shifting the phone so he can look at his husband, this new version of Ilya that he loves even more than the old one. “It’s a whole new world, Rozy. But we’re figuring it out.”

They stay on FaceTime for another twenty minutes. Ilya talks to Wyatt in a mix of English and Russian, trying to coax out more words. Wyatt, having apparently exhausted his linguistic abilities for the day, mostly just babbles and tries to eat the phone.

Eventually, Shane sees movement behind Ilya—someone knocking on the door.

“That is Hayes,” Ilya says, glancing over his shoulder. “We have to leave for the arena soon.”

“Okay. Go. Play good.”

“I always play good.”

“Play better than good.”

“I will score three,” Ilya promises. “A hat trick for the boy who said my name.”

He does.

Shane watches the game from the couch, Wyatt asleep on his chest. He watches Ilya tear through the Boston defense like a man possessed. He watches Ilya score the first goal, then the second. And when the third one goes in—an absolute rocket of a one-timer—Shane sees Ilya look straight into the camera lens.

He doesn’t celebrate with his usual arrogance. He just taps his heart, then points at the lens.

Shane kisses the top of Wyatt’s sleeping head. “That’s for you, kiddo. Your Papa is showing off.”

Wyatt sighs in his sleep, his little hand curling into Shane’s shirt, holding on tight.

Ilya keeps his promise. The Ottawa Centaurs win 4-2, and Ilya scores three of them. Shane watches the final minutes from the couch, his heart doing that frantic dance it always does when Ilya is on the ice. Even after all these years, even after marriage and a baby and a million mundane mornings, watching Ilya play hockey still feels like watching a storm make landfall. It’s so terrifyingly beautiful.

The buzzer sounds. The Centaurs spill off the bench, mobbing Ilya near the net. Shane sees the way Ilya’s helmet gets knocked askew, the way he grins—wild and feral and high on adrenaline—as Hazy wraps him in a headlock.

“Papa did it,” Shane says in a hush voice to the sleeping weight on his chest. “He got the hat trick.”

Wyatt sleeps on, blissfully unaware that his father has just dismantled one of the best defensive lines in the league in his honor.

Shane keeps the TV on for the post-game. He knows what’s coming. Ilya hates interviews, usually giving one-word answers or staring at the reporter until they get uncomfortable and leave. But tonight feels different. Tonight, Ilya has something to say.

The camera cuts to the hallway outside the locker room. Ilya is standing there, still in his gear, sweat dripping from his hair. He looks exhausted and exhilarated all at once. The reporter—a young guy from TSN—holds out the microphone.

“Ilya, incredible game. A hat trick in your old barn. You seemed to have an extra gear tonight. What was the motivation?”

Ilya wipes his face with a towel. He looks directly into the camera lens, his hazel eyes intense.

“I had a promise to keep,” Ilya says.

“A promise?” the reporter prompts. “To the team?”

“No.” Ilya smiles, the one that belongs only to Shane and Wyatt. “To my son. He learned my name today.”

The reporter blinks, clearly thrown off script. “Oh. Wow. That’s… congratulations. Did he say ‘Dada’?”

“He said ‘Papa’,” Ilya corrects, a note of fierce pride in his voice. “And he is watching. So… hi, Wyatt. Hi, Shane—my husband. I am coming home.” He winks at the camera, then turns and walks away before the reporter can ask another question.

Shane lets out a shaky breath, his throat suddenly dry. He presses his hand to his mouth, trying to hold back the sudden wave of emotion. He’s cried more in the last year than he has in his entire life combined.

“You sap,” Shane whispers at the TV screen, though he’s smiling so hard it hurts.

He turns off the TV, plunging the living room into darkness. Then shifts Wyatt slightly, careful not to wake him. He stands up, his legs stiff from sitting so long, and carries their son upstairs. The nursery is quiet. Shane lays Wyatt in the crib, tucking the blanket around him with practiced ease. He lingers for a moment, watching the rise and fall of Wyatt’s chest, marveling at the simple, impossible fact of his existence.

He never knew he could possibly love someone simply because they exist until he met his son.

“Goodnight, Wyatt Ilyich,” Shane whispers. “Papa’s coming home.”

The sound of a car engine cuts through the quiet of the afternoon. Not just any engine—the low, aggressive growl of Ilya’s Maserati.

Shane is in the living room, bouncing Wyatt on his hip. Wyatt is in a mood. He’s been fussy since his nap, chewing on his fist and drooling enough to irrigate a small farm. But the moment the engine cuts, Wyatt freezes. His head swivels toward the front window.

“You hear that?” Shane says, his own pulse picking up speed. “That sounds like Papa’s car.”

He walks to the window, pulling back the curtain. Sure enough, the sleek black sports car is idling in the driveway. The door opens, and Ilya steps out. He’s wearing a fitted black coat, a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, and sunglasses despite the gray November sky. He looks expensive. He looks like a superstar.

Shane watches as Ilya grabs his duffel bag from the passenger seat. He pauses for a second, looking up at the house. Even from here, Shane can see the tension in his shoulders drop. Ilya takes a deep breath, as if he’s inhaling the very concept of home, and then starts walking toward the door.

“He’s here,” Shane tells Wyatt, who is now kicking his chubby legs with excitement. “Papa’s home.”

Shane meets him at the door. He doesn’t even wait for Ilya to get his key out. He yanks the door open, letting the cold air rush in. Ilya drops his bag on the mat. He steps inside, kicks the door shut with his heel, and pulls Shane into a kiss that is messy and deep.

Ilya’s cold hands framing Shane’s face, his tongue sweeping into Shane’s mouth like he’s trying to reclaim everything he’s missed in the last three days. Shane hums low in his throat. He missed smell of him, the sheer physical reality of Ilya Rozanov taking up space in his life.

A loud, indignant squeak comes from between them. Ilya laughs against Shane’s mouth, pulling back an inch. He looks down at their son squished between their chests. Wyatt is staring up at him, eyes wide, mouth open in a gummy grin.

“And you,” Ilya coos, his voice instantly softening into that ridiculous, melty tone. “Hello, little bear. Did you miss me?”

Wyatt shrieks, a high-pitched sound of pure joy, and reaches for Ilya’s face. Ilya doesn’t hesitate. He takes Wyatt from Shane’s arms, lifting him high into the air. Wyatt giggles, his legs kicking wildly as he looks down at his father.

“You are heavier,” Ilya accuses, bringing him back down to pepper kisses all over Wyatt’s face. “Did you eat a brick while I was gone? You are chunky. So chunky.”

Wyatt laughs harder, grabbing Ilya’s nose.

“Careful,” Shane warns automatically, hovering just a step behind. “Support his head. He’s wiggly today.”

“I have him,” Ilya says easily, shifting Wyatt to his hip. He presses a loud, smacking kiss to the side of Wyatt’s neck, making the baby squirm. “I missed you. I missed my little bear so much. Did you tell Papa about your day? Did you tell him how you are a genius?”

Wyatt babbles something that sounds vaguely like ba-ba-ga and smacks Ilya’s chest.

“Exactly,” Ilya agrees as if he understands whatever their son is saying. “I thought so.”

He looks at Shane then. His eyes are warm, he opens his free arm wide.

“Come here,” Ilya says. “Room for one more.”

Shane doesn’t need to be asked twice. He steps into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s waist, burying his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck.

“I’m finally home,” Ilya murmurs in Russian, pressing a kiss to Shane’s hair. “Ya doma.”

“You’re home,” Shane repeats. They stand there for a long moment, a three-person huddle in the foyer, ignoring the draft from the door and the pile of mail on the table. It’s perfect. It’s quiet.

“So,” Ilya says, breaking the silence. He pulls back slightly, looking down at Shane. “We are going out.”

Shane blinks. “What?”

“Tonight. The team is going to The Rabbit Hole. For the win.”

Shane frowns. The Rabbit Hole is a new, exclusive club downtown. Loud music. Expensive drinks.

“Ilya, I can’t go to a club. I have…” He gestures at the baby currently trying to eat Ilya’s scarf. “I have a baby.”

“My parents are coming,” Ilya says smugly. “Well, your parents. But they love me more.”

“My parents?”

“I called Yuna from the airport. She is thrilled. She said she has been dying to see Wyatt all week. They will be here in an hour.”

Shane stares at him, lips parting. “You planned this?”

“I am a man of action.” Ilya bounces Wyatt gently. “It will be quick. Just a few drinks. The guys are bringing their partners. Hazy is bringing his wife. Troy is bringing Harris.” He pauses, his gaze turning serious. “And I want to bring my husband.”

Shane hesitates. He looks at Wyatt, then at the comfortable living room, then down at his own sweatpants. The idea of putting on real clothes and going to a club feels exhausting. But knowing Ilya wants to show him off? Ilya wants to walk into a club, hand-in-hand with his husband, and celebrate a hat trick. He can’t say no that.

“Okay,” Shane says softly. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Ilya beams. It’s blinding. “Yes? You will wear the sexy shirt? The one that makes your arms look good?”

“Fine.”

“Good.” Ilya kisses him again.

“Go get ready. I will entertain the monster until Yuna gets here.”

The sound of the doorbell echoes through the house thirty minutes later, followed by the voices of Yuna and David on the porch. Shane checks himself in the hallway mirror one last time. He’s wearing a fitted black button-down under a black faux jacket that he knows Ilya likes because it makes his shoulders look broad, tucked into slim black jeans. Ilya picked it out, of course.

“Arms,” Ilya had said simply, tossing it onto the bed.

Yuna is already on the floor of the living room, cooing at Wyatt, while David is trying to figure out the complex buckling system of the high chair.

“You look nice, sweetie,” Yuna says, looking up as Shane walks in. She’s holding Wyatt, who is currently mesmerized by her shiny diamond tear drop earrings. “Go. We’ve got this.”

“He had a bottle an hour ago,” Shane says, automatically slipping into the mental checklist. “There are three more in the fridge. He’ll probably need another one around eight. He likes to be rocked before bed, but not too fast or he’ll spit up. And if he’s fussy, try the white noise machine—”

“Shane,” his dad interrupts gently. “We raised you. We know what we’re doing.”

“Right. Yeah. I know.” Shane rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re a good dad.” David pats him in the back. “Go have fun. You’ve earned it.”

Ilya steps out of the bedroom, and Shane stops breathing for a moment. They’ve been married for over a year, they’ve been together for a decade but Ilya still has the power to knock the wind out of him. His husband is wearing a deep maroon suit jacket over a black tee, the color rich and dark against his skin. But it’s the jewelry that draws Shane’s eye. The gold chain Ilya has worn for years is there, glinting under the hall light. But resting just beneath it is the new one. A slightly shorter chain with two small, gold pendants.

S and W.

It’s possessive. It’s loud. It’s so Ilya.

“Ready, Hollander?” Ilya asks, buttoning his jacket. Shane catches the drift of Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille instantly, even from a few feet away.

“Yeah,” he says, and walks over to Yuna to say goodbye to Wyatt. This is the hard part. The moment they put their coats on, his son senses the abandonment and creates a siren noise that could shatter glass.

“Okay, distraction mode,” David says, producing a brightly colored shaker toy from his pocket like a magician.

“Look, Wyatt! Look at the colors!” Yuna says with intense enthusiasm, bouncing him gently.

Wyatt turns his head, his attention snagged by the rattling noise.

“Go,” Yuna mouths at them, waving her hand toward the door. “Run.”

Ilya blows a silent kiss to the back of Wyatt’s head, and Shane does the same. They slip out the front door like thieves in the night, the cold Ottawa air hitting Shane’s face and waking him up instantly. Ilya’s Maserati is waiting in the driveway, a sleek, black beast that looks out of place in the suburban quiet. They get in, the leather seats cold against Shane’s back.

Ilya starts the engine, the low growl vibrating through the chassis. As he pulls out of the driveway, Ilya reaches across the center console. He doesn’t look away from the road, but his hand finds Shane’s unerringly. He laces their fingers together, bringing Shane’s hand up to his mouth. He presses a kiss to Shane’s knuckles. Then another. Then he rests their joined hands on his thigh, his thumb sweeping back and forth over Shane’s skin.

“You okay?” Ilya asks, his voice low over the hum of the heater.

“Yeah,” Shane says, watching the streetlights blur past. “Just… haven’t been to a club in a while.”

“It will be fun. Hazy promised to behave. Mostly.” Ilya squeezes his hand. “And you look hot. I want to show you off.”

Heat climbs up Shane’s neck, a traitorous, flustered burn. He traces the lines of Ilya’s profile in the strobing streetlights—the arrogant slope of his nose, the sharp, devastating cut of his jaw, the way those dark, unruly curls brush against the collar of his maroon jacket.

For years, a moment like this was a pipe dream. A dangerous, impossible hallucination.

Intertwined fingers over the center console? It would have been suicide. When a sedan pulls up alongside them at a red light, that old, conditioned panic spikes in Shane’s chest—the instinct to snatch his hand back and put a safe, chaste distance between them before anyone can see.

But he doesn’t. He forces his breath steady and leaves his hand right where it is, anchored in Ilya’s grip.

Ilya doesn’t even blink. He just taps a lazy rhythm against Shane’s palm with his thumb, keeping time with the low hum of the radio. When they roll up to The Rabbit Hole, the scene is a kinetic blur of energy. It’s Friday in Ottawa, post-win, and the air is electric. The sidewalk is a crush of bodies, and the paparazzi are swarming the velvet rope, their flashbulbs popping like manic fireflies against the dark.

Ilya steers the Maserati right to the curb, smooth and unapologetic, and the valet is there before the engine even cuts.

“Ready?” Ilya asks, turning to look at him. That wicked glint is back in his hazel eyes—a dare waiting to be taken.

“Ready,” Shane says.

They step out into the chaos. Shane is hit with a wall of shouting voices, the manic click-whir of shutters, the subterranean thrum of bass bleeding out from the club’s open doors.

“Shane! Shane, over here!”

“How is your baby?”

“Ilya! Congrats on the win!”

“Mr. Rozanov! One photo!”

Ilya pays them exactly zero attention. He rounds the hood of the car, buttons his jacket with agonizing slowness, and then, right there on the sidewalk, extends a hand to Shane.

It’s not just a gesture; it’s a declaration. A manifesto written in skin and bone in front of the cameras, the fans, the entire watching world. And Shane takes it.

The crowd loses its collective mind the second their fingers lock. A ripple of shrieks—“Oh my god!” and “They’re holding hands!”—tears through the line of people waiting to get in. Ilya just smirks, and pulls Shane toward the entrance. He nods at the bouncer, who lifts the rope immediately.

“Good game, Rozanov,” the bouncer grunts.

“Thanks,” Ilya clips out. He doesn’t loosen his grip on Shane’s fingers for a second, towing him past the threshold and into the dark, red-washed throat of the club.

The air inside is a solid wall of humidity, thick with the scent of expensive vodka and body heat. The music is a heavy, rhythmic house track that vibrates in Shane’s chest. It’s crowded, but the sea of bodies parts for Ilya Rozanov like he’s Moses. They find the team in the VIP section—a raised area with leather booths and a view of the dance floor. Hayes is there, standing on a banquette and waving a bottle of Grey Goose.

“The King returns!” Hayes shouts over the music, nearly falling off the seat. “And the Captain! The dads are loose!”

Shane laughs, the tension in his shoulders finally breaking. Troy is there with Harris, and a few of the rookies are huddled near the ice bucket, looking terrified and thrilled to be invited.

Ilya guides him to a spot on the edge of the booth. They stand close to each other, Ilya’s body is a solid wall against the pulsing crowd. He leans in, his lips brushing Shane’s ear so he can be heard.

“Drink, sweetheart?”

“Beer,” Shane yells back.

“Boring,” Ilya teases, but he signals the waitress.

For the next hour, it’s… normal. Or as normal as life gets for them. Shane nurses his beer, talking to Harris about Troy’s new obsession with golf, while Ilya holds court with the team. But Ilya never drifts far. His hand is always touching Shane—a palm on his lower back, an arm thrown casually over Shane’s shoulders.

The mood in the club shifts around midnight. The lights dim further, turning a hazy, electric blue. The heavy house beat cuts out, replaced by a smooth, nostalgic synth intro that Shane recognizes immediately. The opening chords of Justin Bieber’s “One Less Lonely Girl” flood the speakers. The dance floor erupts. It’s the kind of cheesy, throwback track that gets everyone screaming. People are grabbing their friends, their partners, pulling them toward the center of the room.

Ilya freezes mid-sentence. He looks at the DJ booth, then looks at Shane. A slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face.

“No,” Shane says immediately, shaking his head. “Ilya, no.”

“It is a classic,” Ilya shouts, setting his drink down. “And he is a Canadian icon! Like you!”

Ilya stands up. He extends his hand to Shane, palm up. The gold S and W pendants swing forward, catching the strobe light. “Dance with me, Hollander.”

Shane looks at the hand. He looks at the dance floor, packed with people. “Everyone is going to stare.”

“Let them,” Ilya says, his voice cutting through the noise, serious. “Let them see.”

Shane looks up at his husband. He sees the challenge in Ilya’s hazel eyes, but also the softness. The promise. I’ve got you.

He puts his beer down and finally takes Ilya’s hand.

Ilya pulls him up and leads him out of the VIP section, down the two steps to the dance floor. The crowd clears a small space for them—mostly out of shock, Shane thinks. He feels a hundred pairs of eyes on them, phones being raised to capture the moment.

Shane feels a spike of stage fright warring with the adrenaline in his blood, but Ilya? Ilya is unbothered, a force of nature in a bespoke jacket. He stops dead center in the crush of bodies and turns, the strobe lights catching the sharp line of his jaw. The song hits the chorus—I’m coming for you, one less lonely girl—and Ilya steps right into Shane’s space. He guides Shane’s hands on his shoulders, then wraps his own arms around Shane’s waist, pulling him close until their chests touch.

“Okay?” Ilya asks, looking at him like he’s the only person in the room. The anxiety recedes, replaced by that feeling of being exactly where Shane belongs.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay.”

He slides his arms around Ilya’s neck, his fingers curling into the short hair at the nape of Ilya’s neck. They start to move, a slow, swaying rhythm that ignores the chaotic energy of the people jumping around them. He married not just a terrific hockey player but also a good dancer. Ilya moves with the same fluid grace he has on the ice. He holds Shane securely, guiding him, shielding him.

“It’s just us.” Ilya tightens his grip on Shane’s waist. “Nobody else matters.”

Shane nods, gaining more confidence. The bass vibrates in the floorboards, the smell of Ilya’s perfume intensifies, as well as the heat of his body.

But Shane forgets everything.

He forgets the phones.

He forgets the cameras.

He forgets the years spent pinned to opposite sides of crowded clubs, nursing watered-down drinks and feigned indifference. He forgets the agonizing, specific torture of watching Ilya’s hand splayed on someone else’s waist, the exhausting performance of looking anywhere but at him, pretending the magnetic pull in his chest was hatred instead of a starving, desperate want.

He rests his forehead against Ilya’s, closing his eyes for a second. “Happy hat trick, baby.”

“Thank you,” Ilya whispers. He shifts his hands, sliding one up to cup the back of Shane’s neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there.

They stop moving, just swaying in place as the song fades out. The air between them is charged, magnetic. Ilya pulls back a bit, his eyes dropping to Shane’s lips.

“Kiss me,” Ilya says.

Shane smiles. Without any hesitation, he closes the gap between them. Shane feels Ilya’s mouth curve into a smile against his own. He feels the scratch of Ilya’s stubble, the solid weight of him. Around them, people are cheering—some of the teammates are definitely whistling—but Shane doesn’t pull away.

He fiercely kisses his husband in the middle of a crowded club, under the flashing lights, and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t care who sees. He has spent so much of his life afraid. Afraid of being seen, afraid of being judged, afraid of losing everything he’s worked for.

But he doesn’t have to be afraid anymore.

He has his success right in his arms.

They stay on the dance floor for another song. And then another. At some point, Ilya spins Shane out, then pulls him back in, dipping him dramatically. Shane yelps, grabbing onto Ilya’s shoulders for balance, and Ilya laughs—loud and bright and completely unrestrained.

When they finally make their way back to the booth, Shane’s face hurts from smiling. Hazy wolf-whistles, and Troy slow-claps.

“Okay, that was adorable,” Harris declares. “I need you two to teach a class on couple goals.”

“We are very good at being married,” Ilya agrees, sliding back into the booth and pulling Shane down next to him.

“You’ve been married for less than a year,” Harris points out.

“And we are excellent at it.”

They stay for another hour. Shane nurses his beer, listening to the team’s banter, watching Ilya light up every time someone brings up the hat trick. Bood mentions Wyatt, and Ilya pulls out his phone, showing off approximately fifty photos of their son to anyone who will look.

“He said my name,” Ilya announces proudly. “Papa. He said Papa first.”

“That’s because you bribe him,” Shane jokes.

“I do not bribe him. I simply… encourage his excellent taste.”

The conversation shifts. Someone orders another round. Troy and Harris disappear onto the dance floor. The music gets louder, the crowd thicker. Shane feels Ilya’s hand on his thing. He turns his head, finding Ilya already looking at him.

“What?” Shane asks.

“Nothing. Just… looking.”

“At what?”

“At you. At my husband. At the person I get to go home with tonight.” Ilya leans in, his breath warm against Shane’s ear. “At the person I get to go home with every night for the rest of my life.”

Shane blushes hard. He turns his head slightly, their mouths inches apart. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They kiss slowly.

He makes a soft sound—something between a sigh and a moan—and Ilya swallows it, his tongue sweeping into Shane’s mouth. Around them, the club keeps moving. The music keeps playing. People keep dancing and drinking and laughing.

But in this moment, in this booth, it’s just them.

“Let’s go home,” Ilya whispers into the space between them. “I want to take this shirt off you.”

Shane laughs, breathless and dizzy with happiness. He runs his thumb over the S pendant at Ilya’s throat.

“Yeah,” he says.

This is his life now. His husband. His son waiting at home.

Ilya drives fast—not reckless, just efficient—his hand tight on the gearshift when it isn’t gripping Shane’s thigh. The air in the car is full of tension that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the fact that Shane hasn’t touched his husband in three days.

They stumble through the front door like teenagers trying not to get caught past curfew. The house is silent; Yuna and David must have gone to bed in the guest room hours ago.

“Shh,” Shane hisses, though he’s the one tripping over Ilya’s shoes on the mat.

Ilya doesn’t say a word and just grabs his hand and hauls him up the stairs, then pushes the bedroom door open and locks it behind them with a definitive click that echoes in the quiet hall. Ilya crowds him against the door, his hands tangling in Shane’s hair, tilting his head back.

The kiss is wet and starving. It tastes like vodka and desperation. Shane makes a wrecked noise in his throat, his hands scrabbling at the lapels of that maroon jacket, trying to shove it off.

“Wait,” Ilya growls against his mouth. He catches Shane’s wrists, pinning them against the wood of the door. “Let me look at you.”

He steps back, his eyes dark and blown wide, sweeping over Shane’s body in the tight black shirt. The look is so possessive, so heavy, it makes Shane’s knees weak.

“You are beautiful,” Ilya says. “Mine.”

“Yours,” Shane chokes out. “I’m yours. Come here.”

Ilya sheds the jacket, letting it drop to the floor. The rest of their clothes follow in a frantic, clumsy pile. Belts unbuckled with shaking hands, buttons popping, fabric tearing. When skin finally meets skin, it’s a shock of heat that makes Shane gasp. They tumble onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and friction. Ilya is on top of him instantly, settling his weight between Shane’s legs.

He wraps his legs around his husband’swaist, pulling him closer. “Missed you,” he whispers, his hands roaming over the broad expanse of Ilya’s back, tracing the dip of his spine. “God, I missed you.”

“I am here,” Ilya murmurs. He kisses Shane’s jaw, his neck, his shoulders. “I am right here.”

Ilya moves down, his mouth hot against Shane’s chest. He teases a nipple with his tongue, making Shane arch his back off the mattress, a sharp cry escaping his lips. Ilya hums in satisfaction and works his way down, over the flat plane of Shane’s stomach, pausing to press an open-mouthed kiss to the silver line of the C-section scar.

It’s a ritual now. A silent acknowledgment of what Shane’s body did, what it gave them.

Then Ilya goes lower, and takes him into his mouth, Shane’s head falls back against the pillow, his fingers knotting in Ilya’s dark hair. It’s overwhelming—the wet heat, the suction, the sheer enthusiasm Ilya brings to everything he does. He devours Shane like he’s starving, like Shane is the only sustenance that matters.

“Baby,” Shane gasps, his hips bucking instinctively. “Please. Need you inside.”

Ilya comes up for air, his lips slick, a wicked smirk playing on his face. “Impatient.”

“Shut up.”

Ilya reaches for the lube on the nightstand, his eyes never leaving Shane’s face. He preps Shane quickly, efficiently, his fingers stretching him with a focused intensity that makes Shane whine. When Ilya finally pushes inside, it’s a relief so profound Shane almost sobs.

He feels full. Complete. He gasps, his nails digging into Ilya’s shoulders as Ilya sinks his cock to the hilt in one long, slow thrust.

“There,” Ilya grunts, his forehead resting against Shane’s. “Home.”

They find their rhythm easily. It’s not the frantic, angry fucking of their early rivalry days. It’s deeper. It’s the kind of sex you have when you know someone’s body better than your own. Ilya hits that spot inside Shane that makes him see stars, over and over again, driving into him with a steady, relentless power.

Shane is lost in it. He’s lost in the friction, in the sound of their wet, slap of skin against skin, in the way Ilya growls his name in Russian.

“Moy. Tol’ko moy.” (Mine. Only mine.)

Shane wraps his legs tighter around Ilya, pulling him deeper. He watches Ilya’s face above him—eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading on his hairline, mouth open in a silent pant. He looks wrecked. He looks angelic.

“Ilya,” Shane breathes. “I’m close. I’m close.”

Ilya’s eyes snap open. They’re wild, burning with intensity. He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. He grinds against Shane, hitting that prostate sweet spot with punishing accuracy. Shane falls apart. The orgasm hits him, a white-hot wave of pleasure that makes him cry out, his body bowing off the mattress.

Ilya follows him seconds later, groaning Shane’s name into his neck, shuddering as he empties into him. They collapse into a heap of tangled limbs and heavy breathing. The room is quiet again, save for the sound of their hearts trying to remember how to beat at a normal rhythm. Shane feels sticky and exhausted and incredibly, wonderfully happy.

He drifts for a while, just listening to the wind outside and the steady thump of Ilya’s heart against his back.

Eventually, Ilya shifts. He pulls the duvet up over them, tucking it around Shane’s shoulders with careful hands. Then he reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the bottle of expensive Japanese whiskey he keeps there and two glasses. He pours a measure for himself, takes a sip, and settles back against the headboard, pulling Shane against his chest.

Shane rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder, his hand coming up to rest on Ilya’s chest. His fingers find the gold chains. He traces the original necklace—the one Ilya has worn since he was eighteen—and then moves to the new one. The charms are cool against his warm fingertips.

Shane twists the W between his thumb and forefinger. “You really told the reporter our son said Papa.”

“It was important news,” Ilya says, his voice rumbling in his chest. He takes another sip of whiskey, the ice clinking softly. “The world needed to know.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I am proud.” Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head. “He is a genius.”

Shane smiles, closing his eyes. He feels the rise and fall of Ilya’s chest. It’s peaceful.

“I meant it, you know,” Ilya says quietly.

“Meant what?”

“About retiring. This is it. After this season.”

Shane’s eyes open. He pushes himself up slightly, propping his chin on Ilya’s chest so he can look him in the face. Ilya isn’t smiling. He’s looking down at Shane with a calm, settled expression that Shane hasn’t seen often.

“Baby,” Shane says slowly. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“But… you’re in your prime. You just scored a hat trick against Boston. You’re literally the best player in the world right now.”

Ilya shrugs, the movement jostling Shane. “Maybe. But I am tired, Shane.” He looks at his whiskey glass, swirling the amber liquid. “I have been doing this since I was four years old. I have given… everything to this league.”

Shane goes quiet. He knows what Ilya means. He thinks about the years of hiding. The fear. The depression that nearly swallowed Ilya whole in those dark months before they came out.

“I missed his first word,” Ilya says softly. “I was in a hotel room in Boston, and my son said his first word, and I missed it.”

“You saw it on the phone.”

“It is not the same.” Ilya sets the glass down on the nightstand. He wraps his arms around Shane, pulling him back down until they’re chest to chest. His hand cups Shane’s cheek, his thumb brushing over Shane’s cheekbone. “I want to be here. I want to wake up with you every morning. I want to take Wyatt to the park on a Tuesday. I want to attend his piano recital. I want to be the one who teaches him to skate, not some instructor because I am on a road trip.”

Shane searches his face. “You won’t miss it? The adrenaline? The winning?”

“I will miss it,” Ilya admits. “But I have won. I have the records. There’s nothing for me to prove. I know what I want.”

“What do you want?” Shane asks even though he already knows the answer. He wants to hear it.

Ilya kisses him gently. “I want to be a husband. I want to be a Papa. I want to sit in the wives’ section and wear your jersey and look hot. I want to chirp the referees when they make bad calls against you.”

Shane lets out a wet laugh, blinking back sudden tears. “You’d be terrible in the wives’ section. You’d try to coach the power play from row six.”

“I would be excellent,” Ilya argues, though his eyes are soft. “I have very good hockey IQ.”

He pulls Shane down, tucking him back into his side. Shane rests his head on Ilya’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath the gold pendants.

“I chose the long game, yes?” Ilya says, referencing the phrase they used to use for their career, for their endurance. “But it’s game over, Shane. I won. I got the prize.”

He touches the S charm on his necklace, then presses his hand over Shane’s heart.

“You are the prize,” Ilya says. “You and our little bear.”

Shane feels a tear slip down his cheek. He wipes it away on Ilya’s chest. It’s terrifying, the idea of the NHL without Ilya Rozanov. The idea of stepping onto the ice and not seeing that number 81 jersey on the other side. But looking at Ilya now—relaxed, happy, his eyes clear and full of love—Shane knows it’s the right choice.

“Okay,” Shane says.

“I’ll end this with a win,” Ilya promises. “And then I am all yours.”

“You’re already all mine,” he says, “Rozy.”

Ilya grins, that sharp, devastating smile that made Shane fall in love with him in the first place.

“See? I am a genius.”Ilya pulls him down for another kiss, tasting of whiskey and forever, and Shane knows, with absolute certainty, that the best part of their lives is just beginning.

The air in the Canadian Tire Centre is so thick with tension it feels like breathing through a straw. All season, Shane had told himself that June couldn’t come fast enough. He had counted down the weeks, desperate for this final stretch, for the end of the waiting. But now that it is actually here—Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final, Ottawa Centaurs versus the Montreal Voyageurs—he thinks he might actually vomit.

The irony isn’t lost on him.

For fourteen years, the logo on those opposing jerseys was his shield, his armor, his entire personality drafted in red, white, and blue. He bled for that crest. Now, he stands in the friends-and-family suite, clutching the railing with a grip that is definitely going to leave a mark, wearing a black Centaurs jersey with ROZANOV and the number 81 emblazoned on the back.

It is the first time he has ever worn Ilya’s jersey during a game. It feels like a target. It feels like a prayer. It feels like wearing his heart on his sleeve.

"Calm down, Shane," Yuna says from beside him. She’s bouncing Wyatt on her hip, her face pale but composed. "You’re turning purple. It’s not a good look for you."

“I’m fine,” Shane lies. His voice is a wreck. He has been screaming for two periods straight. “I’m totally fine.”

He is absolutely, categorically not fine.

Down on the ice, the score is tied 2–2 with four minutes left in the third period. It is the kind of hockey that shaves years off your life expectancy. Fast, brutal, desperate.The Voyageurs are hungry—Shane knows that hunger; he led that team for a decade—but Ottawa is playing with a frantic, possessed energy.

They are playing for their captain.

Shane knows something the rest of the world doesn’t. He knows why Ilya has been playing like a man on fire all playoffs. He knows why Ilya spent an extra hour in the ice bath yesterday, why he taped his stick with such meticulous, silent focus this morning.

This is it. Win or lose, tonight is the end.

"Pa-pa!" Wyatt yells, pointing a chubby, determined finger toward the glass. He is wearing massive noise-canceling headphones over his dark curls and a tiny custom jersey that says LITTLE BEAR on the back, and he is arguably the only person in this building not currently on the verge of a cardiac event.

"Yeah, honey," Shane says, his eyes glued to the figure in the center of the ice. "Papa’s working."

Ilya looks exhausted. Shane can see it in the slope of his shoulders during the whistle, the way he leans heavily on his stick. He is thirty-three years old, playing nearly thirty minutes a night in a series that has been less a sporting event and more a physical war. But the moment the puck drops, the exhaustion vanishes, replaced by that terrifying, beautiful instinct that has made Ilya Rozanov the best player in the world. It’s muscle memory and brilliance and something dangerous that Shane has been in love with for half his life.

The faceoff is in the Montreal zone. Ilya wins it back to the point. The puck cycles. Montreal’s defense is collapsing, protecting the slot like it’s a the crown jewels.

"Shoot it!" David yells from behind them.

The shot from the point gets blocked. Chaos ensues. The puck squirts loose, an erratic black blur, and suddenly Montreal is breaking out. It is a two-on-one.

Shane’s heart stops. It doesn't just skip a beat; it packs its bags and leaves the building.

It is Montreal’s winger, Hayden Pike, carrying the puck. He is fast—Shane has watched that stride for years, knows exactly how dangerous his best friend is in open ice. He has a step on the Ottawa defenseman.

But he doesn’t have a step on Ilya.

Ilya shouldn’t be there. He was deep in the offensive zone. But he is backchecking with a speed that defies physics, his legs churning, his strides eating up the ice in great, desperate gulps. He catches Hayden at the hash marks.

He doesn’t just strip the puck; he commits grand larceny in front of millions of people.

Ilya lifts Hayden’s stick, steals the puck, and pivots on a dime, turning the play completely around. The crowd roar is a physical blow, shaking the glass of the suite.

“Go, go, go!” Shane screams, pounding the railing.

Ilya is alone. He has open ice. He crosses the blue line, the puck on a string, a magician with a captive audience. The Montreal goalie—Drapeau—comes out to challenge.

Ilya fakes the slap shot. Drapeau bites, dropping into the butterfly.

It is a mistake.

Ilya drags the puck to his backhand—a move so smooth it looks like liquid—and roofs it. Top shelf. Where grandma keeps the peanut butter.

The red light screams. The siren wails.

The arena effectively explodes.

Shane collapses back into his seat, his hands covering his face, shaking uncontrollably. Beside him, David is hugging Yuna, and Wyatt is clapping his hands because everyone else is clapping.

3-2 Ottawa. Two minutes and twelve seconds left.

The rest of the game is a blur of panic. Montreal pulls their goalie. They besiege the Ottawa net. Ilya is out there for the final shift, blocking shots with his body, clearing the crease, refusing to let the puck anywhere near the goal line.

When the clock hits zero, Shane doesn’t hear the buzzer. He feels it. He feels the vibration of eighteen thousand people losing their minds simultaneously. On the ice, the Centaurs bench empties. Gloves fly into the air. Helmets are tossed. And at the bottom of the pile, buried under a mountain of teammates, is Ilya.

Shane stands up. He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of Ilya’s jersey, but the tears keep coming. He reaches out and takes Wyatt from Yuna.

“Papa did it,” Shane whispers into Wyatt’s neck, hugging his son tight. “Papa really did it.”

Suddenly, the massive Jumbotron above center ice cuts away from the celebration. It finds the family suite.

Shane’s face fills the screen.

He knows he looks a mess. He is crying openly, his eyes red and swollen, clutching his son like a lifeline, wearing the captain’s jersey. But he doesn’t care. The crowd sees it. The roar changes, shifting from a celebration of the win to something warmer, something louder.

A chant starts. It starts in the upper bowl and cascades down until the whole building is shaking with it.

HOLL-AN-DER. HOLL-AN-DER.

Shane laughs, a wet, broken sound. He waves at the camera with Wyatt’s little hand, then points down to the ice, to the pile of humanity where Ilya is finally emerging.

Ilya has lost his helmet. His hair is a disaster, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His face is flushed, his beard thick from the playoff run. He looks up at the screen. He sees Shane crying.

And right there, in front of the world, Ilya Rozanov blows him a kiss.

The ice smells like victory. It smells like champagne, sweat, rubber, and the metallic tang of blood.

The carpet has been rolled out. The Stanley Cup has been presented. Ilya has taken his lap, lifting the silver chalice above his head with a primal scream that Shane felt in his marrow.

Now, the families are coming out. Shane steps onto the ice, his shoes slipping slightly on the chopped-up surface. He has Wyatt in his arms. The noise is deafening, a constant thrum of joy.

He takes a second to actually look around at the absolute riot scene on the ice—the reporters swarming like wasps, the league officials exchanging stiff, performative handshakes, the flashbulbs popping like lightning. A year ago and a half ago, he watched the reputation he’d spent a decade building turned to ruin. But standing here now, with his son pressed against his chest, watching his husband soaks in the victory, he realizes he isn't ruined. He’s whole. In fact, he is happier than he has ever been in his entire, impossible life.

Ilya spots them immediately. He cuts through the crowd of reporters and teammates, skating toward them with a single-minded focus. He stops a few feet away, dropping his stick on the ice. He looks at Shane. He looks at Wyatt. His eyes are overflowing. He is crying—ugly, happy tears that track through the sweat on his cheeks.

“Hey,” Ilya rasps, his voice gone.

“You won,” Shane says, smiling through his own tears. He tenderly wipes Ilya’s tears with his hand. “You won the whole thing.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything else. He just skates forward, wrapping his massive, padded arms around both of them. The armor of his shoulder pads is hard against Shane’s chest, the smell of him overwhelming, but it is perfect. Shane buries his face in Ilya’s neck, breathing him in.

“Papa!” Wyatt yells, undeterred by the padding, smacking Ilya’s helmetless head with a joyful hand.

Ilya pulls back, laughing. He kisses Wyatt’s cheek, then Shane’s mouth—hard, possessive, and lingering. A camera flashes nearby, blindingly bright, but neither of them flinches.

“I won,” Ilya says, resting his forehead against Shane’s. “I got the Cup. For Ottawa.”

“You were incredible,” Shane tells him. “That backhand? Filthy.”

“I learned from watching you.” Ilya grins, that devastating, crooked grin that Shane loves more than hockey itself.

“Ilya! Ilya, over here!”

It is the main broadcast crew. Ron MacLean is standing there with a microphone, a cameraman hovering.

“Go,” Shane says, nudging him. “Go talk to them.”

“Come with me,” Ilya says instantly. He doesn’t let go of Shane’s waist.

“Ilya, it’s your interview—”

“It is our interview.” Ilya looks at him, dead serious. “Please.”

Shane nods. He adjusts Wyatt on his hip. “Okay.”

They skate—or shuffle, in Shane’s case—over to the camera. The red light goes on.

“Ilya Rozanov,” the interviewer starts, shouting to be heard over the roaring crowd. “You have done the impossible. For the first time in franchise history, the Stanley Cup is coming to Ottawa. You ended the drought. How does it feel to be the first captain to bring it home?”

Ilya wipes his face with a towel someone handed him. He keeps one arm firmly around Shane’s waist. “It feels…” He looks at the Cup, currently being hoisted by Hazy a few feet away. Then he looks at the rafters, where that empty space has been mocking him for years. Finally, he looks at Shane. “It feels like the end of a very long book. And the ending is happy. Ottawa waited a long time for this. They deserve it.”

“Is this the sweetest one?” the reporter asks.

“Yes,” Ilya says without hesitation. “Because this time, I have everything.” He gestures to Wyatt, who is currently trying to eat the microphone foam. “I have my son. I have my husband.”

He says the word husband with a weight that makes Shane’s knees weak.

“There’s been speculation,” the reporter pushes gently. “About your contract. About next year.”

Shane stiffens. This is it.

Ilya takes a deep breath. He looks directly into the camera lens. “I love this city,” he says. “I love this team. I love this game.” He grips Shane’s waist. “But I love my family more.”

The reporter’s eyes widen.

“Tonight was my last game,” Ilya announces. “I am retiring.”

“Wow,” the reporter breathes. “Ilya Rozanov, going out on top, bringing the first Cup to Ottawa. Any idea what’s next for you?”

Ilya turns to look at Shane. The rest of the arena falls away.

“Next?” Ilya smiles at Shane and Shane tearfully smiles back. “Next, I am going to hold my husband’s hand. I am going to change a diaper. And I am going to sit in the stands and watch the Ottawa Centaurs defend this Cup next year, because number 24 is coming back.”

Startled, Shane punches Ilya lightly on the arm. “Don’t put that pressure on me.”

“You will be great,” Ilya assures him, then turns back to the camera. “Thank you, hockey. It was… a good game.” He waves at the camera, signals that he is done, and turns away before the reporter can ask another question.

“Did you have to announce my comeback too?” Shane asks, though he’s smiling widely.

“I have to hype you up,” Ilya says. He reaches out and takes Wyatt from Shane’s arms, holding him up high. “Look, malysh. Look at the shiny cup. Papa won it for Ottawa.”

They walk toward center ice. Hazy sees them coming and skates over, the Stanley Cup heavy in his hands.

“Captain!” Hazy roars. “First one ever! Lift it with the family!”

Hazy passes the Cup to Ilya. Ilya takes it. It is heavy, battered, and beautiful. He lifts it, but he doesn’t lift it alone. He crouches down slightly so Shane can reach it too.

“Together,” Ilya says, then adds fiercely, “You are my team. Touch the Cup, Shane.”

Shane slowly reaches out. He places his hand on the cool silver, right next to Ilya’s. Wyatt, sensing a shiny object, reaches out and slaps his sticky hand onto the bowl.

Ilya laughs. He hoists it up, Shane’s hand guiding it with him.

Flashbulbs erupt. The crowd screams.

Shane looks up at the silver reflection. He sees distorted versions of them—Ilya, sweaty and beaming; Wyatt, confused and happy; and himself, wearing proudly the jersey of the man he loves.

“I love you,” he yells at his husband over the roar. Ilya lowers the Cup and pulls him in for a kiss that tastes like victory.

“I love you,” Ilya whispers against his lips. “Let’s go home.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, looking around the arena one last time, then back at his husband. “Let’s go home.”

End.

Afterword

End Notes:

Hello!

🎶 “I want to wear his initial on a chain 'round my neck, chain 'round my neck” 🎶 ...And Ilya actually did! My heart is so full! HAHA.

Honestly, after the emotional damage of Episode 4, writing that club scene (and Shane in Ilya’s jersey!) was the therapy I didn’t know I needed. I hope it healed you a little bit, too. Hehe.

This precious family actually makes a cameo in my other RWRB x HR crossover (which is included in this series), so please check that out if you’re interested. I just love these two fandoms so much.

Thank you so much for the kudos and kind messages. I hope you enjoyed this mini-series as much as I did writing them. Happy holidays 😘

This is Azrael Riego signing off 💜