Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov's Daughter, Ilya Rozanov's Daughter

Additional Tags:

Single Dad Ilya Rozanov, Kid's Hockey Coach Shane Hollander, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But also still kind of the universe, They're will be smut eventually, But starts very much fluffy family sweet vibes, Ilya is the most wonderful dad, Shane should be protected at all costs, Fluff and Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Shane Hollander Has Panic Attacks, Ilya Rozanov has a crush on Shane Hollander, Smut, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Mutual Pining, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, First Time Bottoming

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-30 Completed: 2026-03-21 Words: 61,116 Chapters: 12/12

Second Line

Summary

They were once the greatest MLH draft prospects in the world - number one and two, in whatever order came to be on the day. But life had other plans, and all it took was a few weeks in ‘09 to see both Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander become nothing more than hypotheticals and statistical what-ifs deep in reddit threads and hockey chatrooms.

But still, their paths were destined to cross when Ilya took his daughter to her first skating lesson.

// Single dad!Ilya x Kids Hockey coach!Shane

Notes

I, like everyone and their mother's dog have fallen in love with Heated Rivalry and just couldn't help myself. I hope you like it. I watch a little bit of hockey, but not a heap, so please feel free to let me know if there are any issues. Thoughts would be greatly appreciated :) x

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

If you're on browser, the underlined Russian can be hovered over for a rough translation

Ilya did his best to tie her laces, kneeling on the cold stone floor in front where Albina’s legs swung, heavy skates sending them back and forth like a pendulum. 

“Hold still, lapochka,” Ilya muttered, but with no real hostility in his gentle cooing. He held her tiny skate between his knees, hoping he was tying her skates tight enough that she would be safe, but not too tight to leave nasty marks on her skin. He thought back to the way his father had tied his, muttering the importance of a ‘good foundation’, of ‘getting the little things right’, of ‘working through the pain’, all while little Ilya squirmed beneath the laces that felt like a boa constrictor crushing his bones. 

Ilya vowed to never be like that. It was part of the reason why he had kept Albina as far away from hockey as possible for as long as he could bear. He’d tried to distract her: with dance, soccer, gymnastics. He’d even offered figure skating, but Albina didn’t want to hear it.

“I want to play hockey… like you, papa.” It should have frustrated him, but Ilya was only endeared more. 

So here they were, Ilya pulling Albina off the wooden bench and onto shaky blades. 

“Okay, let’s go, solnyshko.” Ilya walked backwards slowly, guiding her the few short steps to the barrier. Once there, he floated her hand over to where the wall was, slipping himself from her grasp and bending down to her height. “I’ll be over there… watching,” he whispered, head gesturing to where the other parents sat, coffees in one hand and phones in the other. 

“No!” Ilya had already stood and taken one step away as Albina reached for his arm, hand gliding down to grip his fingertips. Ilya turned back, looking at his own heart, personified. “Ostavavsya zdes’, papa.” Her big green eyes stared up at him through thick lashes and it made Ilya want to scoop her up and run her straight back to the car. You are too good for this place, my angel. But he knew that they would simply end up right back here next Saturday morning when Albina forced him to once again relent. 

“I wait until you go out, then I go sit. You will have so much fun you will not know I am gone,” Ilya bargained, bending himself back down to her level. “Da?” Albina nodded quickly, the look of satisfaction at getting her way so reminiscent of Alexei. Ilya stood back up, hand finding his daughter’s mousy brown locks as he looked around the rink. 

Ilya hadn’t stepped foot in an ice rink in four years, and if he’d had it his way, he never would have again. But if becoming a father at 18 had taught him anything, it would be at least 13 more years before he stood any chance of getting his way. If anyone asked about Ilya’s last time on the ice, he would tell them of the International Prospect Cup, and the excitement of winning ahead of the MLH draft. He would neglect to tell them of his actual last time on the ice, a few hours after he received that phone call. 

Ilya had set up his stationery bike in front of the TV unit, his last training playing on the screen as he pedalled furiously. He’d be lying if he said he cared about reviewing game footage, but if his father walked in and he was sitting on the couch watching reruns, he’d never hear the end of it. Sometimes it was just easier to do what others wanted. His vision came back into focus as he heard the distant phone ringing. Jumping off the bike, Ilya made his way to the phone table, answering with little more than a “da?”. He knew it would either be Alexei asking for money, or his father calling to berate him about something, and Ilya wasn’t interested in giving either of those things more energy than required. 

“Hello, am I speaking with Mr. Ilya Rozanov?” The woman spoke clearly, but the drawl of conversation in the background distracted Ilya momentarily. “Hello?” 

“Ah, yes, yes. That is me.” His tone shifted immediately. Ilya’s father had been fielding phone calls about his hockey for years now. Ilya wasn’t even sure how they’d stumbled upon his number, when his father had given strict instructions to ‘shut up’.

“I am calling from the Department of Children’s Rights in regards to your niece, Albina Rozanov.” Ilya had been half paying attention, waiting to give half-hearted answers to some interviewer: ‘Yes, excited for the draft. 40 goals for this season. Rookie of the Year’ - he could recite it in his sleep. But, when he heard her name - Albina, his angel - he was shocked into alertness. 

“Yes, what is wrong? Is she okay?” Ilya stood up dead straight, clutching the phone so tight he felt like he was denting it. 

“Have you been made aware that your brother has been taken into police custody?” His brows knitted tightly. Alexei was ‘police custody’. Ilya may have only been 18, and largely veiled in his hockey world, but he knew that didn’t make sense. As if sensing his confusion, the woman continued. “I am unable to provide you with further information about your brother, but your niece is currently in our care while he is being processed.” 

“Where is Dominika?” Ilya’s mind was racing with a million more questions, but finding out where his brother’s wife was when her daughter was seemingly alone at the police station seemed like a logical first step. 

“Like I said, Mr. Rozanov; I am unable to provide you with further information, but you are welcome to report to the Ministry Building-” Ilya slammed down the phone. Not in anger but in haste… maybe in fear. He didn’t bother to change out of his workout clothes as he raced to her.

Although it took much waiting, questioning and outright demand, that is how Ilya came to be sat in a small holding room, cradling a tiny baby in his arms as they explained what was going on. Alexei was being held under suspicion of treasonous misconduct and drug crimes; Ilya knew that Alexei had gotten himself into some trouble, even if his brother insisted that he only needed some extra cash for ‘life’. Even if none of it was true, the Russian legal system was snail-pace at best and highly unforgiving at worst. Whatever came of this would not be quick or painless. 

Ilya just nodded as they explained how it had come to this. In response to the news, Dominika had fled, leaving Ilya to think she was more involved than he would have imagined. Polina had made clear she didn’t want the ‘burden’ of a young child and Ilya’s father had put up practically no argument from what they explained. That left Ilya. The kind woman in front of him did not have to explain what kind of life awaited Albina if Ilya wasn’t willing to step up. He thought about hockey and the upcoming draft. But only for a moment, thoughts of his own life melting away as he peered down at the sleeping angel wrapped up in his arms. 

“Mr. Rozanov,” the woman broke his trance and his eyes flicked back up to hers. “There is no need to make an immediate decision. We are able to find Albina short-term care if you need to get any of your affairs in order.” Ilya just stared at her, lips pursed and brain so full of thoughts it felt like they were all suffocating. “I understand you are young, Mr. Rozanov, and it’s not an easy-”

“It is what it is,” Ilya replied curtly, standing and placing Albina back in the carrier they had brought her to him in. “I will think about it and call.” It was as if all those suffocating thoughts had died in his brain, and all that was left was darkness. It wasn’t the first time Ilya had had to be stoic - he had bottled up his mother’s death so tightly that only in his dreams could he even bear to think of her. This felt different though. As Ilya made his way out the door of the holding room, the thought of leaving behind his tiny defenseless angel hurt more than any check or slash. 

Ilya hadn’t returned home. He had stumbled his way to the closed rink and onto the ice in just his street clothes and skates he had found in the backroom. He sent puck after puck flying into the net, grunting with every over-exerted shot. He would argue he was just clearing his head, enough to really think about the situation and make some logical next steps. But Ilya already knew what he was going to do, so he just kept firing until his stick broke, and then he went home and picked up the phone. 

No, Ilya would not tell them about his last time on the ice. 

Ilya was pulled from his thoughts by a sharp whistle. What kind of a militant psycho brings a whistle to a children’s introduction to skating class? Ilya thought for only a moment before remembering exactly why he had chosen this skating rink over the dozens of others in Ottawa. He had done his research, and although this rink was certainly not the closest to their house, he’d seen the picture on Facebook; his big grin surrounded by a herd of rugged up little babies out on the ice for their End of Year Showcase. And he knew. If his baby girl truly wanted to play hockey, ‘like papa’, then it was important to Ilya that she be taught by someone who knew what they were doing. And who better to coach ‘the number one draft pick that never was’s daughter than ‘the number two draft pick that never was’.

Shane Hollander. 

Although following his decision to exit the draft Ilya had practically banished the world of hockey from his peripherals, he would have had to be living in a nuclear bomb shelter to have not heard about the news that arose just a few weeks later. 

Something in the water? Shane Hollander is the second top prospect to exit the draft in weeks.

And that was it. No further comments, no interviews or press conferences. He was no longer the face of brand after brand. It felt as if Shane Hollander had ceased to exist… maybe he had. 

“Maybe Hollander has also gone and gotten himself a little angel,” Ilya cooed as he bounced around the house with Albina, having just read the news. “No, he is too uptight to get laid.” Ilya laughed to himself, causing the one-year-old to giggle back at him. “Eto smeshno, solnyshko?” Ilya chucked another toy into their moving boxes, still hoping his decision to get Albina out of Russia for a little while was a good one. 

“Okay,” Shane began, hands clasped in front of him as he skated over to the gate in the rink walls. “Welcome to introduction to skating, I’m Shane.” The man standing before Ilya looked largely unchanged from the one he had faced at the International Prospect Cup. A few years older obviously, but still well-built and fit. Of course Hollander would be so high-strung that even now he was no longer a hockey player, he still insisted on eating and training like one. “Everyone has their skates on?” He asked, stepping just past the gate to scan the kids' feet. “And you’ll need your helmets. Once you’ve got those you can carefully walk over here and I’ll help you step onto the ice. Make sure you grab onto the wall.” Shane’s voice was measured, but gentle. It was obvious he was good with the kids. Ilya figured he would have to be, because who would actually want to teach toddlers to skate? 

Ilya felt the tug on his shirt before he heard her. 

“Papa, papa. My helmet,” Albina was practically frantic, eyes wide and brow furrowed. For the sake of his girl, Ilya held in his laughter, simply smirking at her concern for a helmet that was a mere 20 steps away.

“I get it, angel. Wait here.” Ilya left Albina clutching the wall, moving into a quick jog as he reached the bench where her helmet sat. 

“Where’s your helmet, friend?” Shane passed the second-to-last kid off to the internal wall and then knelt down to meet Albina’s gaze. 

“My papa is going to get it.” As hard as it had been for Ilya, he was so glad he’d prioritised teaching Albina English. He loved his beautiful language and they spoke it together all the time, but he didn’t want her to struggle to fit in and be taken seriously like he had. 

“You can’t get on the ice without one. It’s not safe.” If it had been anyone else, Ilya might have felt like his darling daughter, who could do absolutely no wrong, was being lectured. But, the way Shane explained it made it obvious that he was - was still - a stickler for the rules. 

“Umm- I’m not sure you’re supposed to smoke here…” His little gestures made it clear that this boy had never once in his life touched a cigarette. 

“Okay.” Ilya thought his life had just begun and he was untouchable. That which feels now like another lifetime ago.

That was when Ilya and Shane first met. They should have met again at the draft, and the following IP Cup, and again and again as whatever teams they were inevitably drafted to crossed paths. But just a few short months later, they were both gone. Destined to be nothing more than hypotheticals and statistical what-ifs deep in reddit threads and hockey chatrooms. 

Ilya floated over to the rink with Albina’s helmet in hand, adjusting it in his grip and pushing it snuggly onto her head. 

“There we go.” The smile in Shane’s voice was evident, standing up as Ilya bent down to kiss Albina’s helmet. 

“Veselita’sya, lapochka,” Ilya whispered, giving his daughter a typical clap on the helmet, suddenly 16-years-old again. As he stood back up, his eyes met those of his daughter’s expectant coach, holding his hands out to help her onto the ice for the first time. Shane’s gentle smile dropped, and his eyes widened ever so slightly. Ilya couldn’t help but smirk. 

“Rozanov…”

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Thank you for the interest in the first chapter. This one is a little longer and a bit more focused on Shane. I have almost finished chapter 3, so please let me know if you're keen. As always, any feedback is muchly appreciated!!! Thanks :) x
If on browser, the underlined Russian can be hovered over for a rough translation

“Rozanov…” Shane’s hands had floated aimlessly, leaving Albina standing shakily for a moment before he realised. “Sorry…” He scooped up her little hands, eyes still unable to disconnect from Ilya’s, even as he felt the girl’s weight push forward onto him.

“Okay, I’m all good now, papa. You can go sit.” Albina spoke over her shoulder, curls not unlike Ilya’s flicking in front and behind her under her helmet. Shane watched as Ilya swivelled on his heels, heading for the viewing area without a care in the world.

“Take good care of my daughter, Hollander.” He didn’t even turn back. 

Shane slowly backed out onto the ice, connecting Albina to the wall and then moving himself far enough away to get a vantage on all the kids. The space between Shane and these four and five year olds fell silent for a moment, the 22-year-old desperately trying to regain his composure ahead of a class he’d taught dozens of times. He shook his head and shoulder, as if trying to push away the uncertainty before looking back at the kids. 

“Okay, who here has been on the ice before?” Shane asked, to a myriad of waving hands and wiggling fingers. “And who here is brand new?” Two hands went up; one slowly and the other like lightning. Shane’s eyes would have flicked to her even if she wasn’t his. “Awesome, that’s awesome,” he whispered, trying not to think too hard about why a guy like Rozanov would bring his daughter to Shane to learn to skate. Sure, he was a perfectly decent coach, but he taught Introduction to Skating, and he certainly wasn’t making hockey pros. “I have three rules.” He began his spiel. He knew it like the back of his hand, and never deviated, save for answering the usually unrelated questions of the children. “Rule number one, we keep our helmets on…”

~

Ilya found a seat among the other parents, most of whom were clearly veterans of the rink, wearing their cushy club jackets and spreading their belongings like their seats were designated. His smile was instantaneous as he locked eyes with Albina. Despite still just holding the internal wall, her face was beaming, and Ilya immediately knew he’d made the right choice letting her try hockey - even if just to see her so happy. 

“Papa!” Albina called, as if Ilya’s vision wasn’t already on her and her alone. She waved at him furiously before losing her footing for a moment and dipping below the wall. Only seconds later, she grasped the railing and Ilya watched as her face resurfaced behind the boards, her face no more than a toothy grin. “Papa,” she repeated, causing Ilya to shoot her a ‘shush’ signal before pointing back at her coach, whose eyes were glued to Ilya. 

“Sorry,” Ilya called, earning confused looks from the other parents and the gentlest wince from Shane. Oh, he hadn’t changed a bit. 

Ilya sat back in his seat a little, not wanting to distract Albina, but not daring to miss a moment of her. That’s how it had been for the last four years. He hadn’t spent a moment away from her since he returned to the station to collect her, swaddled tightly and fast asleep. She had always been such an easy kid; to the point Ilya worried that if he didn’t teach her a thing or two about causing some trouble, she might get herself pushed around - especially if she was hell-bent on hockey. He realised he needn’t worry though, she was treating the rink like she owned it, clearly in her element in a way Ilya knew all too well. 

“What does he expect? I had my boys in skating lessons at 3.”

“Like a giraffe on ice, literally. And she’s clearly too old… too big as well.” 

Ilya’s gaze flicked over to where two women sat close, practically indistinguishable from one another in their yoga pants and club jackets. It was made clear that Ilya wasn’t meant to be looking - and certainly not listening - by the way their conversation stopped abruptly. A few moments of awkward silence passed between the three of them, Ilya blinking at them expectantly while the two women shot glances at each other. All Ilya could hear was Shane’s distant instruction and his cheering every time the kids fell safely. 

“How old is your daughter?” One of them asked, eyes flitting between Ilya and the ice. 

“She is five,” Ilya responded bluntly, uninterested in dancing around pleasantries with mothers who thought calling it athleisure meant it was acceptable to wear outside. 

“Wow, she’s… tall.” The huffed laugh and the sideways flashes had Ilya seeing red. 

“Yes,” he started, teeth clenched. “We make them strong in Russia.” Another puff of laughter from the women had Ilya practically flinching. He didn’t even wait for a response before shooting himself up from his seat and marching over to the edge of the boards. He leant down with as much collectedness as he could master until his eyes found Albina and he could relax into the notion that he had a better kid than any of these snooty women could dream. He knew the way people spoke about hockey players; he’d been one himself, subject to scrutiny at every turn. If he didn’t make the goal, they would list all the things he did wrong; if he made the goal, there’d be a recount of failures that stopped him making two. It was never ending. And sure, it had happened when he was young, but not five years old. Not wobbling on the ice at his first lesson. Or maybe, he’d just been too young to realise, maybe his father had sat listening to the same things being said about him: ‘too crazy’, ‘too uncontrollable’, ‘too much’. Ilya would be lying if he thought his father would have had much to say in the contrary - in fact, his father probably led the charge on all his shortcomings, even back then. He’d simply been kind enough to not start sharing them with Ilya until he was at least a little older.  

“Papa!” The sweet sound snapped Ilya out of his spiral, looking over to where Albina had spotted him and was pulling herself along the wall to be closer to him. Shane skated past her, stopping just short of where Ilya was standing. 

“Albina, we’re working on our bubble knees right now. Why don’t you head back that way?” This is where Ilya and Albina differed, as despite her dejected look, she turned and scooched herself back to where the others were. Shane swivelled so fast on his skates, Ilya heard the way the ice sprayed the wall - if that wasn’t the most glorious sound. “Everything okay?” Shane queried, scanning Ilya with a gaze that suggested he was acting alien. 

“Yes.” Ilya pushed himself up from where he’d been leaning, looking down at Shane from where the step onto the ice shrunk his stature. 

“Okay,” Shane replied tentatively, a measure of annoyance in his voice. “Parents need to be in the viewing area,” he added, gesturing to where Ilya had come from. Ilya looked at Shane as if he had asked with the lick the bathroom floor and briskly shook his head. 

“Viewing area is stupid. I can view from here.” He said it like it was non-negotiable, and maybe that’s how a lot of things were with Ilya - the Ilya that Shane remembered at least. 

“Okay,” he repeated, unable to do anything but chuckle. “Uhh-” he turned back to where all the kids were against the boards, practicing pushing their knees in and out and practically falling over as they tried to look between their legs to see if they were doing it right. “Can you at least take a couple steps back? You’re- you’re a distraction.” Ilya’s disgust at those awful women behind him had dissolved into a smirk as he raised a brow at Shane. “Just-” the young hockey coach was noticeably flustered. “Just move back,” he breathed, bringing his whistle to his lips and blowing as he turned and skated back to the kids. 

~

They had practiced freezing to the whistle. They had practiced their bubble knees with only minimal face planting. They had practiced falling safely, which was always the kids favourite part. Shane was just about to start explaining their next drill - penguin marches - when he heard the interruption to his left. 

“When will we play hockey?” He had almost forgotten that Ilya Roznov’s child was currently taking his hockey class, surprising given the fluster that coated his whole body was courtesy of the one and only. 

“We are play-” Shane stumbled a little abruptly before remembering his smile. “We have to learn all these things, first. Learning how to skate and fall is what keeps us safe. Hockey can be pretty dangerous.”

“My papa played hockey.” Albina spat out so fast that Shane wondered how she’d managed to hold it in for 20 minutes already. 

“Mine too!” The spattering of others came. As endearing as the multi-generational family sport of hockey was, Shane knew that little Mitchell St. Jean’s dad had never played hockey quite like Ilya Rozanov had. 

“That’s super cool,” Shane said to no kid in particular. “Everyone’s dad played hockey and now we’re all learning to play hockey.” His hands were on his knees as he tried to refocus the kids. “But first, we have to learn what?” The kids drawled out variations of ‘be safe’, appeasing Shane enough for him to move on. “Exactly. So now we’re going to do our penguin marches…”

~

Ilya was grateful to see the end of the class. He needed a cigarette before he gave those sterva a piece of his mind. While all the other parents had moved out to the foyer, mingling and discussing which of their older children would be making the travelling team, Ilya waited in the rink, watching as each of the children gave Shane a high five and stepped on bambi-legs onto the concrete. Albina was last, desperate to soak in as much ice time as she could, given Ilya had only promised ‘one lesson’. 

“C’mon, Albina.” Shane’s pronunciation was all wrong, Ilya thought. Too much emphasis on the ‘Al’, not enough on the ‘Bi’. Normally, Ilya took great issue with the way the Canadians butchered her beautiful name, but he didn’t mind so much as he watched Shane’s eye follow her stumbling with an attentive hand and a gentle smile. “C’mon. Dad’s waiting,” Shane muttered patiently, Ilya watching carefully as Albina collected her high five and stepped out of the rink and into his arms. 

“Did you have fun, angel?” Ilya uttered, scooping Albina into his arms and starting to untie her skates aimlessly with one hand. She nodded vigorously, her excitedly dangling feet making it harder for Ilya to get her skates off. 

“Yes! Please papa, can I come back next week?” She pleaded, little arms gripping his neck with enough fervour to warrant a neck guard. 

“We will see, lapochka,” he grinned, removing her second skate and setting them on the floor as he picked up her boots. 

~

“Uhh-” Ilya looked over to where Shane stood in the entrance to the ice. “There’s hot chocolate. For the kids. Out by the canteen.” Shane stammered, watching as Albina whispered the gentlest ‘I do it’, taking her shoes from Ilya. 

“Kakao?” Ilya queried Albina, putting her down with barely enough time before she sprinted off to the canteen. Both of the men watched her go for a moment before turning back to catch one another’s gaze. After a beat, they both opened their mouths. 

“Why didn’t you tell me-”

“I am sorry she was rude.” Ilya’s brash statement cut through Shane unexpectedly. Before he had time to even think, Ilya continued. “I want her to be nice… but not only nice. Make sense?”

“She wasn’t rude,” Shane stated clearly. Direct, yes. A little abrupt, of course. But if Shane was going to make a little Ilya in a factory, those would be two of the main ingredients. 

“Sure?” Ilya asked, and Shane was also taken aback by how clearly important this was to him. He found it almost comical, given how their first meeting had gone.

“You will not be so nice when we beat you.” Shane was so disconcerted by the man’s direct call-out that he couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“That’s not happening.” But it did, and Shane would be kidding himself if he didn’t think about it almost every day. The last proper game of hockey that Shane ever played, he lost. Maybe if he’d known it would be his last, he might have fought harder. 

“Absolutely,” Shane assured him, the man he had once known as just a boy, now clearly aged by way of a child. 

“You will let me know if she ever is… too much?” It almost seemed as if Ilya was rattled. Shane didn’t understand a lot of things, and he certainly didn’t understand what it felt like to be a father, so he couldn’t even begin to venture as to why. 

“Does that mean you’re bringing her back next week?” Shane couldn’t help but smirk, keen to see that the unforgiving and foreboding Ilya Rozanov was clearly wrapped around the finger of a five-year-old. 

“Is okay?” And there he was, back to nonchalant as ever. 

“Of course,” Shane answered quickly, before allowing his brain to catch up. “You’ll just need to get her registered. It’ll cover insurance and then you can decide if you want to put her in the Sunday class too. That one’s more focused on puck handling. It might be a bit advanced for her right now, but if she’s really interested in the hockey, that’s where she’ll wanna be-”

“Papa!” It took less than a second for Ilya’s attention to be ripped away from Shane and onto Albina. “We’ll go for a walk now?”

“Da, solnyshko. M’inutku,” Ilya called before looking back at Shane. 

“It’ll all be in the information packet.” Ilya gave him a quick nod and moved swiftly to grasp Albina’s hand and head for the door. Shane gave them a headstart while he slipped on his guards and followed suit to start ushering the other parents out onto the street. “Alright, folks. Let’s go. 11 is private ice. You know - we do this every week. Take it to Arlington’s” He shooed them like they were pesky animals. And honestly, on a Saturday from 11-11:45, that’s all they were to him. They were cutting into his time, and once the last of them were out the door, he practically ran back inside. 

He had 45 minutes of solitude, and he was going to use every single second of it. He went into the backroom, grabbed his stick and a rack of pucks, slipped off his guards and floated out onto the ice. It never got any easier. The fact that he had given it all up. The involuntary manner in which it had happened didn’t matter. It was failure all the same. 

At first, everything made sense. There was a right way to do everything, especially in hockey, and Shane made it his mission to find it. Streamline every play past the point of thinking. Consolidate every piece of feedback into his next skate. Rationalise every moment of pain for a lifetime of success. Write the rule book and then follow it to the letter. Easy. Especially for someone like Shane. His brain ran faster than his body, which ran faster than everyone else’s. Everyone said he was calm under pressure. Scouts had been calling him poised and mature since before puberty. He actually believed them. 

But, then he got older and the rules started changing. Started multiplying and warping to where Shane wasn’t even sure when he was and wasn’t following along. It wasn’t enough to be the best in Ottawa, or to play a merely good game. He needed to set his sights on being the best in the world, and to do that he needed to be perfect. But, it was okay. He could write the rule book for that - his rules had gotten him this far. It just meant he had to get better. 

He couldn’t just skate strong, he had to skate without flaw. Edge control mattered, stride length mattered, weight distribution. He couldn’t just pass enough to get the assist, every pass had to be textbook. Angle, speed, spin, trajectory; even how the puck looked sliding across the ice. He couldn’t just eat well. He had to eat perfectly. Timing mattered, portions mattered, the plate he ate from mattered. He couldn’t just be on the bench. He had to sit perfectly, feet positioned precisely. Stick in hand at a right angle, correct posture, eyes tracking everything. Every imperfection lingered, stuck in his head. One wrong move and his whole session, whole game, whole life, felt like he was playing on rusty blades with a stone in his skate. 

But Shane knew he couldn’t mess it up now - not when the draft was just months away. Everything he had given his life to would finally be worth it once he heard his name called as the first draft pick. 

So he pushed through. Got stricter. Got better.

Until…

Until nothing worked. 

He tried to think his way out of it. To plan, like he always did. Breathe. Focus. Think. 

But his thoughts just couldn’t line up anymore. They crashed into each other, unfinished. 

“I can’t-” “Something’s wrong-” “I need-” 

But the worst part for Shane wasn’t the fear of it all. It was the confusion. He did everything he was supposed to do. He followed all the rules. Why was this happening? Why now?

The realisation hit him all at once; he was not in control. Not of his body. Not of his brain. Not of his life or what came next. 

And that thought - more than the overbearing lights, the smelly teammates, the fear of not making it - is what broke him. 

It all fell apart during the MLH Scouting Combine, just a month ahead of draft night. 

Shane knew why the Combine existed. Teams didn’t want to draft sociopaths. Shane had researched ad nauseum what the Combine would look like so he could best prepare. Medical and fitness testing would be nothing out of the ordinary. He’d done dozens for other teams and he knew he’d pass with flying colors. Watching how he handled himself under pressure, how he coped with being pushed to his limits: he did that to himself every day - piece of cake. Interviews: he’d manage. 

But when the day came to sit his final interview, Shane cracked. He strained himself over every question and panicked every time he thought he answered ‘wrong’. Shane had never been great at reading people, but even he could tell the panel were unimpressed. 

So before his mom and dad could collect him from the centre, he had traded his suit for his pads and skates, forcing himself to skate lap after blistering lap. It wasn’t until his skate buckled beneath him and he went careening into the boards that he even realised how exhausted he was.

Shane stumbled his way back into the locker rooms. One minute he was standing, the next he was on the floor, degloved hands bracing either side of him. For a second he just focused on how winded he was. For a moment the pain felt good - felt grounding. 

Then it was gone, and everything rushed in. 

His chest locked. Not just tight, but sealed - like something had slammed shut inside him. He tried to pull air in, but it was as if it was stuck, shallow and useless. His heart slammed against his ribs; frantic, wrong, like it was desperate to escape him. 

No. 

His helmet was still on. Shane could feel it pressing down on his skull, trapping heat, trapping sound. Trapping his thoughts worst of all. He fumbled for the strap but couldn’t will his fingers to work. They shook violently and Shane couldn’t stop them - like they belonged to someone else. 

Please. 

There was no structure left to lean on. No order - just pressure which crushed him from the inside. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. His body was shaking so hard his teeth chattered. He begged to no one to make it stop, nails digging so deeply into his palms he could feel his skin tearing beneath his fingers. The pain didn’t cut through. 

A noise tore out of him - ugly, involuntary. It wasn’t a cry - not words. Just noise. 

~

That’s when Yuna found him. She heard it - him. Not words - something much worse. She was halfway down the hall before she realised she was running, unbothered about whether David was keeping up. 

She opened the door and the sight hit her like a blow. 

Shane was folded on the floor, helmet still buckled. He was rocking slightly and gasping like he was drowning. She dropped to the floor without any consideration for the pain that radiated through her knees. 

“Shane…” He showed no signs of feeling her presence. David was right behind her. He saw Shane and swore under breath, sharp and scared. “Shane…” she repeated, careful not to reach out and touch him, but crushed at the idea of not. 

“I- I-” Shane’s voice had broken apart completely. “Fuck. I can’t-” Yuna couldn’t help herself. She reached for him and Shane flinched hard, like he’d been struck. Then, just as suddenly, he grabbed her sleeve with both hands and clung to her desperately. “I'm sorry, mom,” he sobbed. “I can’t. I'm sor- I'm sorry”. Each repetition was worse than the last; stripped of dignity, stripped of control. 

Yuna felt something inside her snap in two. Suddenly, it was all meaningless. There was nothing Reebok or Rolex, or the inventor of hockey himself could have said to her at that point. This wasn’t stress or pressure. This wasn’t normal. This was her boy - gentle, sweet, little Shane with a heart of gold and a love for hockey brighter than anything. Breaking. Broken.

She turned to David. He was already looking at her. They didn’t need to speak words to understand each other.

~

Shane had tried to fight. But by the time he awoke - no memory of getting from the rink to his hotel in New York - his mom and dad had already made the call. 

It was over. 

He fired puck after puck into the net, skated up and down the ice as fast as his conditioned legs could carry him. He still trained like he used to, but with regret to push him instead of pressure. Shane made sure no one ever saw him. He’d be embarrassed if they did. A washed-up, obsolete, never-even-was pretending like he’s Scott Hunter every Saturday morning after he’d finished teaching a beginner skating class. Pathetic. 

~

Ilya’s favourite part of moving to Ottawa was the walks he and Albina could go on. Ilya used to love the segregated nature of his home in Russia. Walking down the street unnoticed and undisturbed suited him fine, especially after he personally let his country down by exiting the draft. But he wanted Albina to live in a world where she had neighbours whose names she knew, and where she could walk down the street waving at street vendors and tourists alike.

She wandered down the main street, Ilya’s hand linked in hers. He was holding her hot chocolate, because every time she saw someone, she would try to wave and spill a little. Ilya didn’t mind. It was good hot chocolate. 

Ilya squeezed his daughter’s hand, allowing her to carry on about her new love of hockey, her ever-changing favourite colour, and her excitement about starting school in the fall, which made Ilya sick. It wasn’t until she stopped abruptly on the sidewalk that Ilya saw her face transform from carefree to terror-stricken.

“Papa,” she gasped, staring ahead as if she was having a paranormal vision. 

“Yes, lapochka?” Ilya queried, genuine concern evident on his face. 

“My skates.” Ilya had left them on the ground outside the rink when they left her class. He hoped they were still there; they weren’t cheap - only the best for his angel. 

“Is okay, lapochka. Rink is just around the corner. We go get them,” he assured, barely having to pull her in the right direction to have her bounding beside him. 

When Ilya and Albina arrived at the rink a few minutes later, they entered quietly, careful not to disturb anyone else’s training. 

“Ooh.” Albina had become distracted by the wall of merchandise, complete with scrunchies, charm bracelets, and all the shiny things a 5-year-old’s heart could desire. 

“Stay here, angel. I go get them and then we go home,” Ilya muttered, leaving Albina just a few short steps away to head to the main rink where he had left her skates. And there he was. 

He ripped up and down the ice, shooting pucks with ease and skating with an effortlessness that Ilya wasn’t even sure he’d mastered in his prime. He wasn't in pads, so Ilya could see the rippling of his forearm muscles and the beads of cold sweat that slid down the back of his neck.

Ilya had gone unnoticed by Shane, his eyes glued to his kid’s hockey coach as he bent down to pick up her skates. And maybe that was a good thing. 

Because Shane Hollander was even hotter than Ilya remembered.

Chapter End Notes

Come say hi on tumblr or twitter (there's not a lot there lol)

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Thanks for the love on the previous chapter. Sorry this is later than I thought. The New Year got away from me!

If on browser, underlined Russian can be hovered over for rough translation

❓ Best draft class? 

By pilldoc

2013 is shaping up to be a good draft year, but what do you think is the best draft class in history?

❤️ 17 likes 💬 32 comments

↳ @JMarzz07

1979, no question. 

↳ @BuffaloRick 

2003 

↳ @HorrorFreakGirl

2003 was an insane draft class. Can’t be topped.

↳ @IceHawk1212

1979 had seven players who had over 1000 points, 2 of which were over 1500. There is a crap ton of HOFs from that year and even with 03 being so freaking good there is still only 2 or 3 players at the 1000 point mark. 

↳ @ceiling_low

I can tell you which draft was the worst lol

See more comments 

Shane knew he shouldn't click on it, but he also knew he would. It had become part of this sadistic ritual that he subjected himself to every now and again. He wasn’t even sure why he was still doing it after all these years. The response back in 2009 had been genuinely absurd in the chatrooms, but it had steadily slowed to the point where he had to scour to find something he hadn’t read. 

Maybe he did it as punishment; maybe it was to see if people still even remembered him. Maybe he did it to prove that that version of himself had ever even existed in the first place. 

↳ @ceiling_low

I can tell you which draft was the worst lol

  ↳ @whateverman

   96? 99? Let’s be real there’s lots

  ↳ @user_271

   09? Top draft pick Korogyi? In what world?

      ↳ @microstats

      That’s only because Rozanov and Hollander bounced like a week before draft night

        ↳ @user_271

         Couldn’t take the heat, clearly 

            ↳ @BuffaloRick 

            Nah, Rozanov literally had a kid

              ↳ @user_271

               Yeah and that’s what WAGs are for

                  ↳ @BuffaloRick 

                  Pretty sure she’s dead dude. Have some class

                    ↳ @RARprospect

                     I kinda understand Rozanov exiting but Hollander? I think pretty boy just didn’t want to lose

                        ↳ @sincethelockout99

                        Not happy unless he’s the best

                          ↳ @user_271

                           Well with Rozanov gone he would have been the best 

                              ↳ @watching_centaurs

                              He would have been the best anyway 

                                ↳ @sincethelockout99

                                 Not a chance. Rozanov was top pick for sure

                                    ↳ @watching_centaurs

                                    With his edge work?

                                      ↳ @sincethelockout99

                                       Hollander was too afraid to get hit to ever actually make it. Little bitch.

                                         ↳ @watching_centaurs

                                          How many IP Cups have you played?

                                            ↳ @sincethelockout99

                                             Doesn’t matter I’ve won just as many as Hollander

                                                ↳ @watching_centaurs

                                                Why are you online bullying some kid who doesn’t even play hockey anymore?

      ↳ @ceiling_low

      I didn’t mean to cause such a riot. It doesn’t even matter. Not like we’ll ever know how it really would have gone. Both have left the hockey world and we should be respectful of that.

Not like we’ll ever know how it really would have gone. And doesn’t Shane know it. 

Shane closed his laptop, rubbing his face as he moved into his bed. After years of travelling for hockey, it was strange to have spent the last four years in his childhood bedroom. He was making just enough money to rent a place, but his mom and dad were still unconvinced that he had moved on enough to be trusted on his own. Evenings spent glued to his laptop screen made him consider that they were right. 

Shane scrolled his contacts, clicking the rink's main landline and waiting for the ever-enthused ‘hello’ from the receptionist. 

“Hi Melissa, it’s Shane,” he said needlessly. No other coach called her on their days off to ask questions and make sure everything was in order. She was half-tempted to give him access to their system just for some peace and quiet. “I just wanted to know if Rozanov’s daughter had registered yet?” There was a beat of silence, the sound of whistles and scraping ice all Shane could hear as he waited. 

“Who?”

“Rozanov- Ilya… Rozanov…” That’s what they got for hiring someone’s aunt to be the rink’s receptionist. “Her name’s Albina- Albina Rozanov...” The hiss of steel on ice was replaced by Melissa’s leisurely typing. Shane tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling with his dark locks pressed against his headboard, waiting. It wasn’t completely unheard of for Shane to check up on an impending registration, but it wasn’t too common for him to do so only 48 hours after their first class. 

“She’s registered. Registered Saturday at 1:14pm. Someone’s eager,” she chuckled. “Anything else, Shane?”

“No- no. Thanks, Melissa. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Shane hung up and rested his phone next to him on his bed, exhaling as he closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure if the guarantee of seeing Ilya next Saturday subdued him, or stressed him out even more. 

~

Ilya had managed to get Albina to eat four whole pieces of broccoli that night, so he couldn’t have cared less as she sat huddled in his lap on the couch eating a biscuit and watching some show about cartoon cats. 

“Yeshche pyat' minut, solnyshko. Okay?” he whispered, running a large hand down her unruly curls. Albina nodded aimlessly, eyes fixed on the bright colours before her. She leant back slowly, head finding its place just beneath Ilya’s jaw as he too settled back into the couch further and relaxed until Albina’s five minutes were up. 

Albina pushed herself off of Ilya’s lap and onto the floor, ambling off to the bathroom. 

“Bath, teeth, pizhama and then into bed, da?” Ilya muttered, following behind her. She just nodded, unruly curls shaking as the hot lights of the bathroom made them both squint. Albina had her bath, Ilya nearby, but largely unneeded. Every day that passed, he worried more that his angel, five going on 15, needed him less and less. When Albina first came into his life, he feared that his less than loving childhood would make him unfit to be a loving and devoted parent. Instead, it made him cling to her fiercely, desperate to give her the most perfect life, even if he had no idea where to begin. He tried to help her rinse some of the shampoo from her hair, and cringed as he was shooed back to his seat on the floor. After she was done, he lifted her over the edge of the tub, wondering how much longer before she didn’t need him for that either. Wrapping her snuggly in a large towel, he feared for the days when he was chased out the bathroom so she could put on makeup and do her hair. 

“You do my hair, papa?” Maybe there was still time. 

“Samo soboy. Kosichka?” Ilya queried, lifting Albina into his arms and taking her to her bedroom. 

“Two,” Albina held up two fingers, staring down at her father from where she floated in front of him. After being strictly instructed that she could dress herself, Ilya found his place in the middle of Albina’s small bed. When she was dressed, she climbed eagerly onto her bed and into Ilya’s lap. Ilya brushed gently through her wet curls until they were knot free and then carefully set about crafting two braids. He was by no means an expert, relying more heavily on YouTube tutorials than he would care to admit, but he was certainly getting better. He secured the second braid with a small elastic, allowing his hand to linger on the curl that stuck out the bottom, practically still ice blonde from when she was just a baby. All the memories of her being so small were slowly starting to become hazier, but the big ones still stuck. Like when he returned to the station, and they placed her in his arms with little more than a ‘sign here’ and ‘good luck’. Or when Ilya first brought her into the awful Ottawa apartment that he had managed to secure, without ever looking at it and had to push the couch in front of the door before he could sleep for the first three months. Or the first time she looked at him, tiny hand in much larger one, and cooed ‘papa’. Ilya knew that one in particular would never grow hazy. He wouldn’t allow it. 

Ilya lifted Albina, scooting himself out from underneath her and shifted to the patch of carpet beside her bed. She was already yawning, eyes fluttering backwards as the fatigue took over. 

“Hockey tomorrow, papa?” She muttered, peering at Ilya through glassy, tired eyes

“Not tomorrow, angel. Two more sleeps,” he whispered, gingerly holding up the fingers to match. Albina’s face dropped ever so slightly. 

“Want it to be two more sleeps already.”

“I know, solnyshko,” Ilya grinned, running a hand over her forehead and into her hair. Ilya did too. The last few days had sent Ilya down quite the rabbit hole. Although he had known Shane was a kid’s hockey coach, seeing him in the flesh had left Ilya trying to piece together Shane’s life for the last four years. He couldn’t find him on Facebook, and he wasn’t on this new ‘Instagram’ that the girls at work had told him about. He wasn’t that surprised - Hollander was old school at best - but it didn’t stop his trying. “You like playing hockey?” Albina nodded as quickly as her tired little head could manage. 

“We’re not actually playing hockey yet, papa. We’re learning how to be safe. Hockey can be dangerous.” O Bohze, if Shane Hollander had made his daughter boring. Ilya just smiled at her for a moment, trying to soak in every inch out of his never-ending fear that it couldn’t last forever. 

“You like coach?” Ilya queried gently, the question coming out of his mouth faster than he had time to think why. Obviously it mattered that his daughter liked her hockey coach, but how much could a five year old really know after 45 minutes. Albina nodded sleepily. “We used to play… together.”

“Hockey together?” Ilya could see the way she was fighting sleep. 

“Not… together,” Ilya corrected. “Different teams. But… together.” Ilya fumbled, like he couldn’t verbalise what was an incredibly straight forward situation. 

“He was your friend?”

“Priyatel’,” Ilya nodded. 

“Drug, papa. Means friend,” she corrected back. Ilya gritted his teeth; he took issue with the lack of distinction between levels of friendship in English. A friend was something personal, cherished. Hard to lose or ignore. Ilya thought about the unwavering memory of the only player who had ever challenged him which had sat quietly in the back of his mind - and had done for four years. Still, ‘friend’ didn’t seem quite right. 

“Yes, angel. Friend,” he settled. “Bed time now.” Ilya stood, leaning forward to place a tender kiss on Albina’s forehead, before flicking on her nightlight, turning off the overheads and shutting the door behind him. 

Ilya ambled quietly back onto the couch, sitting up and shaking himself awake, in a futile attempt to not be the guy who goes to bed at the same time as his five-year-old daughter. He allowed his small phone to flip in his hand. 

He shouldn’t. 

He told himself he would stop.

It wasn’t like him to dwell and obsess, but he just couldn’t help it. He navigated to the Internet and quickly typed, as if doing so before anyone could see. 

Shane Hollander hockey 

Ilya clicked on the first webpage. 

eliteprospects.com 

🍁 Shane Hollander

#24 GK Jr. Gaels / AAA - 08/09

(FOLLOW) (SHOW UPDATES)

SHANE HOLLANDER FACTS

Date of Birth: May 10, 1991

Age: 22

Place of Birth: Ottawa, ONT, CAN

Nation: CAN

Position: C

Status:  Retired

Ilya huffed like Albina did when he said she couldn’t eat maple candy for breakfast. He knew all of this already. He was greedy, but he wanted more. Who didn’t have Facebook in 2013? Grow up. He clicked back and continued searching. It was all largely the same - basic stats pages that had stopped being updated years ago. Until… something piqued Ilya’s interest. 

Best junior hockey players who never made it

He clicked without a second thought. He scrolled through a few other paragraphs carrying on about nobodies he didn’t care about until he found it. 

6. Shane Hollander 

Hollander put up 78 points in 54 games in his last junior season. Unbelievable vision, game-breaking speed, and a hockey IQ that made MLH GMs do double takes. Textbook perfection by all accounts. Just three weeks before the 2009 draft his name was quietly pulled from draft lists. His team announced he’s stepping away “for personal reasons.” No injury disclosure, no suspension, no timeline. Hard to know what to make of it, but disappointing given his potential, and also the way the guts of that draft year was really run through.

Ilya absentmindedly continued to scroll. 

7. Ilya Rozanov

From a hockey standpoint, there’s very little debate about Rozanov’s draft value. He finished the year with 66 points in 52 games, Team Russia captain for the IP Cup, and consistently matched up against top lines. Scouts liked the compete level and the reliability - not too flashy, but extremely translatable. What’s different here is that the reason for his absence from top-level hockey isn’t speculative. It’s been widely reported that Rozanov welcomed a daughter months prior to the draft, and due to complications, opted to retire from hockey in order to raise her. The league seemed to understand this wasn’t a mystery - it was a choice, and one most people respected, even if it complicated draft math at the time. 

Ilya had never really paid much attention to what people were saying about him. The loudest voices were coming from back home, and he had managed to mostly shut those out when he decided to move. It was strange to see the way people spoke about him; strange to think back to what a different world he lived in back then. Ilya glanced over to the TV cabinet, to where the only photo of him playing hockey he kept was. It had managed to make its way into their moving boxes, and by the time Ilya decided it needed to go, Albina had become enamoured with it. So there it sat. A reminder of what was. Ilya put his phone down and let out a large sigh, shutting his eyes. There were many worse places he could have ended up. 

~ 

Saturday morning began early. Albina’s excitement about another skating lesson meant she was bounding into Ilya’s room and onto his bed no later than 6 o’clock. Ilya had to bargain with the five-year-old to stop them arriving at the rink at 7 when it opened. 

“Will be big kids practicing at 7, lapochka.” Her little pout up at Ilya as she mindlessly ran her spoon through her cereal made him want to go and kick all of those big kids off the ice. “We finish breakfast, read book, go for walk to ice and then go to hockey just a little early,” Ilya negotiated, emphasising the ‘little’ between his large fingers. Albina nodded with what looked like an eye roll, and Ilya thought that if this is what five looked like, he wouldn’t survive the teenage years. 

But he could at least survive this morning. Albina went along with his plan, putting her empty bowl in the sink, sitting on Ilya’s lap as she slowly sounded out words in her book. They went on a slow walk to the rink, hands linked and feet meandering. Albina stopped often, oohing and aahing at the pretty clothes on the mannequins or gesturing to flowers she liked the colours of. Ilya didn’t mind - he hoped she stopped and waited many times on the way to growing up too. 

They arrived at the rink only ten minutes early, thanks to all the breaks and chatting, and Albina set straight to getting herself ready, Ilya only helping when it came to tying her laces. As they waited, Albina bounded excitedly on the wooden bench and Ilya couldn’t help but smile widely at her, her legs swinging any which way and her little hands gripping the seat either side of her. 

“Morning, Tom. Nice jumper. Hey Lexy - yeah, I can see the sticker on your helmet. Very cool.” Ilya turned to see Shane making his way through the room, keys in one hand and skates in the other. He stopped and spoke to every kid that was waiting and they responded with awe in equal measure. Ilya doubt they looked at him like he was god-like because they knew he had once been the best young skater in North America - they would barely have been sentient when he retired. No, it was simply because he was Shane, their skating coach. Back in the day, skaters his age had always talked about how Shane was a little odd - Ilya included. But it was obvious now that what you see is what you get, and these little kids, with no ulterior motives or hidden agendas, clearly resonated with that. Maybe Ilya did too. “Hi Albina. Are you excited for your lesson?” Shane asked, looking down at her from where he stood next to the bench. 

“Yes! I’ve been practicing my penguin marching, and also my bubble knees. And- and…” she trailed off as she tried to keep rambling but ran out of steam. Shane didn’t seem to mind. 

“Awesome. That’s awesome.” His eyes flicked to Ilya. “Morning… Rozanov…” He said the last part quietly, like he wasn’t meant to. Like he was trying to maintain this idea that they were rivals - fine-tuned skating machines and teenage wonderkids - when they were clearly no longer anything of the sort. 

“Hollander,” Ilya returned, but with a polite smile on his face. 

“Okay,” Shane announced to the room. “Let’s go, friends. Penguin marches to the wall.” Many of the kids reached immediately for their parents' hands, being guided slowly. Ilya reached to do the same, only to be gently pushed away. 

“I can do it,” Albina muttered, rising onto shaky feet and toddling carefully towards the rink. Ilya watched with a sad smile, until the space beside him became occupied. He turned to see a modelesque woman, brown hair and bright blue eyes. 

“Hello…” he muttered, questioning in his tone. 

“Hi. You’re… Ilya?” she asked, heavy on the over-pronunciation of his ‘foreign’ name. Canadians… 

“Yes,” Ilya returned, still wary of the woman, especially after his run-in with the mothers last week. 

“I’m Branda, Lexy’s mom. Lexy told me that she had made a friend named Albina.” Again with the over-correction. “So I asked the front desk very nicely to please let me know who her parents were,” she rambled, overly cheerful. “Lexy is very new to skating, and I don’t really understand much of this world myself. I’m from California and we moved here for my husband’s work, and it seems like every man and his dog plays hockey around here,” she chuckled. Ilya just looked at her with a wary smile. “I thought maybe it would be nice for the girls to get together and play sometime… If that’s okay with you and your wife, of course.” Ilya didn’t flinch. He was so used to the assumption that he stopped letting it bother him.

“Da- yes. Uhh, no wife. Just me and Albina. But, yes - play. Sounds very nice.” He smiled genuinely, peering out to the rink to see Albina being helped onto the ice by Shane. 

~

Shane had had a rough time sleeping the night before, so he was worried how 45 minutes with 15 five-year-olds would work out. But once he was out on the ice, it all fell back into place; like he’d done it a million times. The kids were good, listening most of the time with only the occasional wanderer. Shane, still facing the kids, saw out of the corner of his eye as Ilya approached, clearly still refusing to sit in the viewing area. Thankfully, he had kept further back than last week. 

“Alright, everyone is getting pretty good at their penguin marches. Should we have a race? Whoever gets from one side of the rink to the other first can be first in line for a hot chocolate.” A little hand shot up beside him, fingers wiggling impatiently. “Yeah, Albina?” Shane had quickly learnt that sometimes it was easier to just let the kids get out whatever they wanted to say and move on. 

“You’re friends with my papa.” Her grin was explosive, and Shane couldn’t help but return it ever so slightly, despite his confusion. He wouldn’t have ever considered himself and Ilya friends… His eyes shifted up to the man in question. Did he look… embarrassed? Or was that just what his stoic face looked like.?

“Yeah…” Shane muttered, keen to move the class on and sent the kids shuffling to the wall. 

~

The kids waited as patiently for their hot chocolate as four and five-year-olds could manage. Albina had not won the race, but didn’t seem bothered, standing in line and talking with Lexy. Ilya stood back, hovering near Branda, watching as both girls gave quiet ‘thank yous’ and pottered over to the merchandise wall with their drinks. 

“Oop- here he comes.” It came from one of those mothers and was seasoned with disdain. Ilya’s eyes followed her gaze, falling on Shane, walking out with his guards on. “Quick, honey.” She gestured to her son, the one who had won the race and was therefore already finished with his hot chocolate. “We better go before Shane kicks us out.” Ilya couldn’t quite place her tone, but he didn’t like it. The other parents chuckled and slowly started to shuffle out the door. 

“Lexy, sweetie. Let’s go. Layton has soccer practice.” Both the girls turned with crestfallen looks. “C’mon.” Ilya was almost weirded out by this woman’s perpetual positivity. “I’ve got Albina’s phone number and I’ve given her dad ours, so we can organise to play another time, okay?” Lexy dejectedly shuffled over, sitting down so Branda could swap her skates for street shoes. 

“Ready to go, lapochka?” Ilya shuffled over to her. 

“Wanna do more skating,” Albina grumbled. 

“Next week.”

“That’s forever,” she groaned, but handed Ilya her drink nonetheless and shuffled over to her shoes. 

“Bye, Albina!” Lexy called as Branda pulled her out the door, Albina returning an excited wave. Shane hovered by the front desk, and Ilya soon noticed they were the only ones left. 

“Sorry, we are going…” Ilya muttered to him, bending down to help Albina with her shoes. 

“Are we going for a walk, papa?” Ilya nodded, making sure he was slipping Albina’s skates back into her bag this time. “Do you want to come with us, Shane?” Albina called, legs swinging as she looked over at her coach, hot chocolate back in hand. Ilya’s head whipped around to Shane, and he could see the shock in his eyes. Shane looked back at the rink and then to Ilya and Albina. Ilya could see his brain working - overworking even. 

“You don’t have-” 

“Sure.” 

Albina’s little ‘yay’ as she slipped off the bench, matched the one Ilya made on the inside. 

“I just have to change out of my skates.”

~

So that’s how Shane ended up walking gingerly down the main street of Centretown, three across the footpath with Ilya Rozanov and his daughter. In what world? Shane feared the impending awkwardness, but his worries soon dissipated when it became clear that Albina could keep a conversation going enough for all three of them. They had stopped so Albina could look in the window of the nearby pet shop at the tanks of fish when Ilya turned to him. 

“How do I… get more skating… for her? Can I book rink?” He asked, brows furrowed in a way that made him seem so much like a dad. Shane guessed that’s what he was, after all. 

“Uhh- yeah, you can.” Shane tried to convince himself he was speaking with any other parent. Not his former rival and - let’s be honest - number two draft pick. 

“She loves it very much. Always asking, how many sleeps to hockey,” Ilya chuckled, and Shane felt himself relax ever so slightly. “Makes me… nervous.” Shane didn’t need to ask for clarification. He may not have a child, but he knew why Ilya was apprehensive about his daughter’s love of a sport that had given and taken so much from the both of them. 

“The rink-” Shane began before he could stop himself. “The rink is technically free right now. I’m happy to take her out for a skate.” Ilya barely opened his mouth before the squeal took over. 

“Yes!” Albina came bounding over, running into Shane’s legs and wrapping her arms around his thighs. Shane patted her hair gently, otherwise frozen where he stood. 

~

They wandered back to the rink without much further discussion, Albina running ahead as if she couldn’t bear not being on the ice for a moment longer. When they got there, Shane unlocked the doors and Ilya immediately started getting Albina’s skates on. 

“You make sure you say thank you. Holl- Shane is very nice to let you skate.”

“Yes, papa.” She was practically giddy. 

Once Albina was ready, Shane came out from the backroom, skates on and clutching an additional pair. He held them out to Ilya. 

“What is for?” Ilya looked at him like he had two heads. 

“For you.”

“No,” Ilya said with a finality that even he wasn’t expecting from himself. 

“Why?” Shane’s smile faltered for a moment before reigniting. “You getting too old? Afraid to finally admit I’m better?” Shane teased, barely finishing his taunting before Ilya had snatched the skates from Shane’s hands. 

Shane took Albina out onto the ice while Ilya put his skates on. He let her penguin march and bubble knee for a short moment before he glided over to her and took her hands. Shane set about skating quickly backwards, Albina squealing and giggling as she moved fast enough for her hair to float behind her. 

Ilya stood at the gate for a moment, smiling at the pure joy in his daughter. He wasn’t sure if skating ever felt like that for him. It was something he was good at sure - maybe even one of the best once upon a time - but he certainly didn’t do it for the love of it. But, as Ilya took his first tentative step onto the ice, surprisingly a little shaky, it felt like coming home. His chest leapt the way it did the first time he made a shot, and the unbridled pride took over. His shoulders melted away from him, like how they used to when he would come home from those early practices to the smell of his mother’s cooking, all those years ago.

Ilya floated over to where Shane and Albina were gliding around the rink, his heart leaping at the look of bliss that Albina gave him when she realised he was next to her. She instinctively reached out for Ilya; he took her hands and began skating with her, careful not to move too fast. After a short while came the phrase that Ilya was learning to loathe. 

“I can do it.” He released her hands and she carefully waddled her way across the ice. She was already instinctively pushing her feet to gain speed, and it produced fear and pride in Ilya in equal measure. Ilya leant against the boards, not expecting a short skate to leave him as puffed as he was - maybe he was getting old. 

The next half hour was spent leisurely. Shane took Albina’s hands again, helping her work on pushing her knees faster. She was much more receptive to Shane helping her than Ilya. Ilya meandered around the rink, it not taking long to feel less foreign on his unconditioned legs. 

“You’re getting pretty good,” Shane muttered sweetly to Albina. “Wanna have a race?” Albina nodded enthusiastically, pushing herself a few steps towards the boards before turning. 

“Papa, come race too!” How could Ilya ever say no to that face. Cheeks flushed from the exertion, nose red from the cold, and smile so wide it touched either side of her helmet. Ilya pushed off of the boards and stood next to Albina, glancing at Shane over the top of her head. 

“She is kid,” he whispered, Shane’s eyes flicking towards him. “You let her win.” Shane gave an almost imperceptible nod before training his eyes back on the other side of the rink. 

“Ready,” Shane began, Albina taking on the shakiest power stance she could muster. “Set… go!” 

“Joke!” Ilya called, giving Shane a slap to the chest before setting off like lightning. 

“Dick,” Shane muttered under his breath, pushing off sharply, careful not to barrel through Albina, but desperate to beat Ilya. 

And he did in the end. Ilya was still quick on his skates, scarily so given his lack of training, but Shane was a whirlwind. Ilya wondered if what he witnessed after practice last week was a regular occurrence for Shane. Ilya couldn’t imagine why someone would subject themself to conditioning if they didn’t even play hockey anymore. They hit the boards quite close together though, especially with Ilya’s head start. Shane turned to gloat, only to see Ilya crouched, arms out for Albina as she slowly made her way to him. 

“Good job, solnyshko,” Ilya muttered as she reached his arms and he scooped her up. 

“I almost won,” Albina grinned, big green eyes sparkling down at her father. 

“You did, angel,” he grinned, popping a kiss on her helmet

~ 

Shane had ushered Ilya and Albina off the ice as the time ticked down to 11:45. He had just pushed his skates off when the door to the back room was filled. He lifted his gaze to see Ilya. 

“Where to put these?” Ilya asked, holding out the skates that Shane had given him. 

“I’ll put them away,” he grinned, reaching out for them. As he took them from Ilya their hands scraped across each other in what felt like more than a friendly gesture, but Shane tried hard to squash that down. The air between them remained still, the space silent, until the clunk of the skates going back in the shelf brought them back to equilibrium. 

“Thank you,” Ilya muttered gently. “She had fun.”

“And you?” Shane couldn’t help himself. 

“Yes.” Shane gave him a quick nod as Ilya shuffled further back towards the door. “See you next week, Hollander.”

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading. I hope you're enjoying. Please give this chapter some love and let me know what you like or want to see. It is really appreciated :) x

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Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Thanks again for the love. This one is shorter, but the next chapter is already written and I'll probably upload before I go to bed tonight. Please let me know what you think.

If on browser, underlined Russian can be hovered over for rough translation

Shane had spent the last two days thinking about Saturday morning. Thinking about seeing Ilya back on skates, over-thinking the likely insignificance of their hands. But also, he’d been replaying over and over his own choice to leave the rink with Ilya and Albina in the first place, rather than staying to skate. He hadn’t missed a self-imposed Saturday training for almost as long as he’d been working at the rink, and couldn’t shake the feeling that his decision was going to derail him. Shane was caught between feeling guilty for breaking rules he’d set for himself, and also feeling stupid for caring in the first place. What was he even training for? To get the opportunity to skate like he used to and not just meander around with the kids, obviously. To prove to himself that he could still do all the stuff he used to be able to when he was Shane Hollander and not just Shane - probably. For the love of it? Maybe somewhere deep down. He used to skate just for himself, because he lived and breathed hockey and couldn’t bear to be doing anything else. That’s how he got so good in the first place. But somewhere along the way, as desperately as he tried to hold onto skating for the love of it, the national teams and training camps and sponsorships just seemed to get in the way. Every ‘we’re so proud of you’ from his parents, and ‘we're counting on you’ from his coaches, became a debt he owed the adults in his life for the luxury of doing what he loved. Shane knew that every success came at a price, but at what point had Shane sent himself bankrupt for those around him. 

Shane was ripped from his spiralling by his phone ringing, and given he could feel his hands growing clammy and his chest beginning to tingle, it was probably a good thing. 

“Hello, Shane speaking.”

“Hi Shane, it’s just Melissa from the rink. How are you, love?” She sounded more chipper than usual. Clearly something good had happened on Heartland last night. 

“I’m good. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, dear. I just had a parent call who said you two spoke about private lessons. Are you happy for me to pass on your details?” Shane was nodding along as she spoke. Shane had started doing more and more private lessons as the parents realised that he wasn’t just some college kid who needed to make a buck, and in fact, knew what he was doing. Still, it was mostly crazy parents who thought their three-year-olds needed to ‘get ahead’ to be ‘adequately prepared for A levels’. 

“Sure. Who for?”

“It’s for…” Shane heard faintly as Melissa licked her finger, turning a page in front of her. “Albina Rozanov.” Shane’s heart hammered so hard in his chest that if Melissa had said anything after that, he didn’t catch it. 

“Sure,” he repeated, clammy hands suddenly back with vengeance. “Yeah, give him my number. Thanks Melissa.” Shane hung up and released a shaky breath as his eyes settled on the signed Ottawa jersey hung up on the wall.

He thought about Albina. About the absolute joy that radiated from her when she skated. She clearly skated because she loved it. Because it was fun. It didn’t matter that she was or wasn’t good at it. Every fall had her giggling and even when she lost that race between Ilya and Shane that she had found herself in the middle, she relished in last place like there was nowhere she’d rather be. Shane couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t care about winning or losing, he wasn’t sure if there’d ever been a time. 

“Shane, honey.” Shane glanced over to where his mom stood in his doorway. “Dinners ready.” He pushed himself off his bed and shuffled downstairs, his mom and dad already waiting. 

“How was work today, bud?” Shane’s dad asked, fork scraping as he pushed peas around on his plate. 

“It was good. I had my under 9s and they’re getting a bit better. Their edge control is still shaky but their speed has improved a lot. Then after I got to cover Craig's under 15s because his wife just had a baby, so that was cool.” Shane talked through his day like it was a shopping list, a neat recount of where he’d been, what he’d done and how it went. Exactly what his dad had asked for. 

“That’s great, sweetie,” Yuna grinned at Shane, his own focus on his food in front of him. “I’m sure your kids are getting better because they have such a great coach.” The conversation moved onto his dad’s day at work and Shane unfocused for a bit of tranquility. 

This was what all their family meals felt like these days. Without Shane’s hockey career to fill the time, their conversations were menial, and Shane often felt entirely redundant. But still, he had wonderful parents who so truly cared for him, so he could only be so bothered by it. The table fell silent for a while, the sound of forks scraping, classes being clinked and food being chewed had Shane focused entirely on his own thoughts. And they were…

“Do you remember… Rozanov?” It was coming out of Shane’s mouth before he’d really even finished the thought. “Ilya Rozanov?” He held his fork delicately as he peered at his mom and dad. 

His dad huffed out a laugh - as if he could forget. His mom just looked weary. She didn’t like him chatting about the old days much, concerned he would dwell too much and send himself spiralling. If only she knew, she might have him committed. 

“Yes… What about him, dear?” 

“His daughter is in my intro to skating class.” That seemed to relax Yuna, a smile slowly spreading and her gaze returning to her plate as she pierced a roast potato with her fork. 

“Oh, that’s nice.” But all Shane could think about was what wasn’t being said. A daughter - that’s nice. That’s why he exited the draft, wasn’t it? And why did you exit the draft? Oh that’s right, because you couldn’t handle the pressure. 

“Could I be excused? I’m not hungry,” Shane mumbled, already standing up and scooting his chair back before Yuna or David could answer. He didn’t wait for a reply anyway. He may have been living with his parents, but he wasn’t a child. 

He moved past his room and into the home gym that his parents had set up when his junior training requirements had started to get serious. He pushed open the door and relaxed onto the exercise bike, pedalling with reckless abandon, just to try and clear the feeling of guilt that his mom certainly had no intention of bestowing on him. 

Just as his breathing reached ragged his phone chimed periodically from where it sat in the water bottle holder. Shane initially only glanced at it briefly, but couldn’t stop himself from doing a double take. 

Hello is lily 

Ilya 

Stupid phone 

…

Shane gripped his phone and watched the bubble, his pedalling slowing to a glacial pace. 

When it went away, he couldn’t help but panic. 

… 

If his mom and dad knew the state that three dots were putting him in, he’d be living in his childhood bedroom until he was 40. 

Thank you again for lesson

Albina is very happy 😁

Could I book rink again for her? 

Shane’s racing heart settled. Ilya was just a dad who loved his daughter endlessly and wanted her to be able to do something she loved. He reminded him of his own parents. 

You can book through the front desk 

Would also like to book you 😉

Was that a wink? Or had Ilya hit a button he wasn’t meaning to press. Shane’s hands shook from the exertion of his bike ride… and maybe from other things.

For Albina? 

No for me 

Yes 😉

Shane was so flustered that his pedalling had reached a complete standstill. Ilya was just messing around. He had to treat this like the job that it was. 

I have a class at 6pm on Tuesdays. I could do it before that. 5:15? 

Okay. See you tomorrow 😉

Shane was going to break the keys that made the winky face on Ilya’s phone the next time he saw him. Which it dawned on him was tomorrow…

~

Ilya stood over the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hands submerged in the soapy water before him. Albina sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter, playing with her doll as they talked through their plans for the day. 

“I predstavlyayesh, papa?” Albina gasped, placing her doll beside her on the counter. 

“What, lapochka?” Ilya grinned, glancing at her sideways. 

“No more sleeps to hockey,” her glee was audible and Ilya couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“Yes, but tonight,” he corrected, making sure Albina had remembered Ilya’s rundown of the day from just before that clarified they wouldn’t be going until 5 o’clock. 

“I know,” she droned, head back and face unimpressed. “But is still exciting.” Ilya nodded, drying his hands and spinning to be face to face with Albina. He leant his hands on the edge of the countertop either side of her and gave her a wide grin. Albina returned it. Ilya countered by sticking his tongue out, to which Albina blew a raspberry back at him. Ilya feigned shock before scooping Albina up and tipping her back to blow a raspberry on her now exposed tummy. Albina squealed, kicking her legs so intensely that Ilya had to dodge the flying feet. He pulled her back upright and sat her on his hip. 

“Lyublyu tebya,” Ilya whispered, pressing his forehead and nose against Albina’s

“Lyublyu tebya, papa.” It took everything for Ilya not to well up every time her little voice told him she loved him. There were very few people who said they loved Ilya, even fewer he was willing to say it back to. But he knew, from the second he held her tiny hand, that he loved Albina with everything in him. And he knew that she would always say it back; would always love the parts of him that even he didn’t love about himself. 

“Khleb?” he whispered, popping a kiss on Albina’s forehead and then placing her back on the counter. Ilya set about collecting the ingredients while Albina carefully pulled a mixing bowl down from the cupboard. Making bread had been one of those things that Ilya could never have imagined himself doing casually on a Tuesday morning. Just like he would never have thought of himself mending Albina’s clothes back when money was really tight, or learning how to put together a dollhouse in silence on Christmas Eve. But like all things that came with having Albina, he had steadfastly fallen in love with them. 

Ilya opened the ingredients one by one, Albina scooping and dumping as needed. In three months time, their Tuesday morning would be spent getting Albina ready for school and then actually sending her off to be without Ilya for the whole day. Ilya wanted to see her grow and become the remarkable human he knew she would be, but the thought of leaving her made him physically ill. He hoped they’d still be baking bread together when she was 25. 

The house fell silent as they both kneaded their loaves. They always made three - and gave them out to the girls at work or their little old lady neighbours - Ilya kneading two and Albina one. Ilya would have to secretly knead Albina’s some more before it went in the oven, but you could pry that information from his dead hands. 

“Can we give this one to Shane?” Albina asks, proudly smacking her mostly-kneaded loaf of bread. Ilya’s eyebrows shot up, looking at Albina to see her completely untroubled. 

“Oh- I… guess. Da.” Ilya nodded slowly, like he was trying to get his head around the idea of it. “You like Shane?” He wasn’t sure why he kept asking. Maybe it was because his daughter was essentially his only friend and he needed to talk about the man who hadn’t left his brain in weeks with someone.

“Yes,” Albina was absentmindedly drawing pictures in the scattered flour. 

“Why?”

“He’s… cool.” Shane Hollander - cool? Ilya felt like he’d hit his head in a check and woken up in an alternate universe. “And he knows how to play hockey really good.” Ilya huffed a laugh out of his nose, moving the first loaf of bread to the oven tray. 

“You know papa knows hockey good too?” He knew it would happen eventually, having to convince his daughter that he was cool. Ilya just figured he had a few more years. 

“Not like Shane.” Albina may as well have been kneading Ilya’s pride like dough. He fought hard not to let it show on his face that his daughter was opening Pandora’s Box on Ilya’s adolescence. “Lexy said that her dad said that Shane is a very big deal,” Albina added, mockingly mimicking in her telling of her story. Another huffed laugh came out of Ilya. “And Lexy said that her mum said that Shane is a little hotty. What does that mean, papa?” Ilya almost choked on his tongue. 

Hours later, after Ilya had successfully dodged explaining to his five-year-old what a ‘hotty’ was, they wrapped up their bread and began their leisurely stroll to the rink. 

“I speak with Lexy’s mom on phone about playing. We go to park Friday?” Ilya asked pointlessly. He knew exactly what Albina’s answer was going to be and the excited squeeze of her hand only proved it. 

When they walked in, it was busier than on a Saturday. A bunch of what looked like juniors milled around, a few still out on the ice. Ilya instinctively pulled Albina closer. He was a hockey boy once upon a time and he didn’t trust them for even a second. 

“That’s Ilya Rozanov.” It was an attempt at a whisper, but the young kid may as well as have yelled it. Ilya’s inclination was to hide away. When he’d heard that back home in recent years. It was met with disappointment. Often a lecture about how he was a national disgrace, throwing away opportunities that his country had so kindly given to him. But as Ilya glanced over his shoulder, the look of awe on the young boys’ faces made him less apprehensive. He gave them a tentative grin and both their faces lit up, the pair looking to each other with great veneration. Ilya may have even entertained a quick hello, but he was being swiftly dragged towards the ice by Albina, who couldn’t care less about the bands of 6-foot-tall teenagers, or the fact that her father was once a superstar. 

“Hi Albina,” Shane grinned, skating out onto the ice as the last of the juniors dispersed. 

“Hi Shane, we made you bread.” The young man failed to hide the confusion as Ilya approached slowly behind. Albina held up the paper bag they had slipped the loaf into, shaking it. 

“I will hold it and Shane can take later,” Ilya muttered, cheeks ever so rosy with embarrassment. Ilya wasn’t one to get embarrassed, often unbothered by the opinions of others; but unfortunately it seemed he had passed that onto his daughter and she appeared hellbent on making her father blush.

~

“Thanks,” Shane chuckled, watching as Albina moved herself to the bench and started getting her skates on. He glanced at Ilya, putting down the loaf of bread to help his daughter tie her laces. Shane didn’t really allow himself bread, but he could smell it wafting across the ice, toasty warmth almost masking the scent of sweaty teenagers. 

Shane watched Ilya and Albina without really meaning to. Ilya crouched before her, easy and unguarded. There was a softness to it that caught Shane off-balance; nothing like the borderline deranged skater he once played against. Ilya’s voice stayed low and steady the entire time he spoke to his daughter - talking through the careful tying of her laces: ‘bunny ears’ and the like. When Albina wanted to speak, Ilya waited - actually waited - until she finished her thoughts. There was no rushing, no fixing or perfecting. Just attention. 

Shane noticed the way that Ilya smiled without checking who was watching. Like there was no need to fear others seeing his weaknesses - maybe outside of hockey there wasn’t. He seemed… calm. Not careless or distracted, just present. Shane had also held strongly the idea that if he eased up for even just a second, everything would slip away. But Ilya had settled, and nothing bad had happened. In fact, he seemed… happy. 

He was drawn from his thinking - truthfully, his admiring - as Albina approached him on still somewhat shaky feet. 

“Ready?” He asked, his apprehensive brown eyes meeting her at-ease green ones. 

“Ready!”

~

Ilya sat in the viewing area, happy to oblige Shane’s rules now the space wasn’t filled with nasty botox-filled women. He watched as Shane held Albina’s hands, taking her out to centre ice. When she nodded at him, he let go. Ilya remembered Shane as the wonderkid wound so tightly there was more than one comment about sticks up his ass, but this version of Shane seemed quieter. Softer.  

Shane didn’t rush her. When she wobbled, he steadied her, correcting without judgement. Ilya noticed how Shane mirrored her pace, how he kept his voice low, how he broke the movements down into pieces small enough not to overwhelm. Ilya thought: he’s listening. Not just teaching - listening. Ilya, who hadn’t been away from his daughter for more than a few hours, had watched many people - children and adults alike - not listen to her. He thought about himself as a child - never listened to unless it was to recount his statistics or gameplay. Watching Shane and Albina, Ilya felt something in him settle, that hadn’t been calm in years. 

His ease lasted moments. Ilya watched as Albina lost her balance while skating as quickly as she could manage. She fell into a ball, just like Shane had taught, but her speed was enough to send her into the boards with a small bang. Ilya was immediately on his feet, Shane gliding quickly but calmly over to her. Albina started to cry, little sobs escaping her from where she lay on the ice and Ilya’s heart shattered. This was why he’d kept her away from this. This and many other reasons, but definitely this. He was about to step onto the ice in his trainers when he saw Shane descend down beside her. He sat on his bum, legs straight out ahead of him and head craned down to make eyes with Albina. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Shane whispered. Albina was lying on the ice, looking up at him, her eyes trained on him like he was the only person there. Ilya would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little sad that she hadn’t called for ‘papa’. “Falling is scary but that’s why we practice. You did exactly what you were meant to, Albina. I’m really proud of you.”

Ilya’s expression darkened, something a little less tender at the forefront of his mind. He’d never seen someone be so gentle with Albina, but also clearly and fiercely respect her thoughts and feelings. “And, if you wanna play hockey with the pros, you’re going to have to get used to hitting the boards,” Shane added with a small smile. 

“Pros?” Ilya took his foot back off the ice as Albina pushed herself to sit, legs out in front of her like Shane. 

“Professionals… In the MLH. They’re people who play hockey on TV as their jobs. They get paid for it.”

“I want to do that.” Albina rubbed the last of her cold tears from her flushed face. 

“You can. But you have to work hard… and always get back up after you fall.” 

“Okay.” Albina immediately set about pushing herself to standing, sniffling back the last of her tears as she did so. 

“I didn’t mean right now.” Shane lifted himself to a kneel. “Are you alright? Nothing hurts?” Albina shook her head and a smile returned to both their faces. 

“Okay, go again,” Shane nodded, giving Albina’s helmet a gentle push and smiling as the little girl skated back to centre ice. 

Ilya could have jumped his bones right there and then.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos are so appreciated - what do you wanna see more or less of?
Next chapter is going to finally have some smut to it, so fingers crossed y'all like that.

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Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

As always, thanks for the love. This will be the first chapter that has some smut in it. It's nothing too crazy, but hopefully it's alright. :) x

By Friday afternoon, sat at the park with Branda and her kids, Ilya had only thought about two things: keeping his daughter alive, which had been a constant thought for the last four years, and Shane. Memories of the man, gentle with Albina, gliding smiley across the ice towards her, had left him catatonic in each of his waking moments not spent focusing on Albina.

He needed to force normal for at least a few hours. He could be unhinged only in the safety of his own home. 

“How many kids you have?”

“Three.” Branda flicked her long legs so that they crossed the opposite way. “Layton is ten, but we moved here and suddenly he’s too cool for the park, so he’s at a friend’s house. Lexy is six.” They both looked at the girls, running laps on the play structure. “And Levi is three-and-a-half,” she smiled, gesturing to the small boy playing nearby on the grass with some trucks. “It’s just you and Albina, yeah?” Ilya nodded, taking a sip on his coffee and glancing back over to the girls. Just him and Albina. “And her name is Russian? That’s where you’re from, right?” Ilya nodded again. 

“Means bright.” Branda tipped her head back and gushed, hand to chest like she was clutching pearls. 

“That’s just gorgeous. I think Lexy means something… like, helpful? I don’t know - I just thought it was pretty,” she chuckled. “Was that a family name? Did you or her mother pick it out?” Ilya faulted for just a moment. “Oh gosh, please tell me if I’m being too much. Aaron tells me all the time I’m too nosy.” Too much. Ilya had been called too much his whole life, mostly by his father. This overly excitable woman was a lot, but she wasn’t too much. Just enough maybe. 

“No- is okay. Albina is technical daughter of my brother. He cannot take care of her.” Ilya was looking at the lid of his coffee cup, so he couldn’t see the gentle smile on Branda’s face; he felt like he needed to defend himself. “But she is mine. I sign paper when she was very little. I treat her like mine. She is-”

“Oh, sweetheart. That’s your baby, don’t worry.” She placed a hand on Ilya’s arm and gave it a kind squeeze. Ilya returned her smile and nodded. “So, is Albina enjoying skating?” Branda was quick to change the subject, and Ilya was endlessly grateful. 

“Loving it,” Ilya chuckled, watching Albina and thinking about her practicing her skating around the house as best she could on the carpet. Ilya even had to use his ‘papa voice’ when she tried to use the bath tub to practice. 

“Lexy is the same. I never would have thought a kid born at the beach would love the ice so much.” Ilya could see the love Branda very clearly had for her kids. He hoped he embodied the same. “And isn’t Shane great?” Ilya’s heart skipped a beat, luckily catching itself before it was obvious he had internally imploded. “Lexy just adores him, and hey, I get it. He’s a looker - don’t tell my husband,” she chuckled, giving Ilya a gentle whack on the arm in jest. Despite his earlier panic, Ilya couldn’t help but smile at Branda. She was odd to say the least, but the way she seemed so unapologetically herself made Ilya feel at ease. “I’m just kidding. He’s a bit young for me.” Branda sat back against the backrest of the park bench. “Sorry, I’m talking your ear off.” Ilya’s brows scrunched - he had heard many strange Canadian sayings, but not that one. Must have been from California. “I haven’t gotten the chance to make many friends here yet.” 

Friends. 

Maybe Ilya could get used to these English speakers and their ‘friends’.

“No- is okay. Shane is good coach.” Branda gasped, twisting so she was back to facing Ilya. 

“And you would know, wouldn’t you? My husband said you used to be a big hotshot hockey player back in the day.” Back in the day. As if he was 100 years old. Some days it felt like it. 

“Ahh-” Ilya tried to respond but was immediately cut off. Not that he minded - he wasn’t sure what he would have said anyway. 

“Would you ever get back into it?” Ilya thought about stepping out on the ice with Shane and Albina last week. How nice it felt to skate without expectation - without someone breathing down his neck or screaming in his face. 

“I don’t-”

“You should get out there with the kids sometime. You’d shut those awful yoga bitches up if you went out there and did a triple axel or whatever.” This woman was a psycho, but Ilya decided he quite liked her anyway. 

Ilya just chuckled as Levi toddled over, tears in his eyes about something that Ilya couldn’t make out of the toddler-speak. Branda disappeared for a short while, leaving Ilya alone with his thoughts - not good. 

Ilya was constantly bouncing between dreading class tomorrow and being so enthusiastic about it he was feral. He wanted Shane. Physically, even if he was apprehensive to admit it, he had wanted him for years. Way back when they had met in ‘08. When ‘see you at the draft’ had really meant I hope I see you at the draft. But that was easy to ignore. When they were 17, Shane was just one of several dozen potential conquests. Now, Shane was the only other man he’d seen be so gentle with his daughter that it made him sick. He was spiralling.

“Oh, that reminds me.” Branda interrupted Ilya’s thinking as she returned. “Layton has a late game tomorrow so I’m taking Lexy to the pottery painting place after class and I was meaning to ask if Albina would want to come with us?” Branda settled herself back on the bench, pulling her cardigan tighter around her torso. “And obviously of course you too… if you want to come.” It wasn’t said with disdain or awkwardness. “But also if you want a couple of hours to yourself, I don’t blame you. I struggle when Aaron goes on a work trip for a couple of days. I couldn’t imagine doing it by myself all the time.” Ilya nodded along, someone finally putting into words something he was ashamed to admit he ever thought about. “Either way, we’d love to have her.” Ilya was grateful for this weird woman. He had said goodbye to a whole life in Russia when he decided to move, and while Svetlana made the occasional trip, he didn’t see her nearly enough, given she was the only connection he had left to his old life. 

~

“Shane, Shane. How many more minutes?” Practice was nearly over and the kids had been given some time to free skate. Despite the freedom of the entire ring, Albina had stuck close to Shane, practically following him around as he went to check on the other students. 

“Fi-” Shane was cut off by a quiet but clear altercation just outside the viewing area. He looked over to see Ilya, Lexy's mom and another mom standing in what seemed like a blow up. “Okay guys, let’s wrap it up,” Shane called to the kids, starting to move over to where the parents were. “Skating to the wall.”

“You said five!” Albina called after him, causing the coach to turn around. 

“No, I was going. But I didn’t,” he said matter-of-factly, but with a wide smile on his face. “Skate to the wall.” Albina rolled her eyes and skated away. 

As Shane reached the boards, it did appear things had settled. He wasn’t one to involve himself in confrontation, but when he’d started working at the rink, the boss had made it clear that the parents were just as much his responsibility as the kids. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Is fine,” Ilya replied quickly, turning away from the women. He couldn’t meet Shane’s gaze. “Is fine.”

“Okay,” Shane said slowly, pushing himself off the board and skating slowly backwards, eyes still flicking amongst the former blowup. He watched as the mother further away made a comment under her breath that Shane couldn’t make out. 

“Just shut up,” Lexy’s mom snapped. Moving to stand beside Ilya. 

~

Ilya was putting Albina’s coat on, a rare occasion when she would allow him to do it for her, when Shane approached gingerly. Ilya glanced up at him from where he crouched. 

“Are you hanging around?” Shane queried, clearly ignoring the jokes being made by the parents about his penchant for kicking them out the rink. 

“Oh-” Ilya stood up as Lexy ran over to Albina. “Albina is going to… paint pots.” Ilya said it with little conviction, like he wasn’t entirely sure. Shane looked back at him confused. Luckily Branda, ever nosy, was only a few steps away, talking to the girls about what they might paint. 

“The new pottery place around the corner.” Shane nodded slowly. “Did you wanna come too, Shane?” Ilya could tell that Branda was asking in jest, but Shane looked concerned at the invitation. Branda didn’t seem to notice, laughing off her own little joke. “But like I said Ilya, if you want to hang around, or go for a walk- girls go collect your things” Branda started, gesturing to Lexy and Albina. “Go get a drink - God, go to a movie.” It seemed she was getting more excited about his child-free hours than Ilya was. Ilya couldn’t help but look back at Shane, who looked like he was trying to appear as if he wasn’t a part of the conversation. Branda caught the look and squealed. “Or you two could skate. Ooh face off!” She was practically giddy and Ilya couldn’t help but laugh, nodding slowly. 

“Is okay?” He questioned Shane, who nodded small but quick. 

“I’ll bring her back here when we’re done. Albina, say buh-bye to daddy.” Albina ran over, large coat making her seem more like a walking marshmallow than a girl, and grasped Ilya tightly. 

“Veselit’sya, solnyshko,” Ilya whispered, kissing her curls and sending her off and out the door, the girls practically squawking with excitement. 

Once the door closed behind them, Ilya turned back to Shane. 

“You wanna skate?” Shane asked and for the first time in a long time, Ilya was so excited. 

Shane gave Ilya a pair of skates and a stick, and drifted onto the ice with a rack of pucks. Once Ilya was in his skates, he joined Shane, the pair just skating leisurely around the ring for a bit, not speaking or really even glancing at each other. Wordlessly, they met in the centre, taking out the first puck. Suddenly Ilya was 17, playing in the IP Cup and staring at Shane Hollander, close enough to smell whatever cologne he was the face of back then. Five years had passed but nothing had changed. Ilya won the face off, over-exerting himself to get past Shane and push towards the net. He scored before it seemed Shane had a chance to remember how good Ilya once was. 

“Congrats.” The old Ilya would have mocked Shane for his poorly veiled attempt at hiding his disappointment. Instead he opted to steer them elsewhere - a changed man, some might say. Although Ilya thought not. 

“Thank you again for helping Albina.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me, Rozanov. It’s my job. I’m a hockey coach.” The pair reset at centre, eyeing one another again. 

“If you were parent, you would understand why I say thank you.” This time, Shane won the face-off, scoring a goal. Then he scored another one, and then another two to Ilya’s additional one. Ilya was off his game. In his defense, one of them had been forcibly training himself at an elite level for four years and one of them enjoyed the occasional packet of chips after his daughter had gone to bed. But really, he was distracted. Every shift and roll of the puck exposed Shane’s muscles beneath his undershirt. Every hook and plant revealed just how much power Shane still had in his arms and legs. Unlike anything he could have imagined as a teenager, Ilya didn’t mind losing, if it meant he could keep watching. 

“Ay, blyad’.” The response to the pain shot out of Ilya before he even really understood what had happened. 

“Oh shit.” Shane was beside him only a few seconds later. Ilya looked down at where the puck had hit his ungloved thumb, already red with anger. “I’m so sorry, Rozanov,” Shane whispered, taking the stick from his hand. “Let me get you some ice.” Shane skated away, Ilya only a few pushes behind, one hand in the other and teeth gritted. 

When they reached the backroom, Shane disappeared through another door, leaving Ilya on the bench, undoing his laces with one hand. His hand was definitely not broken; Ilya had suffered enough hockey injuries to know which ones were serious and not, but yebat’ if this one didn’t hurt. He had managed to slip his skates off by the time Shane returned with an ice pack. 

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, handing it over to Ilya. 

“Is fine,” Ilya assured, giving his thumb a careful wriggle before putting the ice pack on it. “Only bruise.” Shane didn’t look too convinced, but sat on the bench opposite none the less. 

~

“So…” Shane began, eyes flicking from the dirty grout of the floor, to the name tag that had definitely fallen out of someone’s skates, to Ilya’s socked toes on the tile floor, trying to think of anything but the guilt of firing a puck at Ilya’s hand. “What happened during class?”

“Khm?” Ilya queried, looking up from where he was inspecting his hand. 

“Did someone say something to you during the class today? You seemed bothered?”

“No,” Ilya brushed it off, shaking his head. “Not bothered. Nothing happen.” 

“Rozanov, they’re hockey moms,” Shane chuckled. “You and I both know they say some awful shit. What’d she say?” 

“They say; ‘hard to compete with favourite’.” Shane’s face dropped. It was his fault that the parents were being mean to Albina and he felt like he was disintegrating where he sat. “I say ‘not like that, she just likes to play’ and then nasty lady with this face…” Ilya reached up to pull back the sides of his face and make a face like he was frozen with injectables. Shane couldn’t help but chuckle; he would have known exactly who Ilya was talking about even if he hadn’t seen the altercation. “She says ‘liking hockey doesn’t make you good at it, at some point you have to be useful’.” Ilya relayed the insult with a sly smile, like it no longer bothered him. Shane wasn’t so sure that was true, but he didn’t want to push that matter further. 

“They’re just miserable.”

“Oh- I know.” Ilya chuckled. “But when you have kid it doesn’t matter I know that this woman is just mad she is not getting good sex.” Shane spluttered a laugh that had Ilya looking at him with a smirk. “She is mean to my daughter and makes me want…” Ilya thought about what he wanted. “Makes me want her on ice too, and I put her into boards.” Ilya shook the thought away like it was just silly. 

“Albina’s awesome.” Shane muttered, unsure how else to help. “She’s a cool kid. She could be a really good player one day - she really wants it.”

“Like you really wanted it.” Ilya’s words hit Shane like a bus. His stomach dropped and he was left frozen for a moment, staring at the man without a single clear thought in his brain. “Is okay. I wanted too,” Ilya added, but Shane couldn’t help but feel that their ‘wanting’ was different. 

“She’ll be fine.” Shane assured. “She’s tougher.”

“You’re right,” Ilya smiled, moving his icepack to the side and standing to put away his skates. 

“I can do it,” Shane offered, but Ilya just shook his head. 

“I know where they go. Just sit yourself Mr Coach and look pretty.” Shane could feel the blush spread over his cheeks. He leant over to untie his own skates, so overly aware of Ilya’s presence behind him. 

“Is your hand okay?” Shane murmured, muffled by the pressing of his chest against his thighs. 

“Yes,” Ilya answered quickly, stressing the word like he was sick of Shane’s pestering. “Is fine. You want to check?” Ilya swung his leg over the bench that Shane was sitting on, so that each leg was either side of it. “Here,” he muttered, pushing his hand into Shane’s space. Shane backed up, a little shocked. He gently grabbed Ilya’s wrist, inspecting where he’d been hit. 

“It doesn’t look too bad. A bit swollen, but you’re right… just bruised.” Shane released Ilya’s hand but Ilya didn’t move it away. 

“Sorry. Say again?”

“I said, it doesn’t look-” 

“No, no. End part.” Shane looked to Ilya, a wide smirk on his face and his hand still hovering in front of Shane. 

“I said you were right, asshole.” Shane knew that the interaction was in jest, but it also made him feel like he was 17 again, losing to Ilya in a battle or riffs and wits that he didn’t know he was playing. It also sent flooding in all the other strange thoughts and feelings he’d had about the Russian while playing against each other. Thoughts and feelings that Shane thought he had well and truly squashed in the four years since they’d seen each other. Shane moved to push Ilya’s hand away from where it remained in front of him, but Ilya flipped his hand and gripped Shane’s wrist. His whole body went warm, eyes locked on Ilya’s as he twisted to look at the other man whose large, strong hand was gripping him almost appetizingly. 

“Say no,” Ilya whispered, his voice deeper and more wanton. Ilya waited. Shane knew that Ilya was making it his call. Giving him time to get up - unsheathe his arm from Ilya’s grasp and walk away. And he would. He should. But he didn’t move. Instead, Shane tucked his bottom lip into his mouth, wetting it with anticipation for what he hoped was coming. 

~

Ilya took it as an invitation. All the invitation he needed to pull Shane in by his arm and press their lips together. He wondered if maybe he’d been kissing wrong this whole time, because Gospodi if it wasn’t heavenly. Ilya gave Shane’s wrist a tug, slowly pulling the man so that he was facing Ilya, their lips moving against each hurriedly. 

It was Shane that pushed his weight heavier onto Ilya, though Ilya would have been only moments behind. The hockey coach’s hands found Ilya’s neck and in return, he moved to wrap his arms around Shane’s torso, drawing him closer. Shane’s knee pressed into Ilya’s crouch, already hard and he pulled away, breathless. 

“Okay?” Ilya queried, gasping for air and desperate to have his lips back on Shane - anywhere on him… 

“You taste like a cigarette.” Shane looked genuinely concerned and Ilya couldn’t help but smile. “Smoking is bad for you.” Ilya puffed a small laugh from his nose and reconnected their lips, tongues circling one another and breathing becoming one. Ilya groaned as Shane pulled away again, but swallowed hard as he watched the other man slide off of the bench and onto the floor. Ilya scooted himself forward and Shane’s hands found his belt buckle. As soon as Shane had undone Ilya's belt and unfastened his pants, his mouth was on him, taking him deep without hesitation. Ilya spread his legs wider and let one hand knot in Shane’s hair, the other resting on his cheek. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groaned, unable to tear his eyes away from where Shane took him in over and over. One hand was tentatively on Ilya’s thigh and the other firmly grasping the length he couldn’t manage. There was no way Shane hadn’t done this before; the thought of that both stunned Ilya, and had him growing harder in Shane’s mouth. 

The noises Shane made were criminal, as if he was the one being pleasured instead. It made Ilya feel like a wall of fire was rushing into him, the idea that Shane was moaning with bliss, simply by sucking Ilya’s dick. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on him properly. 

“Oh god, Hollander,” Ilya moaned, tipping his head back and gripping Shane’s hair harder. Not that he really needed to - Shane was doing all the work on his own. 

Shane just moaned in response, hand lowering to palm Ilya. Ilya wanted to rip him upward, taste himself on Shane’s lips and tear the man’s clothes off, but he was no idiot. Even through the haze of arousal he had maintained awareness of where they were. He didn’t need to be caught fucking into his kid’s hockey coach by the woman who bills him for her lessons. Instead, he let Shane work, every whine from the man on his knees pushing Ilya closer. 

“Yebat’.” Ilya was breathless. He leant back to allow Shane to take more of him, and the man happily obliged, choking on him for a moment before Ilya pulled Shane up by the hair. Ilya’s hand latched onto his cock, pumping it furiously as his other hand snaked out of Shane’s hair and down to his cheek, thumb gently pushing into his mouth and fingers caressing his clammy neck. Ilya came, thick and hot over his hand, his eyes screwed shut for only a moment before remembering the sight he was missing out on. Shane’s gaze was trained on Ilya’s dick, eyes glassy and tongue lolling gentle circles around Ilya’s thumb. “Come,” Ilya whispered lowly, tugging Shane ever so gently by the jaw that he got the idea, moving to his feet and then sitting on the bench. Ilya wiped his hand on his shirt.

“Is your first time with a man?” Ilya’s voice was throaty but gentle, his hands making quick work of Shane’s pants.

“Sort of,” Shane muttered, already panting at the whispers of touch. If Ilya hadn’t spent his whole life in ski pants, he would be annoyed by the hindrance, but there was also something delectable about watching Shane come undone waiting impatiently for his turn. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Ilya teased, pulling his hands away from Shane’s now open pants. Shane whined, instinctively pushing his crouch towards Ilya. Ilya scoured Shane’s body, hands restrained as he observed him: smattering of freckles down to painfully hard dick. 

“God-” Shane’s desperation was practically fragrancing the air, eyes closed and mouth agape. “I blew a guy in the bathroom of a restaurant when I was on holiday with my parents in LA,” he pushed the words out quickly, like they were the password to getting Ilya’s hands back on him. Ilya looked at him with a surprised smirk, waiting until Shane cracked an eye open. “Fuck off, Rozanov.” Instantly, Ilya was back in 2008, only he was now 20 pounds heavier, was not about to be drafted to the MLH, and was looking at a Shane Hollander that he only fantasised about. One of those certainly wasn’t bad. 

“Sorry,” Ilya chuckled. “Is no surprise, really. You suck my dick too good for that to be first time.” Ilya could have sworn he heard Shane whimper, and like a bee to honey, his hand was fishing into Shane’s pants, pulling his achingly hard cock from his boxers. “I tell you what, Hollander.” Ilya’s hand pumped him slowly, lips finding a place on Shane’s neck between barbs. “I let you decide.” He sucked at a spot just below Shane’s collar and ran his thumb languidly over Shane’s head, causing him to shudder. “You picture me, or you picture Hollywood blow job guy. I won’t be sad,” he teased, tightening his grip and picking up the pace.

“You,” Shane moaned back instantly, Ilya feeling the urgent vibration against his lips. He hadn’t expected a response, eyes flicking over to Shane as he licked up his neck to connect his teeth to the man’s ear. “You,” he repeated, and Ilya couldn’t help but pull away to better look at the man. Ilya was still stroking him half-heartedly, watching Shane bite his lip and grip the bench so hard his fingertips were white. “Fuck, Rozanov. Please-” Shane’s begging was cut off by Ilya lurching forward, crashing their lips back together. Ilya wasted no time, pushing himself up onto his knee so that he could jerk Shane off and fuck his tongue into the other man’s mouth with equal intensity. Shane’s moans were blissful; Ilya had fucked a lot of men - and a lot of women - and none of them had sounded quite as beautiful as Shane Hollander. “Rozanov, I’m gonna-” Shane’s words disappeared into a whine in Ilya’s mouth as he came between them, coating Ilya’s hand and both their clothed torsos. Ilya was slow to pull away, afraid he might find out this had all been a dirty dream. As he moved back, Shane followed, his head resting on Ilya’s shoulder.

“Okay?” Ilya whispered, hands finding either side of Shane’s face and pulling him back so their gazes could meet. Shane’s eyes were glazed over and his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, but his gentle smile as he looked at Ilya assured the father that he was okay. “Need help getting dressed?” It came out teasingly, but Ilya meant it - would have done it if Shane wanted.

“Fuck off,” Shane replied, but with no bite. “You’re all dirty. Do you have a change of clothes?” Ilya gently released Shane, once he was certain he had floated back down to earth.

“Shut up, Hollander. Are you afraid of a little…” He wiggled his eyebrows in jest, earning a shove from Shane as the older man moved off the bench and over to his locker. Shane pulled out a grey sweatshirt, chucking it at Ilya. He stood, tucking himself back into his boxers and pulled off his own sweater. As the fabric came over his head, he locked eyes with Shane. “Liking the show?”

“Fuck you,” Shane chuckled, eyes still raking over Ilya. Ilya held up the sweatshirt, first to himself before turning it around. 

“Ottawa?” His face scrunched in disgust. “They’re shit.” 

“This is Ottawa. You have to back your hometown team.”

“Not when they’re shit.”

“Do you want it or not?” Ilya smirked at him, faking for a moment that he was going to toss it back, causing Shane to flinch. Ilya slipped it over his head, trying to secretly breathe in the scent that came with it. He wondered what cologne Shane used when he wasn’t being sponsored by one. “You’re not gonna tell anyone about this right?” Ilya could see the panic in Shane’s eyes, the tension in his muscles. “And- and we can’t do that again,” Shane added. Ilya should have felt dejected, but really, they shouldn’t have done it in the first place, so what was really stopping the repeat performance. 

“Is what you want?”

“Yeah, sure,” Shane pulled off his own sweater, fishing in his locker for another. He tried not to think about the way Ilya’s eyes traced over him, suddenly self conscious without his own arousal to placate his dignity. “So, you’re not going to tell anyone?”

“No, Hollander. I’m not going to tell anyone, okay?” Ilya hadn’t meant it to come out bitterly, but his cloudy head had stopped any hope of filtering his words. 

“Okay.” Shane turned back to Ilya, and the room fell silent between them, a cozy buzz amongst the warm smell of sex in the air. They looked at each other properly for the first time in four years, eyes locked on the only person who challenged the other enough to earn their respect. Until the sound of the outside door opening snapped them both back to reality.

“Bathroom?” Ilya queried, and Shane gestured through the doorway. Ilya exited without another word.

~ 

When Shane had changed and made his way back out to the foyer, Ilya was already standing with Albina on his hip. 

“Papa, I show Shane,” Albina demanded as soon as she saw her coach walk through the door. Ilya walked her over to Shane, who did his best to seem collected. “Shane, the place we did paintings had little statues of hockey, and that’s what I picked and I made it you,” Albina grinned so wide that Shane would have had to be a monster not to return it, even in his hazy and overwhelmed state. She held it out for him and he took it carefully from her. 

“That’s awesome,” he muttered, a genuine smile on his face and a feeling in his chest softer than he felt comfortable with. 

“I will put it next to the TV, where papa’s hockey photo is,” Albina explained, so proud of herself as she took the statue back from Shane. Shane’s eyes darted to Ilya, a light blush spreading over his cheeks. 

“We should go,” Ilya whispered, Albina’s face dropping. 

“I’ll see you on Tuesday,” Shane reassured, Albina nodding quickly. The father and daughter turned to exit, Ilya wearing Shane’s sweatshirt and a pink My Little Pony backpack slung over his arm. 

“Bye Shane!” Albina called over Ilya’s shoulder, waving dramatically. 

“Bye Albina.” Shane waved back despite his body feeling like jelly.

“We put this on the TV?” Albina reiterated with Ilya, looking down at her father as he carried her out the door. 

“Yes, lapochka.” 

~

Ilya didn’t even mind that a little statue of Shane Hollander was now going to be in his living room. He’d just had sex so good that he practically deserved it as a trophy.

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Thank you for all the love on the last chapter - it's so appreciated. I will probably have Chapter 7 up this time tomorrow.

If on browser, underlined Russian can be hovered over for rough translation

Ilya was awoken in the middle of the night by this phone ringing. He threw back his covers and pushed himself out of his bed, padding, irked, to the phone. He glanced at the Caller ID before he picked it up. A +7 number. Svetlana was usually pretty good with her timezones, knowing especially how valuable sleep was when Albina had been really small. He feared that something might be wrong, and he answered without further hesitation.

“Hello?” His voice was still croaky with sleep, but the worry of bad news had him more alert than moments earlier. 

“Kogda ty vernesh'sya domoy?” His voice was still as stern and jarring as Ilya remembered, even as that man who once berated him was slipping further and further away. 

“Papa?”

“U nas zakonchilsya khleb.” Ilya never imagined a lot of things in this lifetime. He never imagined he would give up hockey before he made any real money from it. He never actually imagined he would sleep with Shane Hollander. He never imagined he would be standing in his living room at 3 in the morning listening to his father tell him they needed more bread while his daughter slept just across the hall, in a country 4000 miles away from his home. 

“Papa…” Ilya repeated, unsure what else he could really say or do. Polina had given him little more than a text message when she let him know about his father’s worsening Alzheimer’s. If it wasn’t for Albina, he probably would have relented and moved back. But, without Albina, he probably would be making millions in the MLH and could get his father all the support he needed. No. He was not going to feel bad for choosing Albina. He would choose her every time. And Ilya knew he couldn’t subject his angel to that life - to those people. Unlike Ilya, she would only have a life filled with love, if he could help it. From him, and from their old lady neighbours who gushed about her curls, and from the girls at work who taught her about ‘selfies’. Maybe from Branda, who didn’t think twice about standing up for Albina when the other mothers were nasty, and Shane… Oh, Shane… 

Ilya had to shake away the thought, clenching his teeth and considering how he could deal with the situation at hand delicately. 

“Gde Polina, papa?” The line went silent, as if his father couldn’t understand how Ilya’s question about his step mother aligned with the narrative in his diseased brain. “Ya skoro budu doma. Trenirovka pochti zakonchilas’, i ya ostanovlyus’ i prinesu khleba,” Ilya mumbled, hanging up and putting the phone back on the receiver with too much force. Ilya immediately cringed in preparation.

Albina was instantly restless, a little whine sounded for the room of the light sleeper. Ilya tipped his head back and sighed softly, hoping if he just stayed quiet that she might settle and he could go back to bed… only to think more about his phone call. For a moment he heard only his own breathing, before the sound of scuffling little feet took over. 

“Papa?” Albina appeared in the archway of the hall, bleary eyes with bed hair and only one sock on. Ilya grinned widely - who cared that he was awake at 3 in the morning when it was with the best kid on the planet. 

“Is okay lapochka. Go back to sleep,” Ilya said gently. Albina shuffled over to her father, pressing her face into Ilya’s thighs. He gathered her up into his arms and she quickly settled her little face in the crook on his neck. “You want to sleep in papa’s bed?”

“Professional hockey players sleep in their own beds.” Her voice was raspy, but still tender. Ilya leant his own head down onto hers. 

“No, not always.”

“Mhm.” Ilya didn’t have to look at her to know her eyes were closed. 

“No,” he whispered. “Is lie. Liar told you that.” Albina’s head shot up fast. 

“You told me that, papa!” She accused, light brown eyebrows knitted together with a fury on her face like she’d been deeply wronged. Maybe she had. Because Ilya had said that. Two nights ago when she last wanted to sleep in Ilya’s bed. Normally, he didn’t mind having her, even if it meant waking up to a little foot in his face, or a boney knee in his groin. But his locker room escapade had done nothing to cease his thinking about Shane, and he was so pent up that he needed to be released… in his bed… alone. 

“No, I did not!” Ilya feigned insult, unable to take Albina’s angry face seriously.

“Yeah!”

“Nuh uh,” Ilya’s voice was much more tender than Albina’s. 

“Yeah huh.” He was already carrying her to his bedroom, knowing she would settle the moment she was laying against his chest. 

~

Shane sat on the end of his bed, pressing his feet into his plush carpet and taking deliberate, strong breaths. He felt bad about what had happened on Saturday. Well, no, he had felt really good actually. Better than any muffled pleasure he could possibly provide himself with his parents asleep across the hall. But the aftermath of their secretive little dance had left Shane with zaps of anxiety, of vacancy… of loneliness. And it wasn’t even that he wanted to tell anyone. No, he would take what happened to his grave. But, he just couldn’t bear to be with his thoughts - the ones that told him he should be worried, or the ones of Ilya’s lips, and his hands- and his dick in Shane’s mouth… He couldn’t sit alone with his thoughts for a second longer. 

As Shane made his way gingerly downstairs, he thought about how it felt having hockey friends when he was just a teenager. He had never even really fit in with them in the first place, but he wondered if maybe their presence might be comforting at a time like this. Probably not. After his exit, he was flooded with texts, and calls - even house visits. But after the initial madness, Shane stumbling out a series of lies and excuses, the messages swiftly stopped coming. 

He reached where his parents were sitting in the living room, his mom on her phone and his dad on his laptop and inserted himself into the corner of the couch without saying a word. Yuna just reached out and ran a gentle hand on his lower leg before retracting it, an unspoken acknowledgement of his presence without asking him to announce himself. Normally, Shane would appreciate his mother’s quiet understanding, but the lack of conversation - even if Shane wasn’t a part of it - was making all his thoughts amplified. 

“Could we-” Shane started, waiting until his mom looked up from her phone. “Could we watch the Raiders game? It just started,” Shane asked quietly, unsurprised when his mom grimaced. “Please?” Yuna looked to David, who just shrugged. 

“Let him watch it,” he said a little dismissively, and honestly, Shane was grateful. He understood his mom’s apprehension. The Boston Raiders had been the team to receive the first pick of the draft the year Shane should have been in it. In some ways, he was watching a game he felt he should have been playing - not metaphorically, but literally. He would never say it out loud. He didn’t need to. Still, Yuna relented. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have. He couldn’t stop seeing the errors. A winger drifted too high, leaving too much open space. A defenseman hesitated for half a second too long. Shane’s jaw tightened, his body bracing like he was the one about to get benched. Lazy. Unacceptable. That would have cost me a shift. All his old rules snapped back into place without asking for permission, and it took Shane a moment to remember he wasn’t enforcing them anymore. That there was no whistle waiting for him on the other side of the TV. 

The commentators didn’t help. Shane wished he could watch the game on mute, but that would have drawn the wrong kind of attention from his parents. ‘You’ve got to be mentally tough,’ one of them threw it away with ease, like it was a choice you made in the morning. Shane felt the words scrape at him, like steel blades on the ice. He tried to block out the sound and just focus on the play. He couldn’t stop watching. Not watching would have meant confessing to his mom that she was right. Would have meant accepting he was not mentally tough. Would have meant admitting that he was on the outside now - and even though it had been four years, he was just not ready to practice that kind of honesty yet.

~

Ilya wasn’t sure what to expect of Albina’s private class on Tuesday. Ultimately, he could have put up with Shane fiercely regretting their quick romp and wanting nothing to do with the underside of Ilya’s pants again… maybe. But he couldn’t bear for it to impact Albina, and the way Shane so tenderly dealt with her. If he had been in a less clouded state of mind on that steamy Saturday morning, he might even have avoided it all together for exactly that reason. 

But Ilya quickly realised he had nothing to worry about. Albina skipped into the rink and Shane greeted her with a wide smile and a high five. 

“I wanted to bring you more bread, but papa said no.” Ilya wanted to fold in on himself. Couldn’t his child ever greet someone with a ‘hello’? Shane looked a little startled, like perhaps he had been fearing the same ramifications of their antics as Ilya had. 

“I wasn’t sure if you eat it. Being athlete and all.” Ilya hadn’t meant it to come off as teasing. It was obvious Shane still took great care of his body - he had been lucky enough to witness a flash of it just the other day. But Ilya could see that the sentiment had Shane clamming up a little. “But, we can bring next week?” Ilya offered in a tepid attempt to repair what he’d fumbled. 

“It’s okay,” Shane replied, mostly to Ilya before glancing down at Albina. “I had a piece and it was very tasty. My mom and dad loved it.” Albina returned his smile proudly, looking back at Ilya as if to wordlessly say ‘I told you so’. “I actually have a surprise for you.” Ilya saw the shift in Albina’s face at Shane’s words, her pigtails whipping at her cheeks as she turned back to look at him. “Wait here,” he grinned before disappearing around the corner. 

“Papa, you go sit,” Albina muttered, giving Ilya’s thigh a gentle push. 

“I wait here. I want to see what Shane got you.” Shane returned from around the corner with a small hockey stick. 

“This one belongs to the rink, but I thought you could use it today… and until you get your own.” Albina gasped, practically tripping over her feet as she met Shane just a few steps out the doorway. She instinctively grabbed the stick, holding it how she’d seen players on TV do it. 

“What do you say?” Ilya prompted, trying to parent steadily, but also unable to contain his delight in his daughter’s joy. 

“Thank you, Shane!” Albina squealed, grasping the stick and wrapping her arms around Shane’s legs. 

“That’s okay.” Ilya could tell that Shane wasn’t sure about the hug - unsure what to do besides place a tentative hand on Albina’s head the way he had the last time he hugged her. Luckily, she pulled away quickly and Shane squatted before her. “I thought we could run some hockey drills today, instead of just skating.” Albina’s rosy cheeks pushed upwards as she smiled wide, nodding quickly. “I’ll hold this.” Shane took the stick carefully from her vice grip. Albina hung on his every word. “And you go get your skates and helmet on.”

If Ilya had a hard time being allowed to help Albina with menial tasks on a good day, then this day was hopeless. The surprise from Shane had Albina walking over to Ilya like she was 10-feet tall. Three times she told Ilya ‘I can do it’ before he gave up trying, allowing her to attempt her laces twice before the child relented and he stepped in. 

By the time she was ready, Shane was standing at the gate of the rink to usher her onto the ice.

“Alright, let’s go, Bee.”

“What?” Albina was already pushing herself onto the ice, Shane holding out one hand for the five-year-old as he turned to see what Ilya was questioning. “She is not bee.” Ilya couldn’t help but laugh, trying to find the humour in someone calling his daughter a bug. 

“Uhh- Bee…” Shane looked at him with confusion, darting eyes making clear he was trying to get them on the same page. “Like short for Albina. Bee.” Shane’s head was dashing repetitively between Ilya and Albina, who had made it onto the ice and was pushing herself out to the centre.

“That is not her name,” Ilya said matter-of-factly, causing Shane a moment of pause. 

“So- sorry.” The older man shook his head with a small smile, suggesting he was ridiculous for even considering the nickname, before pushing away from the boards and skating over to Albina. The awkward energy bounced off the ice and flooded the space. Luckily, Albina couldn’t seem to sense it.

Ilya wasn’t sure why it bothered him. It was just a nickname. Like when the old lady neighbours called her ‘cherub’, or when the girls at work called her ‘girlfriend’. That never bothered him. Maybe it was because it was taking her beautiful name and making it American. Or maybe it was just because all of a sudden it felt too real. 

~

Shane was rarely impressed when it came to hockey, so used to everything being so calculated and formulaic that there was always room for improvement, even as one neared perfection. Perhaps that was what drew him to Ilya back when they were teenagers. It was as if, on the outside he was careless, unbothered by such formalities as technique. But Shane could see - he had made it his mission as a kid to soak in as much hockey as possible so how could he not see - that on the inside, Ilya was a fine-tuned machine. Shane longed to have mastered the act of making it look like he wasn’t thinking - wasn’t trying. But he was always trying so hard. 

But today, Shane found himself impressed by Albina. For a kid who until two weeks ago, had never walked a step in skates, she had taken to the stick like it was only logical. She had no puck, Shane opting to focus on teaching her how to hold the stick. But it became clear that the presence of it allowed her to focus less on balance and more on speed, and she was getting fast. But that wasn’t why he was impressed - she was already five, so by all accounts, behind everyone else. Shane had meant it when he told Ilya that she could make it. Not because she was the most talented - she likely never would be, as much as Shane would have liked to believe the contrary about himself. But because she loved it. As she chased Shane, trailing his skate with her stick, she squealed. Every time Shane challenged her to a race and announced ‘go’, she would set off with a giggle. Shane was having fun because she was having fun, and it had been so long since Shane had had fun playing hockey, that he couldn’t help but be impressed. 

~

“Say thank you,” Ilya prodded. Albina stood on the outside of the boards, distracted as Shane’s next class slowly trickled in. Ilya’s hand gently cupped the back of her head. “Albina. Say thank you to Shane.” She gazed up at him, barely able to see over the boards without her skates on. 

“Thank you, Shane.” It was barely above a whisper. She had worked herself so hard, not even stopping for a sip of water, until Ilya gave her a stern ‘come here’. Ilya knew she would be asleep in his arms before they had even made it to the end of the street. 

“See you Saturday,” Shane whispered, barely audible as his older students began skating messy laps, chasing one another. Albina replied with just a nod, yawning wide with her chin resting against the board. 

“Okay, solnyshko. Poydem.” Albina turned and reached her arms up to Ilya to be picked up. He complied immediately, cherishing every moment when his daughter wanted him for something. Ilya gave Shane a quick nod of parting, lifting Albina’s backpack higher up on his shoulder and turning towards the door. 

~

Thursdays were one of Shane's days off and it usually meant that he had to actively fill it with things to avoid thinking. But today, he sat at the breakfast bar with his mom, eating oatmeal and sipping the coffee she had made him. Even a world away from the MLH, he had struggled not to consider everything he did as not just good or bad, but perfect. But in the last two days, he’d been thinking a lot about his rules. He thought about Albina too: her love for hockey and her desire to be good at it. Shane wanted to help her be good - be great. But even Shane, in all his algorithms and methods, knew that no five-year-old needed a rubric. The idea of trying to turn Albina into the blueprint that he had made himself made Shane feel loathsome. The thought of telling the giggly little girl who made him bread that ‘small plates made food behave’ was repulsive. The concept of teaching her after she skipped into the rink that she had to tape her stick the same way every time or the ice would feel wrong made him choke with disgust.

The thought of passing on his rules to her made his stomach turn. But Shane needed his rules, so he made new ones. Breakfast was important for giving you energy to skate. Skating laps was to help make you stronger, not punishment. Doing everything the right way wasn’t always important - that one still felt wrong in his mouth, but he vowed to work on it. For Albina.

~

There was a Centaurs home game being played at almost the exact same time as Shane’s intro to skating class, so numbers were light. Shane didn’t mind; some of the more insufferable parents and kids were those missing, and it meant that he was doing more teaching than shepherding. It also meant that Ilya sat safely in the viewing area, without an impending argument in sight. When the time finally ticked down, Shane blew his whistle, the kids freezing and looking to their coach. 

“Great work today, everybody. Skating to the wall and then stepping carefully out of the rink,” Shane instructed, drifting to the gate and the kids following suit. Shane watched as all the kids walked over to their parents; Ilya sat waiting in the viewing area. Albina didn’t seem bothered; she was occupied talking at one of the boys. Shane made his way slowly over to the otherwise empty benches. 

“All good?” Shane muttered, eyes on the floor as opposed to anywhere on Ilya. 

“Mm.” Ilya hummed a response, a soft smile on his strong face. 

“Okay.” Shane looked over his shoulder, noticing the occupied and tended to kids and made the few steps over to sit beside Ilya. He noticed the way the father’s expression steeled ever-so-slightly, shifting his foot to make contact with Shane’s. 

“Albina is going on playdate,” Ilya said stoically. “I am dropping her off 5. I pick her up 7:30.” His words were unimpassioned, like he was reading the ingredients on his oatmeal sachet. “Will be home by 5:15.”

“Okay?” Shane tried to make it seem like a question. Like he was unsure why Ilya would be giving him this information. But he knew. Without another word, Ilya stood, floating upright and moving effortlessly over to join hands with Albina, taking her out of the rink without even glancing in Shane’s direction. He tipped his head back against the wall, not sure he would be able to do his skate that morning if his heart didn’t stop racing. Barely five minutes had passed when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket; he fished it out to read it the text messages on his screen. 

429 Somerset Street

Apartment 1221

Ring buzzer

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading. I’m torn between the longstanding yearning and also this kind of being AU. Thoughts? Keep them circling around each other true to canon or let them fall a little sooner?

Come say hi on tumblr or twitter (there's not a lot there lol)

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay with this chapter. I wanted to work on it a little bit longer.
This chapter is mostly explicit

Shane stood in front of the mirror, eyes raking over his outfit for the tenth time in the last two minutes. He was putting too much mental energy into what he should have worn. It wasn’t a date. Ilya had made no promise of wining and dining or passionate courting. Technically, Ilya had made no promise of anything at all; hadn’t said exactly what the night would entail, but Shane was hopeful. 

Still, the first sexual experience he’d had, he was wearing a button-down his mom had picked out for him for their dinner in LA - and Shane certainly wasn’t about to go and ask his mom for advice. In order to miss family dinner that night, he had lied and told his mom he was going out to a movie with friends from work. She didn’t question it - looked excited even - but Shane didn’t want to push it and risk her asking questions.  

His second sexual experience, he was in hockey gear. Despite being about the only clothes Shane truly felt comfortable in, it didn’t seem fitting to knock on Ilya’s door wearing his helmet.

And that was it. That was all he had to go off of. 

So he stood. Noting the wrinkles in his button-down and thread hanging off his trousers. He eventually settled on a plain shirt and a thread-free pair of pants, trying to silence his incessant rationalising in order to leave the house. He secretly hoped he wouldn’t be in his outfit for long enough to worry, but the thought made him shameful.

~

“Did you wanna come in for a drink?” Branda stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame as her younger son wound himself around her legs. Albina and Lexy’s voice echoed somewhere deeper in the house, already gone to play. 

“Is okay,” Ilya grinned politely, taking a step backwards down the stairs. 

“Oh, I know, I know - busy life!” She said immediately, waving away the idea, still not moving. “Still, it’s nice to sit for five minutes, you know?” She leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So, what are you getting up to tonight?” 

“Probably… watch the game,” Ilya smiled falsely up at her. He took another step backwards. Branda followed him with a step of her own, eyebrows lifting excitedly. 

“Which game?” The question landed heavier than it should have. Ilya liked Branda - he knew she meant well - but his mind was already elsewhere, conjuring up nightmares of Shane checking the time and deciding to leave because Ilya wasn’t where he said he’d be.

“Uhh- football?” He tried to hide the uncertainty in his voice. “I have pizza coming.” 

“Oh!” Branda’s face lit up. “From where? We’re trying to find a good place. Do you do thin crust or thick? Aaron insists thin is more authentic, but I think that’s just something he read once.”

“Uh- thin?” Ilya said, feeling so much smaller than the woman before him. He backed down another step as she came out onto the porch, completely unaware she was herding him towards escape. 

“Are you watching alone, or-” Branda began, then paused, smiling knowingly. “Friends?”

“Me… Just me,” he replied quickly. 

“Well! Nothing wrong with that. Self-care!” She declared, smiling the kind of smile that forgave small lies and didn’t need explanations. “You go, honey.” She waved him off, already turning back toward the chaos inside. 

Ilya didn’t waste the permission. He crossed the driveway quickly, climbed into the car and shut the door a little harder than necessary. His hands rested on the wheel, tapping an apprehensive rhythm. It wasn’t being alone with Shane that unsettled him, nor was it the uncertainty of the night’s events - Ilya was willing to tempt and entice if he had to. No, there was a carefulness creeping in where there previously had been none. The quiet understanding that it wasn’t nerves that were making his chest feel funny, but the sense that this might matter to Ilya more than he would wish it to.

~

Shane wished there was a book about things like this. About all the things that seemed unspoken, but which he couldn’t seem to make heads or tails of. Like when were you actually supposed to shake someone’s hand - when you met them, when you left or both? Or why did people ask questions they didn’t actually want the answer to? And when your former rival and the father of your hockey student tells you to ring his buzzer at 5:15, should it be on time, or is there some unwritten rule on the appropriate time to wait.

Shane opted for 5:17, adjusting his t-shirt and steeling himself to walk across the road and hit the buzzer. 

The buzzer rang like electricity in his ears. The silence between each ring ripped right down his body like a spark. 

He shouldn’t be doing this. But fuck, he wanted to. 

“Hello?” His voice was thick, and crackled under the static of the speaker. 

“Rozanov-”

“Sorry, he is not here.” The line went dead, leaving Shane in a silence that shifted his being. Luckily, before Shane had the chance to panic, he heard the front door unlock, pushing on it with lingering panic. 

“Asshole,” Shane whispered. His words echoed through the empty brick landing and sent a shiver down the back of his neck. 

When Shane made it to Ilya’s floor, the man was standing in the doorway waiting. 

“What are you doing?” Shane asked, alarmed, like he hadn’t considered the possibility that Ilya didn’t lead the same secretive, anxious life that he did. 

“Ehh-” Ilya shrugged, a soft smile on his face that Shane couldn’t recall having seen before. “Ms Clemmons is probably watching through peephole. Hi Ms Clemmons.” Ilya waved at the door across the hall. “Thank you for scones!” Shane let out a small gasp, pushing Ilya through the slightly ajar door. 

“Woah, Hollander-” Ilya’s hands snaked down to hold Shane’s wrists. ‘Don’t worry there is some left. I give you one.” Shane gave him a gentle shove, mostly to release his arms from Ilya’s grasp. Ilya just smirked at the other man. 

“Shut up, Rozanov. I don’t want a scone.” Shane’s face was folded in concern, turning to shut the door behind them. “What if someone saw us?” His voice was sharper than usual as he took a step closer to Ilya. 

“Who cares?” Ilya tried to placate him with a gentle smile. 

“I care! Shane pushed the words out like they were heavier than they should have been. “I care,” he repeated, softer now. “Hockey…” It came out like it was the only natural. “It isn’t kind… like that. I just can’t…” He spoke like he had a career to lose, and Ilya couldn’t help the flicker of sadness that crossed his face. 

~ 

Ilya understood. Remembered how hard that transition had been. No longer living by the schedule carved into his muscle, leaving a restlessness humming beneath his skin. Living a life not thinking about letting anyone down for his shortcomings… or secrets. The alien feeling of waking up without soreness; Ilya feared the restfulness would feel undeserved without skating lines, but the sleepless nights with Albina made up for that. And maybe that was just it. Ilya had Albina to aid his transition from future Cup winner to doting father. She had filled those empty spaces without even knowing they were there. Once upon a time, hockey had given shape to Ilya’s everything, even if it wasn’t by his own choice. And he saw in the way Shane’s mouth pressed it a line that was barely holding, and his eyes shone without spilling, that Shane hadn’t moved on. Not even a little bit. How could he? He had nothing to move on to. Ilya wanted so badly to tell Shane that he was so much more than a hockey player; that he was kind, and so gentle - even if it was a little boring. He was great with kids, especially his kid, and if that wasn’t the most perfect thing he could have been, then Ilya wouldn’t have known what. But even if he’d opened his mouth, the words wouldn’t have allowed themselves to be spoken. 

~

“I told you we weren’t doing this again.” It sounded untrue the moment he spoke it into existence. A small smile flicked over Ilya’s face, the opportunity to tease breaking though the authenticity of his thoughts. 

“And you are here…”

“Fuck you.” Shane wore a smile. 

“No, fuck you. Come here.” They were walking towards each other, without the need for the command, arms reaching out to immediately tangle themselves in each other's clothes and hair. 

Ilya wasted no time pulling Shane’s shirt off, connecting their lips the moment the fabric was discarded on the floor. Shane felt Ilya’s hands on his bare torso, tugging him out of the entryway and further into the apartment. Every step made it feel more real, and Shane wanted it so bad he was vibrating with need. Shane felt Ilya’s hands on his belt buckle, and Shane was desperate to equal the score. He pulled Ilya’s shirt off with fervour, reconnecting their lips with a hunger that had Ilya humming. Ilya continued pulling him into the apartment, ripping open Shane’s pants and wasting no time pressing himself into him. Shane could feel himself getting hard against the stiff front of his trousers, and it was all so overwhelming he had to remind his legs to hold him upright. Just as Ilya pulled back to allow his hand to graze the waistband of Shane’s briefs, the cluttering sound beneath them had them startling apart. 

Shane looked down at where the interference had come from. He looked down at his open fly, erection yearning to be set free. Just past that was a small pink car, overspilling with Barbies that stuck out at all angles. Shane’s hands instinctively shifted to his pants, attempting to button them back up before Ilya stopped him. 

“Is okay.” It was an affirmation but also a query, Ilya guiding Shane gently around the apparent carpark they had walked through. The interruption had allowed Shane a second to breathe. He thought the absence of hands on him and tongue dancing with his own would give him ample opportunity to panic, but instead he looked around Ilya’s apartment with gentle curiosity. 

There were photos of Ilya and Albina on every surface: widely beaming gap-tooth grins, wild curls. His eyes glanced over the statue that Albina had painted of him and a smile slipped past him, unguarded. Beside that was a small picture frame with an action shot of Ilya in his Team Russia uniform and it momentarily floored Shane to be looking at something that felt buried under everything that came after. Still, Shane couldn’t believe how much it felt like a home. When they were 17, Shane had tried to dig up any information on Ilya he could - in his defence, so had his mom. And everything he ever found suggested a cold, cocky and cutthroat prodigy. He couldn’t have imagined that version of Ilya would have kids toys on the floor, a pink throw rug on his sofa or fairy stickers on the fridge. But maybe Shane’s version of Ilya had been all wrong. 

“Like it?” Ilya asked; his hovering hands had finally settled by his side, no longer roaming Shane’s body. He immediately missed it. “I know is not… penthouse. But is fine for us…” Shane’s gaze shifted. He knew how fortunate he was, still tucked safely within his parent’s sprawling, expensive house - he would never judge Ilya for where he lived. The idea that Ilya might think he did made his chest tighten, panic blooming before he could stop it. 

“It’s great,” Shane said with false confidence. “Probably pay, what? 1200?” Shane tried to give him a level smile as Ilya stepped ever-so-slightly closer to him. 

“10-50, Mr Real Estate,” he whispered, another step closer. “I bargain. I am very convincing.” Ilya moved behind Shane, hands snaking up his arms. Instinctively, Shane leaned back into him, allowing his head to fall onto his shoulder. “I think,” Ilya whispered, placing a tentative kiss on Shane’s neck. Shane immediately craned his neck to allow Ilya in. “You will like.” Ilya kissed him again, hands moving back down to Shane’s fly, pushing them swiftly over his taut ass, and hooking his fingers teasingly in the sides of Shane’s boxers. “Bedroom.” His lips reached Shane’s shoulder, giving it delicate attention as he taunted him with stilled hands. “Much better.” Releasing Shane’s boxers from his grasp, Ilya gripped his hips and spun him around, a deep blush on Shane’s face as his hard-on brushed up against Ilya’s clothed crotch. “Yes?” Shane nodded and Ilya gestured with a head flick to the first door past the living room. Shane carefully stepped the rest of the way out his trousers, Ilya’s hand running over his lower back and down to his ass. Ilya gave him a gentle push, Shane standing to move the rest of the way to the bedroom. 

The short walk to Ilya’s bedroom has made the room go silent. Shane could hear his ragged breathing, though he’d barely moved since he had come into the apartment. Ilya stepped through the threshold of the room not long after him, shutting the door. Shane was grateful. He was holding so much guilt about sleeping with Ilya. Much of it, of course, because the perceived implications of him liking men in any capacity were world-shattering, but also because he was Albina’s hockey coach. Of course, she was young; she wouldn’t understand the weight of the situation, but Shane had watched enough affairs take place between his teammates' mothers and their coaches to know that it was not good for progress. The closed door allowed Shane to imagine they were a world away from Ilya and his daughter’s home. He could imagine they were teenagers again, meeting for the first, second, third time, with a lifetime of possibilities ahead of them. Maybe there was more than one reason that Shane wanted that door closed. 

Shane found himself pressed against the wall before he could finish forming his thoughts, the remnants of them floating quickly away. Ilya wasted no time, one hand holding Shane’s chest and the other already reaching inside his boxers to squeeze his half-hard cock. Shane gasped, throwing his head back with a sharp bang against the door. He wanted to say something, anything to empty his brain running wild with thoughts. But even he knew words would have been clumsy, too grounding for the fragile electricity that was running between them with every point of contact. Ilya’s thumb ran gentle circles around Shane’s nipple, pumping him until he was ready. Ilya dropped to his knees without hesitation, bringing Shane’s boxers down with him. Shane was instantly caught between his aching arousal and the shame at being completely naked when Ilya still had most of his modesty. His fingers flexed at his side, uncertain where to land. His concerns were washed away as Ilya wrapped his plump lips around Shane. He took him in stages. Lips first, then the slow glide of tongue; finally, the deeper heat of his throat. Each movement was measured and deliberate. Shane’s hands finally found Ilya’s hair, gripping precariously in his curls. Ilya hummed, low and soft and Shane’s whole body answered, his back arching away from the cold wood of the door. Ilya pulled off of him with no warning, leaving Shane to shiver in want. Ilya stood, moving backwards leisurely while unbuttoning his own pants. He pulled them off as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Come,” Ilya whispered. It was so gentle that Shane would have missed it if he hadn’t been hanging on Ilya’s every moment. He suddenly didn’t mind the vulnerability of Ilya watching him, the other man exposing himself as he canted his hips up to remove his underwear. He kind of liked it. Being seen, that was. It was like he hadn’t really been seen in years. 

As Shane approached, Ilya laid back, his dick springing heavy and slick at the tip. Shane fought between staring at it and getting a look at Ilya’s face, flushed red and with lidded eyes. Shane stopped, hovering over Ilya’s crotch, his own eyes heavy with the overwhelm that coursed through his body. Ilya’s long, calloused hands connected with Shane’s jaw, pulling him up and back into a kiss, their erections brushing together in a way that pushed a sob out of Shane. As their tongues met, Ilya’s hands travel.ed down Shane’s sides and over his cheeks, one finding place between them. Shane thought he would have tensed; might have frozen or panicked and left, but it felt so right. It felt like this was exactly where he was meant to be; orderly after years of being so disjointed.

“You want to?” Ilya asked into Shane’s mouth, the coach just nodding desperately. Ilya pulled back, head shifting to make eye contact with Shane. “Do you want to?” He clarified, and Shane couldn’t help but divert his eyes, suddenly back to being too naked to be looked at. 

“I want to,” he muttered. “I haven’t-” Shane inhaled quick and sharp as Ilya ghosted a finger over his hole. 

“We go slow,” Ilya’s smirk was menacing but kind, his hand moving back to run a gentle, circling finger over Shane. 

“I-” Shane spoke before he could stop himself, Ilya stopping too. “I have a thing,” Shane whispered, his face flushed deep red. 

“A thing?” Ilya queried him, pulling his hand back to rest on Shane’s cheek. 

“I have a dildo,” Shane’s eyes darted everywhere but on Ilya, sweat from his lust and his embarrassment making him damp where his and Ilya’s chests met. 

“What?” Ilya interrogated, giving Shane a squeeze. 

“A dildo.” Ilya’s hand slipped back in between Shane’s cheeks without delay and for a moment, Shane’s sweat was also that of panic. “I don’t use it much… I live with my parents.” He instantly cringed; bringing his parents into the equation while Ilya was rubbing over his hole was arguably a boner killer. 

“But you use it?” Ilya seemed unbothered, just curious.

“Sometimes,” Shane whispered. Ilya lifted his shoulders up, connecting Shane’s lips for only a moment before laying back, hand moving to the mattress. He’d ruined it. Of course, playboy, Ilya Rozanov was not interested in fucking a virgin who had absolutely nothing going for them.

Ilya flicked his head back, gesturing to the head of the bed. 

“Go.” Shane rolled off of Ilya immediately, scrambling as best he could with shaky legs and nerves in his belly. He laid at the head of the bed, propped up on one elbow as he watched Ilya on the other side of the room. 

Ilya turned, holding a small, clear bottle, cap already cracked. He had slipped a condom on and Shane felt his dick twitch with how real this had suddenly become. Ilya knelt on the end of the bed, giving Shane a smile almost too authentic for the situation they’d found themselves in. Ilya poured a generous amount of lube onto his hand, warming it between his fingers as he crawled to the top of the bed. Shane didn’t move. Just watched, chest rising fast as Ilya closed the distance and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the sharp jut of his hipbone. 

Then lower. 

Ilya’s tongue traced the underside of Shane’s cock once, then twice - just teasing, before he nudged Shane’s thighs wider, guiding his down further onto the mattress with a strong tug. Shane whined, legs falling open instinctively. Ilya settled between them, one hand braced beside Shane’s torso, the other trailing between Shane’s thighs to resume his previous circling. 

“Okay?” Ilya asked quietly, eyeing Shane intently like he didn’t want to miss even a flicker of concern in Shane’s face. Shane nodded assuredly, biting his bottom lip to hold back in anticipatory moan. 

The first press of his finger was slow. Shane’s breath hitched hard, his hands flying to Ilya’s shoulder with fingers digging in. 

“Breathe,” Ilya murmured, dropping his head to connect his lips to Shane’s throat. “Out slow.” Shane tried. Ilya’s finger slid deeper - steady and unrelenting and Shane’s hips jerked down onto them before he could stop them. A low, startled sound tore out of him. Ilya paused, kissing along Shane’s jaw until the tension in his thighs eased a fraction and Shane began moving slightly. “More?” Ilya asked. Shane nodded, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. 

A second finger joined the first. The stretch burned, sharp, unfamiliar. Almost overwhelming, but in a way that made all the other noise in Shane’s brain and body quiet. His back arched off the bed, a whine catching in his throat. Ilya didn’t rush. He crooked his fingers, searching, and found the spot that made Shane’s whole body lock and his eyes snap wide. 

“Fuck-” Shane gasped, hips rolling down on Ilya’s hand without thought. “There- there…” Ilya’s smile was dark, satisfied. He worked the spot relentlessly, while his other hand stroked Shane’s cock in slow, matching pulls. Sweat beaded Shane’s hairline and his thighs trembled. “Please, Rozanov-” Every word came out with a broken breath. 

“Almost,” Ilya whispered, his actions uncompromising but his words soft. He slipped in a third finger, Shane relaxing into the pleasure enough not to garner a sharp reaction. 

“Please-” Shane repeated, eyes screwed shut and dick aching in Ilya’s light grip. 

“Please, what?” Ilya leant down to run his tongue over Shane’s nipple and a low, broken groan tore out of him - raw, almost angry.

“Please, Rozanov. Just fuck me.” When Ilya finally withdrew his fingers, Shane made a small, involuntary sound of loss. 

Ilya coated himself generously, Shane, propped on his elbows, watched through his lashes. Thick and glistening, Ilya shuffled to line himself up, his blunt head nudging against Shane’s entrance. He didn’t push, just held there; letting Shane feel the pressure, the heat - the promise. 

“Look at me,” Ilya practically growled. Shane locked onto Ilya’s face. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown. Ilya pressed forward - slow but unyielding - giving Shane no choice but to open. The stretch was brutal at first, a deep ache that bordered on too much. Shane’s hand claws at Ilya’s arm and a choked sob punched out of him. Ilya froze, buried only halfway. 

“Too much?” Shane shook his head frantically.

"Don't- please.” He couldn’t form the thoughts quite right in the haze of his pleasure, but he knew Ilya understood. Understood Shane wanted this - wanted him so bad. 

Ilya sank the rest of the way in one long, controlled glide. When their hips met, Shane’s back bowed up incessantly, mouth falling open in a silent cry. Ilya stayed still, letting him adjust. Letting him feel every thick inch splitting him open. Shane moved himself. A small, inexperienced but experimental roll of his hips, the friction lighting him up from the inside. Ilya groaned, low and wrecked, and started to thrust - just slowly at first. Each drag out and push back in was deliberate, letting Shane feel the fullness. Allowing his body to learn to take. Shane wanted to learn so well - so they could do this again and again.

The rhythm built, faster and rougher. The headboard knocked the wall with each of Ilya’s thrusts and the sound of skin slapping skin echoed. Shane prayed that Ms Clemmons was at bingo or something. Ilya was making noises that seemed to open Shane up more - they were sharp and vulnerable. Shane’s cock leaked steadily against his stomach, untouched and smearing wet streaks every time Ilya bottomed out into him. 

“Touch yourself,” Ilya grunted out breathlessly, the thick desire in his voice. Shane’s hand flew to his cock, stroking fast and sloppy. His other hand gripped Ilya’s neck pulling him down under their foreheads touched. 

“Harder,” Shane panted.

Ilya obliged. 

His pace turned brutal, sending deep and punishing strokes into Shane that drove the air from his lungs. Shane’s moans turned into sharp, desperate cries and his body shook. Sweat slicked every inch of them. 

When Shane came it was sudden, his back arching off the mattress and his dick pulsing hot across his stomach and chest. A broken sob ripped out of him, as his hole clenched instinctively around Ilya. Ilya fucked him through it, chasing his own edge until the tight, fluttering grip dragged him over. He buried himself in Shane, his face finding home in the crook of his neck also, and came with a low, guttural groan. 

They stayed locked together for long seconds, panting into each other’s mouths as they kissed messily through their orgasms. Ilya’s arms trembled where they caged Shane’s head and Shane’s legs had wrapped themselves around Ilya. 

Eventually, Ilya eased out, slow and careful, and Shane gasped at the emptiness. Ilya collapsed beside him, pulling Shane against his chest without asking. Shane went willingly, face tucked against Ilya’s throat, still shaking. It had started to rain outside, the sound gentle and steady against Ilya’s window. Neither of them spoke as their breathing slowed and their chests steadied. Shane unwrapped himself from Ilya only slightly - just enough to look at him. Outside, a car passed and it was too loud, like the world was trying to break back in. Shane watched as Ilya’s chest rose slowly, calmness returning. Shane smiled without thinking - the kind of smile he got when his body felt good before his mind could interfere. Sometimes he smiled like that about hockey too. Ilya ran gentle circles over Shane’s upper arm and Shane could have melted into the mattress and stayed there forever. But he knew it had to end eventually. 

“Thanks for that,” he whispered, throat hoarse. Why did he say that? Ilya just gave him a gentle smile. 

“Is nice not worrying about hockey, yes?” Ilya spoke into the air. Shane exhaled through his nose, trying to stop himself from tensing under Ilya’s touch. 

“It’s weird,” Shane responded bluntly. Ilya nodded, his fingers tracing down to Shane’s wrist and then stopping. 

“Weird good, maybe.” Ilya paused, allowing his fingers to run over Shane’s digits. “Without hockey… you are anything.” Shane rolled so he was face to face with Ilya, the sheets crinkled around them like a map of their evening. 

“What’s that mean?”

“No more looking over shoulder. More… this-” Ilya gestured to the space between them. That did it. Shane sat up, the sheet sliding away as he headed straight for his discarded underwear. 

“You’ve got it wrong.” Shane stepped into his underwear, movements frazzled. 

“Maybe,” Ilya whispered, sitting up, but just watching him. “I know I am not so afraid.” Ilya’s words hit too heavy for Shane. He froze, eyes darting aimlessly over the dark plush carpet. 

“This was a mistake. I’m not- It’s not-” The words spat out of him without his permission. “I wouldn’t quit hockey for-” Shane brought his hands roughly through his hair. The walls felt closer than they should. “You don’t know-” Shane’s breathing quickened. As he lowered himself to a crouch, Ilya sprung up and slipped into his own boxers. “I’m just-”

“Hollander, is okay.” Shane had no more words, head buried in between his tucked elbows. Ilya met him on the floor, dropping to his knees without thought. “You’re good here,” Ilya muttered, a hand coming up to push back Shane’s sweaty locks. Shane melted into his hand and Ilya took it as an invitation to envelop him. Ilya held him tightly, back to running his fingertips over Shane’s arms. “Shane?” Ilya whispered, lips against his hair. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” Shane mumbled, pulling back. “I need to go.” He wasn’t angry, just dejected. Shane lifted himself out of Ilya’s grasp and into a standing position. Ilya looked up at him from the floor, trying to ease the burn in his chest. Shane turned, reaching for the handle. 

“Pchelka,” Ilya pushed it out without conscious thought. Shane’s hand stilled at the door, turning back and glancing down at Ilya. 

“What’s that mean?” His words were empty, like he was exhausted.

“Means… Little Bee,” Ilya spoke slowly, enunciating every word to avoid Shane missing a beat. 

“Pchelka,” Shane mutters under his breath. 

“You can call her that… if you want.” Shane couldn’t help the most imperceptible of nods as he looked at Ilya - he looked almost… vulnerable

“I have to go.”

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Made home safe?

Yes

Ilya slid off the bed, leaving behind the hours of bliss he wished he could cocoon himself back into, forgetting the moments that came after. He stopped and stared at the door, trying to think his way out of the situation - trying to arrange it into something that didn’t hurt anyone. 

He had to go pick up Albina; he couldn’t sit with this any longer. 

Ilya got up and moved through the apartment, stepping into discarded clothes and collecting his keys. Outside, the air hit him sharply, but he welcomed it. Even so removed from his old life, he found calm in discomfort. But, the drive to Branda’s only left Ilya’s stomach tight and unsettled. When he pulled up outside her house, he reached for his phone again. 

Nothing. But then again, Ilya didn’t know what he should have expected. He typed out a message with both little thought, and too much of it.

Hope rest of your night is okay

He watched the message send but quickly put his phone away. Waiting for a response would only keep him suspended in this, and he couldn’t do that now. This had to go back in its box. He had to switch back to being a parent - that was his priority - always. He got out of the car and walked up the path, steeling his face into something neutral before he knocked. Branda opened with her usual brightness. 

“There he is. Perfect timing!” 

“Hope she was good,” Ilya whispered with as strong of a smile as he could manage. 

“Oh, absolutely,” Branda said, stepping aside. “Helpful, charming… just like her dad.” She cut herself off - Ilya didn’t even realise that was possible. “Or should I say papa. Albina taught us some Russian.” Ilya pulled his lips into his teeth, hoping Albina hadn’t just taught them the swear words, but gave Branda a cordial nod, nonetheless. Branda paused her enthusiastic monologuing, studying Ilya for half a second longer than necessary. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Just long day.” Branda hummed, not entirely convinced, but she let it go. “Albina! Your papa is here.” Albina came barrelling down the hallway, backpack thumping against her with every step. 

“Papa!” Ilya crouched automatically, catching her as she wrapped her arms around his neck and planted an over-dramatic kiss on his cheekbone. For a moment, that was enough. 

“Hi, lapochka.” Ilya stood, tightly holding her on his hip. 

“You’re late.” Her words were blunt and without jest. 

“Am not.” Ilya looked at her with genuine offense, Branda just chuckling as she waved them to the car and shut the door. 

“You are,” she said, chin resting on his shoulder. “By three minutes.” Ilya smiled despite himself, opening the door and sliding Albina into her booster seat. 

“I’m sorry, angel,” Ilya whispered, his tone matching the quiet hum of the street. 

“I told Branda you’d come.” Her eyes were heavy, her bedtime quickly approaching. 

“Always.” Ilya buckled Albina in, her little hand finding his larger one once he was done. Ilya was tired too, but if his short years of parenting had taught him anything, he couldn’t pass up moments like this, for they never lasted long. “Always,” he repeated. Albina was still too young to understand the importance of that promise. Obviously she knew about her mom and dad - Ilya had vowed to never lie to her the way his father had lied to him. But it was still lost on her Ilya’s promise to never ever leave. Not when holding her hand in the back seat of the car. Not when the sleepless nights became too much. Not even when inevitably the teenage fights would take over and he’d have to steel himself when she yelled ‘you’re not even my real dad’. Always. 

“I taught them Russian.” Albina’s words were punctuated by the thickness of her sleepy voice. 

“Yeah?” Ilya queried gently, unhooking his hand from hers to begin climbing out the car. 

“Just the naughty words.” Ilya chuckled as he shut her door, climbing through his own and sitting behind the wheel. Always. 

~

Shane couldn’t seem to find the words for the way that Saturday night had floored him. Factory reset his very being to where he felt fresh… but empty. He thought about Ilya more than he would have liked to admit. He felt lonelier than ever in his thoughts of all the details he didn’t want to recall. The scar on Ilya’s lower arm that he could only imagine came from a wayward skate. The crease between his eyebrows when Albina says something unorthodox - a common occurrence. The gentle smile on his face as he talked Shane through… well, that. But Shane knew that getting caught up in the thinking was dangerous. That kind of thinking is what turned into wanting. And Shane couldn’t want. 

He tried to tell himself it was just admiration - respect. The kind of wanting that made sense in the locker room, which still fit cleanly into a life Shane had already designed. Still, his thoughts circled back, uninvited, playing on repeat all their interactions in the few short weeks since their lives had reconnected. He felt exposed by it, by how easily his body seemed to give into something his brain refused to allow him to name. 

It might have been easier if it had been sudden, like ripping off a bandaid - painful, but decisive. But Shane was left with the knowledge that it wasn’t sudden at all. This wasn’t something he’d come to understand in the few disorientating hours since he and Ilya had slept together. It hadn’t begun there - that was just where it had stopped being something Shane could deny.

Shane had known in some quiet and dangerous way, since the first time he and Ilya stood face-to-face on the ice at 17 - before he even had the words for it - that there was something immediately destabilised within him. Perhaps it was the way that Ilya had looked at him - assessing and competing, sure - but also seeing. A recognition without introduction that had moved Shane out of alignment in a way that he had never been able to get back. Shane had spent years renaming that feeling, boxing it up into a rivalry that meant nothing. When they both left hockey, Shane was sure the feeling would die - the spark would fizzle out. He thought he had escaped it, and now he had to sit in the knowledge that none of that had ever left him. 

This changed everything. 

But it was nothing new. This was another thing that Shane would bury. Even when he’d already dug so deep, hollowed himself out until he was thin and weak. He couldn’t keep running from these things either. The list of things he was outrunning was long and growing. And he was so tired. 

Just checking in 🙂

And yet, he couldn’t stop. Ilya had sent him messages everyday since Saturday. All inconspicuous. Kind, even. Shane had answered none of them. 

He would keep running. Keep digging. 

~

Ilya hated the look of those who sent so many text messages without a response - he thought it was needy. But every time he saw the word delivered at the end of his and Shane’s thread, unease coated his insides. He told himself not to read into it, but he had well and truly failed, sat on the windowsill chain smoking in secret since Albina had gone to bed. 

Ilya really couldn’t stand the thought that Albina’s lesson tomorrow might be awkward. Or worse - a non-event. As if whatever had sparked between him and Shane had simply evaporated without explanation. He hadn’t stopped thinking about Shane - about their night together. He just couldn’t. He wanted to soak in every second of the evening before it turned sour. Before he ruined it. After a while, sat with the cold air hitting his barely clothed torso, he made one last attempt, just to prove that Shane hadn’t changed his number and disappeared to get away from him. 

Good for lesson tomorrow? 

The reply came back only a minute later. 

Yes

And honestly, that was the worst thing that could have happened. 

But the lesson itself came and went without fanfare. Shane spoke to Albina as if nothing at all had happened. He was patient, warm and entirely present, even when she rambled and wandered when he had wanted her to complete drills. But to Ilya, Shane was distant and polite, like he was just another parent hovering at the boards. Ilya ached with the effort of pretending it didn’t bother him, trying to piece together and replay the small moments that clearly mattered more than he’d realised. 

~

Shane didn’t decide all at once to choose distance. Instead, it was a series of small corrections that he told himself were for the sake of keeping balance over the careful ecosystem of his life. He kept his messages to Ilya professional, only answering when he asked about lessons, no matter how badly he wanted to let the bravery take hold and reply ‘come over’. He told himself it was about boundaries. About not confusing Albina, or about giving Ilya space that he didn’t actually ask for. Shane told himself a lot of things. 

Weeks passed like that. 

Ilya kept coming to lessons anyway. Albina barrelled onto the ice each time with the same reckless joy, helmet crooked and laces not tight enough because she’d been learning to do them herself. Shane greeted her the same as he always had - crouching to her level, voice warm, tying them for her because she would accept his help where her father’s was becoming beneath her. He remembered which of the borrowed sticks she thought felt weird and which colour cones were her favourite to skate around. He celebrated her tiny victories like they mattered, because they did. 

“Did you see my stop?” It was something to that effect every week. 

“I saw,” Shane always said. “You’re getting strong.” Replaced with whatever word was most fitting. She believed him without hesitation every time. 

From the boards, Ilya watched. He smiled when Albina laughed. He clapped when she fell and got back up again. He caught how careful Shane was not to look at him, even though Shane couldn’t tell. Their conversations stayed clipped and logistical. Next week’s time change work? She did great today? Might be time for a new helmet. 

There was no lingering or warmth anywhere in the chilly rink. It cut Shane up inside but he pushed it away. 

~

It hurt Ilya more than any smack or blow from his brother or father had. At first, he tried to tell himself it was nothing. That Shane was in a mood or stressed, so he gave him room. But the space only stretched to a painful echo. There were moments, Ilya noticed, when it seemed Shane forgot himself. He caught his eye from across the rink and something in him flared - and he knew it had flared within Shane too. 

Ilya didn’t plan to do it. That was the lie he told himself at least. In truth, the confrontation had been circling him for weeks, growing each time he left the rink with Albina’s hand knotted in his and Shane somewhere else entirely.

Shane was easy enough to find; it was Saturday, so Ilya knew he would be donning his skates, ready to torture himself with conditioning. A few times in the past few weeks, he and Albina had taken the long way home by way of the rink to peek in at Shane’s training. It had been for Albina’s own training, of course. Ilya had organised for Branda to take the girls to get ice cream but still, he worked with haste. Ilya pushed through the door to the backroom, the memories of that first time rushing back without warning. 

“Rozanov…” Shane looked a little unprepared, standing quickly with his skates still untied. “Albina did great today.” There it was - the professionalism. It was slowly poisoning Ilya from the inside out. 

“I know.” Of course he knew. His daughter was perfection, even when she wasn’t. “I want to talk.” Shane wore his fear on his face, so strongly that Ilya almost felt bad for the ambush. But he knew, if he didn’t do this now, with heartbreak heavy in his chest, he would never do it. Shane turned, slightly, feet shuffling like he had somewhere else to be. 

“Uhh- I…” His mouth ran like he was trying to talk his way out of the conversation faster than his brain could think up an excuse. 

“Shane.” Ilya took a step closer to him, his voice still and serious. Shane looked at him, tears already in his eyes. “Three weeks.” Ilya held his lips tightly; he knew they would tremble if he let them go. “You ignore me.”

“I’m not-” 

“You are,” Ilya interrupted, gentle but firm as he took another step closer to Shane, the other man boxed in by his legs pressing against the bench behind him. “You talk to my daughter like she is most important person in the world.” Ilya was careful to keep any upset out of his voice; he meant it as an observation, not an accusation. What he didn’t say was that gentleness had rearranged something in him - something that had Ilya rocketing towards a permanence that he had never before sought for himself. “You talk to me like I am stranger.” Shane flinched, like hearing that truth was too much. 

“I’m just keeping things… professional.” Ilya couldn’t help but let out a laugh. 

“Is a bit late for that, da? We fucked, Hollander.” He spat the words, not in anger, but with tears thick in his throat. Shane straightened immediately, colour draining from his face. 

“That was a mistake.” The words came out so sharp that Ilya felt his jaw clench. 

“You do not believe that.”

“I do,” Shane insisted quickly. “I have to.”

“Why?” Ilya took another step closer, trying to catch Shane’s ever-shifting gaze. 

“It would change things.” If Ilya hadn’t been hanging on Shane’s every word, he wouldn’t have caught it, muffled towards the floor. 

“It already has.” Ilya’s voice shifted slightly softer. “You just do not want to see.” Shane shook his head and Ilya could practically feel the panic vibrating off of him. 

“I can’t-” Shane took a deep breath, hand coming up to his clammy face. “I can’t be this. I can’t be that guy. I can’t explain this to people, to my parents…” Shane’s neck was bright red and his eyes darted frantically across the dirty tiles of the locker room. “I spent my whole life just being one thing. Just a hockey player, and that made sense. And this…”

“There is world not in hockey…” Ilya’s voice was gentle, placing a tentative hand on Shane’s back, warm and shaking. 

“That’s easy for you to say. You have a daughter, a life. You’re already-” Shane gestured helplessly, like he was trying to push the emotions physically out of his body. “You made it to the other side of this.”

“And you think that means I do not want more?” His words were edged with offense. “That I do not get to want more. That I don’t get to want you.” It was Ilya now whose hand shook. 

“I don’t want this.” Shane’s breathing was shallow, the smell of his lie filling the air. 

“You do…” Ilya knew he was pushing, but he couldn’t bear to leave. Not like this. 

“I can’t do this.” Shane shrunk down into a crouch, trying to keep himself together by holding himself tight. “I’m not- I can’t be. I won’t be the thing that people whisper about - not again. I can’t lose whatever scraps of control are left. I don’t know if you notice, Rozanov, but there’s not many.” Shane’s words were cold but shaky, like he was shivering but indifferent about it. Ilya was torn between his own anger and his deep desire to scoop Shane up and tell him everything was okay. He chose the latter, so stuck in the shame of feeling unwanted that he couldn’t help himself. 

“Not everything is about you, Hollander.” Shane looked up from the floor, his teary eyes meeting Ilya’s equally damp ones. “I don’t know if you notice, but I gave up hockey too. I was just like you. My whole life planned around it so that one day it was worth it.” Shane opened his mouth to speak, but there were no words that could have made it better. “And then life happened. I got a kid who needed me.” Ilya thought about Albina and the saddest smile spread over his face. He lowered himself to the floor in front of Shane, whose tears were barely holding against his eyes. Ilya’s tears had already spilled. “And I would choose her over and over. At least I quit for a reason…” The words hit Shane with an edge, and immediately the air had been sucked out of the room like a vacuum. Ilya’s couldn’t have reeled them in quick enough. “Hollander, I-” Shane’s tears had spilled then, but he wore a smile as he nodded. 

“I didn’t.”

“Is okay. I should not have said…” Ilya shuffled over to place his arms around Shane, who remained motionless, aside from pushing out a sad chuckle.

“I don’t know who I am without hockey.” Shane spoke it into the air like he’d been having his own conversation in his mind and simply needed Ilya to catch up. He did his best, pulling back from holding the man to look at him. “I’m terrified that I’m nothing without it.” His smile faded, and he broke, allowing himself to deflate ever-so-slightly into Ilya’s embrace. 

“You are not nothing.” Ilya spoke softly, mouth caressing Shane’s hair. 

“Coaching Albina,” Shane continued. “Spending time with you,” he said, that part softer, like a secret. “I’m happier than I’ve been in years.” His smile returned for a moment, and Ilya matched it gladly. “And I wish that were enough. Fuck- I wish it were.” He laughed dejectedly, wrecked. “But I am hockey. And I took it too far - I know that. But, I just can’t let it go.” Ilya ran his hands gently up and down Shane’s arms, lips against his temple. “Does it fucking kill you too? Knowing that it was all right there?” Shane pushed out the words as if they were his last before allowing himself to release the rest of his weight into Ilya, who wrapped a careful arm around him with a tired smile. 

“Sometimes I wish I could know if I make it,” Ilya admitted, sniffling gently. “And sometimes I feel guilty for being happy without it.” Shane looked up at Ilya, eyes bright with tears and a thin smile on his lips

“You’re allowed to be happy.” The words were so foreign that Ilya couldn’t help but look away. “Ilya,” Shane whispered, reaching up to grab his chin, tilting his face back to him. “You’re allowed to be happy,” Shane repeated. 

“So are you,” Ilya didn’t hesitate. Neither did Shane as he connected their lips, wasting no time in allowing his hands to snake around Ilya’s neck. Ilya reached around to hold Shane’s torso, aware of Shane’s cumbersome posture due to his skates, but too invested in the moment to care. They both allowed their tongues to meet, a content moan from Shane, matched by Ilya’s fulfilled hum. They stayed like that for a while, a kiss that was starved but unhurried. They didn’t lust for more in that moment, saying everything that was still left to be said. When Shane finally pulled back, holding his forehead against Ilya’s, the silence that followed was heavy, but it didn’t hurt like all the silences that had fallen between them in the weeks prior. Shane took a deep breath, blowing the air out audibly, further sinking into Ilya. Ilya’s hands moved up to Shane’s jaw, squeezing him with a serene smile. 

“Branda will be here soon. She took Albina to ice cream.” Ilya said the words softer than something so utilitarian needed to be said. He couldn’t help himself. 

“Branda?” Shane whispered back. “She’s interesting.” Ilya chuckled; it was not lost on him how overwhelming Branda likely was to Shane. 

“She is fucking nuts,” Ilya admitted, wide smile on his face as he pulled away from Shane. “But she is good.” Shane nodded, as if Ilya’s opinion were enough for him. “But I say because… You like to come over for dinner… tonight?” A nervous blush spread over Ilya’s cheeks, although he would never admit it. “I know Albina would be happy,” he added, to save himself in case Shane denied him. 

“I would like that.” 

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Thanks as always for the continued love and feedback. I have kind of outlined the rest of this story and decided it'll be 12 chapters with the last one being an epilogue.

If on browser, underlined Russian can be hovered over for rough translation.

It was just pasta. Ilya knew how to make pasta. Boil the water, pasta in, cut up vegetables small enough that Albina won’t detect them, stir in a jar of sauce that Ilya would pretend he made. Simple. Still, his body wouldn’t relax: forgetting to turn on the gas, hip checking the counter with a contained groan, spilling the sauce while trying to open it. The apartment felt too messy, then Ilya cleaned and suddenly that space was too neat. It was endless, and the night hadn’t even begun. Ilya wasn’t even sure why he cared - it wasn’t like Shane had never been to his house before. It shouldn’t have felt new. But Ilya couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight was a measure of something larger than just the two of them. 

Albina, meanwhile, had been vibrating since Ilya had met her out the front of the rink and told her - as they walked home, hands linked - that Shane was going to come over for dinner. 

“So…” Ilya kept his voice light, like it was nothing. “Shane is going to come for dinner… tonight.” Albina stopped so abruptly that Ilya almost tugged her along with his next step. 

“Shane?” She asked, eyes wide. 

“Yes,” Ilya replied, a small smile on his face. 

“Like, my coach, Shane?” Ilya chuckled without meaning to - like this kid knew any other Shanes. 

“Yes.” 

“Is he coming now or later?” Her brows were furrowed in deep concern. 

“Later, solnyshko. Is not dinner yet.” Albina nodded, as if that response was sufficient. “Why?” 

“I want time to draw Shane some pictures.” Ilya gave her a slow nod, respecting her self-imposed schedule more than his father had ever respected anything of his. They started walking again, Albina’s steps quicker, like she had places to be and things to do - clearly she did. After a while, she looked up to Ilya, her pace slowing only slightly. “Papa?”

“Khm?”

“You should make pasta,” she muttered. “The twisty ones. I think Shane likes those.” 

“Oh does he?” Ilya smiled ahead of him, walking still. “I guess I will.”

So, Albina had drawn her pictures, changed her outfit, practiced some hockey and narrated her entire afternoon, circling back to Shane every few minutes, like she was afraid he might cease to exist if she stopped talking about him for even a moment. All while Ilya was crumbling. 

Ilya wiped the bench… and wiped the bench again, staring at the absence of dirt as Albina launched into a story without a start or an end. Time stretched as the sky outside became dustier. Ilya checked the clock… and checked the clock again… and again, and every time, he wished he hadn’t. 

The doorbell rang. 

“I’ll get it!” Albina jumped down from the counter in a move that made Ilya’s knees ache, but smiled as he followed her. She jumped at the handle, her fingers grazing the metal. 

“You cannot reach, angel. I help,” he said softly, lifting her with ease and opening the door. 

Shane stood there like he’d rehearsed knocking on the door for the last five minutes - Ilya wouldn’t have been surprised if he had. His jacket was zipped too high and his hands were tucked deep in his pockets like he was holding himself down to keep from floating away. Ilya smiled wide the second he saw him. 

“Hi,” Ilya whispered. 

“Hi,” Shane returned, a shy smile on his face. 

“Hi, Shane!” Albina yelled, twisting herself out of Ilya’s grip and barrelling straight into Shane’s legs. Shane laughed - a real, started laugh - and it loosened something in Ilya’s chest that he thought might have been there since he first brought Albina home. 

~

“Come play!” Albina's small hand latched onto his immediately, tugging him further into the apartment before Shane even had time to react.

“Dinner first,” Ilya responds reflexively

“I wanna show Shane my room,” she insisted, still pulling him along. Shane’s gait adjusted as he stepped with her, torn between giving Albina what she wanted and not undermining Ilya’s authority. Ilya moved to stand ahead of Albina, blocking her path. 

“I say, dinner first.” He repeated, sharper this time. It was still full of warmth, but there was an edge underneath it that made Shane’s stomach do a little flip. Albina huffed, tugging again, prompting Shane to crouch before her. 

“How about.” Shane was trying to sound reasonable and thoughtful, like the kind of grown up Ilya so clearly was. “We eat dinner first, and then you show me your room after. That way you won’t have to rush and miss anything important.” Albina’s eyes narrowed in him in evaluation, lips pursed in a way that was so very Ilya. 

“Do you know I have stars on my ceiling, and when the lights turn off they glow?” Albina still seemed to be evaluating the treaty, simply providing entertainment as intermission. 

“Wow.” Shane tried his best to sound enthused; he wasn’t sure he would have sounded excited even if he genuinely thought that was the coolest thing in the world. 

“You can see them after dinner,” Albina relented, a sharp nod to punctuate her decision. As Shane stood up he locked eyes with Ilya, who mouthed him a quick ‘thank you’. Shane exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Albina,” Ilya called across the lounge room, to where Albina had settled on the floor by her dollhouse. “Can you clear your things from table, please?” She scampered up to her feet, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake. Ilya disappeared back into the kitchen and Shane was left to peer around the space he remembered from weeks ago. He mostly noticed the things that had changed: a plastic hockey net leant against the walls, cheap plastic sticks in fluorescent colours scattered across the floor. New drawings covered the fridge, the table, and the walls. The air smelt like sauce. Still, Shane took it in slowly, feeling too big, or awkward, or in the way in the little apartment clearly built by the two of them. And yet, there was nowhere else Shane wanted to be. He drifted slowly after Ilya into the kitchen. He looked over his shoulder to check they were out of Albina’s line of sight and then stepped  close and wrapped his arms around Ilya from behind. Ilya immediately leant back into Shane, momentarily abandoning the bowl he was filling with pasta. It was instinctive, the way Shane breathed him in and placed a whisper of a kiss on Ilya’s neck. It was like muscle memory from a life he hadn’t known he was allowed to imagine. 

“Smells good,” Shane whispered, sending the vibrations up Ilya’s throat. A murmur escaped Ilya before he tipped his head back slightly to see Shane tucked into his shoulder. 

“You okay?” Ilya queried, his voice laced with content. Shane closed his eyes, pulling Ilya tighter into his chest. 

“I am now.” They stayed like that longer than necessary, Shane tangled around Ilya as he served pasta into bowls. The uncertainty of a future, or lack thereof loosened its grip and slipped away, and Shane relished momentarily in the lack of expectation. 

A little giggle cut through the peace and quiet and Shane and Ilya jumped apart. 

“Were you giving papa a cuddle?” Albina asked, utterly delighted from where she stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Heat rushed to Shane’s face before he could think. Ilya smirked at him, affectionate but unhelpful as panic bloomed across Shane’s cheeks. 

“I was just saying thank you,” Shane stammered quickly. “To your… your papa… for inviting me over for dinner.” Albina blinked once at him, then nodded, entirely unbothered. “Oh, okay.” Shane let out a silent exhale and glanced at Ilya who gave him a teasing wink. 

“You show Shane to table,” he mumbled to Albina, shooing the both of them out of the kitchen. Albina happily linked her hand with Shane’s, the warmth in his chest stubborn as she showed him to their quaint kitchen table. Ilya set dinner on the table and Shane stared down at the plate in front of him. Pasta, simple spirals coated in a tomato sauce, sprinkled with what looked like a tablespoon of Parmesan. He could guess how many calories were in the bowl in front of him with reasonable accuracy, like he always did, mentally tallying them because keeping score felt safe.

“I told papa you would like spiral pasta the best,” Albina announced proudly, leaning over the table so that her wily curls only just missed her bowl. Her smile was wide, unselfconscious, all bright teeth and earnest pride. Shane’s chest filled with a warmth he wasn’t used to and he couldn’t help but stab his fork into a swirl. He brought it to his mouth and chewed, slowly, forcing himself to think about tasting it rather than thinking about the carbs. “Do you like it?” Albina asked, more concerned with Shane’s opinion than eating her dinner. Shane smiled, vowing to let it come honestly. 

“I… I love it.” The words surprised him with their truth. Albina placed her fork down to clap dramatically. 

“Papa makes it really good.” Shane looked over at Ilya, who gave him a small, seemingly knowing nod from across the table. He felt himself truly breath and release for the first time since he and Ilya had been in the bedroom not ten steps away. This small, imperfect, messy apartment was exactly where he was supposed to be - even if only for one dinner. 

Dinner settled into a rhythm. Albina chattered, he and Ilya laughed along with her delight. Shane looked at Ilya occasionally, catching those small moments. The way he pushed Albina’s hair back when it got in her way. The way he laughed at her jokes that didn’t make sense and weren’t really jokes. The way his eyes were wet with the joy of just getting to be with her. Ilya Rozanov was an amazing father. 

“Shane,” Albina’s voice was sudden, small but insistent. “When are you going back to your house?” Shane froze mid-bite. That’s certainly a question. Did she want him to leave?

“Uhh-” he said, swallowing slowly, unsure how to answer that without overthinking it. 

“Will your mom and dad miss you?” Shane’s hammering chest settled a little. 

“I-” 

“I miss papa when I go play at Lexy’s house even when I’m having lots of fun.” Albina looked at him with genuine concern. 

“I think my mom and dad… they’ll be okay. They know where I am. They know I’m with… friends.” He tried not to overthink it. Albina thought about it for a beat before nodding decisively. 

“Okay. Then I guess it’s okay if you stay.” Oh. Shane hadn’t thought about that being a part of the evening. Still, he was relieved to have Albina’s permission, eyes flickering over to where Ilya was smiling softly at the both of them. “I’m done!” Albina announced loudly, putting her fork down definitively. 

“You have taken two bites,” Ilya countered, Shane admiring the way patience threaded through his every word. 

“I’ve taken three!” She insisted, arms crossed like a tiny CEO putting her foot down. 

“Take two more,” Ilya suggested, reaching over to collect her fork, stabbing a spiral of pasta and holding it out to her. 

“No!” Albina whined, turning her face away from Ilya. Shane caught her gaze where she had turned, a pout on her face and her curls covering her eyes. 

“How about we have two more bites together?” Shane offered. “Hockey players need to eat their dinner so they can be fast and strong,” he added. Albina’s eyes lit up, and she glanced back at Ilya holding out her fork like she was maybe still considering holding out. 

“Okay,” she replied, small, as she turned back to Ilya and accepted her first bite. Shane ate his forkfuls as she ate hers. One day, he would explain to Albina what a big deal that was for him, but for right now, he was just happy. 

~

Ilya flicked on the tap as Shane trailed behind him with the last of the plates and cutlery

“I can do the dishes,” he mumbled, already half-way around Ilya to take over. “You cooked.” Ilya gave a such chuckle, reaching for  a plate. 

“Is okay. I do not think Albina will give you choice,” he whispered. As if summoned, her voice rang out from the living room, bright and insistent. 

“Shane! Come play hockey with me!” Ilya titled his head towards the sound, eyebrows raised and a small, knowing smile tugging at his mouth. 

“See?” Shane laughed, something light and bright, unencumbered in a way that Ilya thought he’d never seen from him before. But he didn’t move, just stood between the kitchen and the living room until their eyes met. Ilya stepped closer without thinking. The kiss was quick and careful - more of a brush than anything more - but it landed heavy. A kiss that carried far more weight than it had any right to. “Go,” Ilya whispered, this thumb brushing against Shane’s wrist. “She’s waiting.” Shane hesitated for just a moment longer, then turned toward the living room, letting himself be dragged towards Albina. 

Ilya washed, and dried, and stacked, letting the rhythm of it ground him. By the time he finished and set the last plate away, the apartment had become filled with laughter. He paused in the doorway, careful not to interrupt by announcing himself. Shane had obviously helped Albina move the coffee table, and the pair had commandeered the living room with a makeshift hockey game. Shane was down on his knees, dramatically guarding the tiny plastic goal with far too much seriousness, clutching his chest every time Albina scored. 

“Goaltender interference!” Shane announced, mocking offense as Albina shook her head. 

“No! I’m just good,” she declared, attempting to skate across the rug in her socks. Fabric caught carpet and she tumbled forward, but Shane caught her before she fell, hands steady. Ilya’s lips curled tightly and his eyes shone. “Again!” Albina demanded. “And don’t go easy on me!” 

“Okay, okay,” Shane agreed immediately, like he wouldn’t dare. Ilya leaned against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. He watched Shane try to explain rules and maneuvers. Watched him lose on purpose but try not to make it obvious. He watched Albina look at Shane like he’d hung the stars - and Ilya believed her. This was it. This was the longing that Ilya had always felt nestled deep within him. Not the absence of hockey. Or the deep desire to return to his home. But the ability to watch someone else love his daughter gently and competently, not out of obligation, but want. 

Time passed without any of them keeping track of it. The sun set and the streetlights came on. Albina’s squeals got quieter and her moves slower as her bedtime approached. Shane matched her every step of the way, his words hushed and his gestures unhurried. Finally, it was Ilya who called it - not because he wanted to - but because it was his job.

“Okay, time for bed.” He announced it with a certain voice and a clap of his hands, like how he used to start a pep talk when he was captain - some things never changed. Albina groaned, collapsing dramatically into a heap on the floor. Ilya allowed her a moment before stepping fully into a room, scooping her into his arms. “Teeth brushed, pizhama and then bed, da?” He listed,  like it was his catchphrase.  

“Can Shane come too?” Albina asked, heads flopping back off of Ilya’s arms, mousy brown curls hanging unruly. 

“Come where?” Shane blinked, the hovering smile slowly fading. 

“Bedtime,” Albina replied, like it was obvious, lifting herself up to sit in Ilya’s arms rather than lay across them. “We brush our teeth and then put on our pyjamas and then we get into bed,” she continued decisively. Ilya could tell that Shane wasn’t sure what to say or do, like this had reached the threshold on his understanding of small children. 

~

“He does not have to-” Shane was just about to give a sigh of relief. 

“Yes, he does.” Albina interrupted, scrambling her way down Ilya’s body and over to Shane. “I’m not allowed to go to bed without brushing my teeth, so Shane needs to brush his teeth. Those are the rules.” Shane couldn’t argue with rules. 

“Okay-” he squeaked the words out, taking her hand and allowing himself to be dragged to the bathroom. He looked back over his shoulder, shooting Ilya a look of concern. Ilya just smiled brightly at him, following behind them. 

The bathroom was warm and bright, Albina rushing up onto her stool and flicking the tap on. She began explaining the process of brushing her teeth, leaving Shane standing awkwardly until Ilya produced a spare toothbrush. Once he had taken it out of the packet and was following along, Albina grinned at him in the reflection of the mirror like she’d won something enormous. Shane ended up unable to hold in his laughter by the end of her animated instruction. 

“Next,” she declared, placing her toothbrush back in the cup. “We put our pyjamas on. Papa says pizhama - that’s pyjamas in Russian,” she explained, hand on Shane’s arm as she stepped down off of her stool. Shane nodded along like he was taking notes - like he wanted her to know that he thought this was important. 

“I get Shane pyjamas later.” Ilya muttered, herding Albina down the hallway and into her bedroom. Shane trailed, stopping at the door and leaning against the wall patiently. 

“I’ll do it,” Albina mumbled behind the door, words muffled amidst what sounded like a yawn. 

“Alright, into bed,” Ilya whispered after a while. “Goodnight time.” Shane listened through the cracked door. There was something about it that steadied him. Ilya had created a routine for Albina - it was consistent and safe. He didn’t rush her, and he listened to her murmurings and desires to be independent like he valued her being heard. Shane hadn’t expected it to tighten his throat, as something warm bloomed in his chest. It was admiration, sure, but also… more. It was the feeling that he maybe felt at peace in a life like this. He felt like he belonged here - and it had been so long since he felt like he truly belonged somewhere. “Goodnight, lapochka.” Shane heard a moment of shuffling. 

“Wait.” Her voice was small and sleep-filled. “Where’s Shane?”

“Oh, angel. He’s probably not-”

“It’s okay-” Shane pushed the door tentatively, suddenly second-guessing the appropriateness of this eavesdropping. “I don’t mind.” He froze for a moment, looking to Ilya. “As long as you don’t mind,” he clarified. Ilya shook his head quickly, fondly. Shane moved slowly, carefully. He crouched beside Albina’s bed, his knee brushing against Ilya’s where he sat on her bed. 

“Goodnight, Albina,” he whispered. “Sleep good, okay?” She nodded solemnly and then pushed herself to sit up, reaching her little arms to wrap them around his neck. Shane froze for half a second before carefully returning it. 

“Will you be here when I wake up?” Her eyes had started to flit back into her head, sleep taking over with vengeance. Shane’s eyes darted up to Ilya, whose smile was so wide that in any other circumstance he would have considered it dangerous. 

“Of course,” Shane whispered. 

~ 

Albina’s door clicked shut with the softest sound, Ilya and Shane having just snuck out as she inched closer and closer to sleep. They stood in the hallway for a moment too long, the quiet suddenly loud now that it belonged only to them. 

“Uhh-” Ilya said eventually, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck in a show of uncertainty that wasn’t exactly fitting for him. “Do you want to watch movie? Or go to bed, or-” Shane huffed out a small laugh, his own nerves evident in his insecure face. 

“I’ve brushed my teeth, so I’d say I’m pretty ready for bed.” Ilya laughed too loudly at that, so unused to Shane joking that it caught him off guard in a way that gave him butterflies. 

“Yes, okay,” Ilya smiled, relieved and fond all at once. “Bed.” They moved down the hall together, Ilya a step ahead holding Shane’s hand behind him. When they entered, the lights were dim and the sounds of the city outside seemed amplified. Shane sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on the mattress like he wasn’t sure of where he wanted to be. Ilya moved around him easily, their knees brushing once again when he sat beside him. “Okay?” Ilya asked softly, reaching his hand out slow and deliberately to rest on top of Shane’s. 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded, huffing a quiet laugh. “It’s been a long day.” Ilya smiled at that, brushing a thumb over Shane’s knuckles. 

“Yes.” The kiss that followed came naturally, like it had been waiting since they’d parted ways in the kitchen. Ilya furthered it first, more a question than anything else. Shane answered by leaning in and Ilya felt him soften into it. His hand came up to Shane’s jaw, and Shane exhaled into the minimal space between them. Ilya pulled back ever so slightly, eyeing Shane with a grin that was swiftly returned. He kissed him again. Slower this time, and less careful. Shane smiled into the kiss with a content moan and Ilya pulled away again, slipping his thumb from Shane’s jaw into his mouth. Shane’s hands curled into Ilya's shirt as he sucked on his finger, eyes cast up towards Ilya. Ilya pulled him up, by way of his tucked thumb, to the head of the bed. The whole time they remained close enough that their breathing felt shared, as ragged as it was quickly becoming. Ilya pulled Shane into lap, the smaller man straddling him. 

The moment tipped - not sharply - but enough that Shane pulled off of Ilya’s thumb, his body going rigid. Ilya noticed immediately - how could he not when every fibre of his being was honed in on nothing but Shane. 

“What’s wrong?” Ilya queried, hands floating down to rest on Shane’s hips, skirting beneath his t-shirt. 

“Nothing,” Shane said quickly, before correcting himself. “I just- she’s next door.” Ilya followed his gaze towards the wall and then back to Shane. 

“Is okay-” Ilya began before seeing Shane’s mouth agape, ready to continue speaking. 

“I just- I don’t want to.” He shook his head, searching for the right words. “No, fuck- I want to. God, I want to.” Shane’s hands moved to Ilya’s neck, looking at him with a kind intensity. “But this is her home and I’m just some guy and that’s not fair.” The words spilled out messily. “Does that make sense?” Ilya’s shoulder softened and his smile grew. 

“You know,” he whispered, causing Shane to lean forward slightly. “You do not have to protect her like that. Is my job.” His voice was so soft towards the other man. 

“I know,” Shane nodded. “I just… I want to respect her.” There was a beat of silence before Ilya reached up to where Shane held him, threading their fingers together and pulling him in for a gentle peck - warm and real. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, their foreheads pressed together. 

“For what?”

“For thinking of her without me asking. Not lots of people do. Gets very lonely.” His words were vulnerable, eyes shining as he pressed their lips together again. 

“She matters to you… and that matters to me,” Shane assured honestly, peppering kisses over Ilya’s cheek and down his neck as he rolled off of him. They both sat against the headboard, shoulders pressed against each other. Ilya reached out instantly to thread their hands together, like he couldn’t stand to be separated for even a moment. 

~

They sat like that for a while, the frantic energy in the room settling around them. The world outside had reached a nighttime hush, quiet enough to hear the hum of the fridge and the occasional whiz of a car on the street. 

“Can I ask something?” Ilya finally said, his voice low and careful. Shane felt the shift immediately. It wasn’t tension, but there was a weight to what was going unsaid. He nodded anyway, subconsciously tightening his grip on Ilya’s hand. 

“Yeah.” Ilya didn’t look at him at first, and that only made Shane more nervous. Ilya’s thumb traced slow lines over the back of Shane’s hand.

“I never asked… but-” Shane could see the apprehension in Ilya’s face; the way he couldn’t look at Shane. “Why did you really leave the draft?” Shane was quiet for a long moment after the question, trying to decide whether to laugh it off or open a door he’d spent years holding shut. Ilya glanced at him with such genuine care that Shane couldn’t help but feel that the man before him deserved honesty. 

“I was always so deep in it, obviously,” he began, angling himself slightly more towards Ilya. “But when you announced you were exiting the draft it was like every single pair of eyes in the world turned to me. And I thought I would love it - being the number one draft pick, no question. But I just snapped. I fumbled my interview so bad and then it was like I didn’t even know where I was anymore. Like I was on… autopilot.” He caught Ilya’s eye for a second, settled only slightly by the tender look on his face. “My dad had to carry me out of the rink. Like - literally carry me. Brandon Wiebe saw me being hauled out like a child, snotty and hyperventilating.” Shane clutched Ilya’s hand tightly, using it to hold himself back from transporting back to being that kid. “So much of that weekend is just… blank,” he admitted. “When I woke up, my mom told me that she’d pulled me out of the draft. Obviously I freaked out - my life was ruined. Everything I was, everything I worked for, just gone. But she said,” Shane’s voice quivered, and Ilya brought his other hand to Shane’s arm, stroking gently. “She wouldn’t let me destroy myself like that.” Shane looked up at Ilya with glassy eyes, the other man’s eyes misty too. “Sometimes, it feels like maybe that destroyed me anyway.” Shane’s admission had Ilya pulling him into his chest immediately. 

“No,” he whispered, like he didn’t have the words to make it all better but knew he had to try. Shane rested his head on Ilya’s shoulder. 

“I feel like… I feel like I still need to do this,” Shane felt ashamed of his disclosure, the one that had always sat in the pit of his stomach, but which he knew would have him committed if he ever told his mom. “I need to know.” Ilya pulled back, looking at Shane with genuine curiosity. “I need to know whether I could’ve done it. Whether I still can.” It was the first time he’d spoken those words out loud, and it felt so freeing that he ascended. Ilya’s uncertain gaze brought him immediately back down. “It’s stupid, I know.”

“Is not stupid,” Ilya said quickly. “You are best hockey player I know… Hollander.” Ilya winked at him with all the bravado that had gotten him through his own hockey playing years. “Go out there and show them you are still the best.” 

“You make it sound easy.” Shane rolled his eyes. 

“No,” Ilya corrected. “I make it sound possible. Difference.” Ilya smirked at him. “It would take a lot of work, yes.” Ilya’s eyes sparkled against the reflection of the streetlamp outside. “But I’ve never seen anyone work like you.” Shane’s chest warmed, something tender and frightening blooming so quickly that he couldn’t help but let the tears fall. 

“Would you… would you ever want to try again?” Ilya laughed softly, shaking his head. 

“No.” He said it with a wide smile. “That part of life is done. I am okay with that.” Ilya glanced back at the wall that separated him from Albina and then looked Shane up and down. “I have everything I need.” Shane returned his elated look. “But I will be proud while you chase your dream.” The words settled in the pit of Shane’s stomach, the gentle but solid belief in him something so foreign after all these years. 

“Thank you,” Shane whispered, leaning forward to rest his head against Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya kissed the top of his head, lingering there and breathing him in for a second. 

“Get some sleep, MLH boy.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Shane replied quickly, but he had a wide smile on his face. They laid down properly then, lamps clicked off and the room folded in darkness. Shane rolled onto his side, Ilya pressed close behind him with one arm draped warm and protective around his waist. Ilya pulled Shane tight against his chest, tucking his face into the crook of Shane’s neck. 

“Goodnight, moy lyubovnik,” Ilya murmured, well on his way to sleep. Shane let his eyes flutter, falling asleep for the first time in years feeling safe. Maybe the first time in his life. He hoped whatever Ilya had muttered had meant he felt safe too.

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

I am so so sorry for not updating in like three weeks. I am back to university so I'm finding time to write wherever I can. I promise this will get finished. I already know what the last two chapters will contain and I should hopefully have them out much sooner than the time this one took me! Thank you for your patience!
As a treat, this chapter is extra long

Early morning came loudly, the door flying open with a bang that jolted Shane awake. He was only eased when the abrupt clang was followed by the unmistakable sound of small feet padding over the carpet. 

“Papa!” Albina’s voice croaked as she swiftly climbed onto the bed, nothing but a blur of hair and pyjamas to Shane. 

“Oof-” Ilya grunted as Albina climbed up his body, knees digging in unchecked. “Albina-” Ilya started, but it was too late. She scrambled higher, crawling across the blankets with the determination of someone climbing Everest and - without hesitation - plopped herself between Ilya and Shane. Her feet kicked out wildly as she made herself comfortable, one little heel catching Shane square in the thigh. Despite the fog of sleep quickly leaving him, he could not seem to force the cogs in his brain to turn. He had woken up in Ilya Rozanov’s bed. Ilya Rozanov’s child had burst through the door and was now wriggling between them. How hard would he have to concentrate to simply evaporate into thin air?

Albina, meanwhile, happily wriggled herself deeper into the fluffy pillow, her little hand coming up to Ilya’s cheek to ‘smoosh’ him awake. Ilya rolled towards her with a groan, obviously unphased by the child or the haze of barely daylight hours in a way that Shane couldn’t even comprehend. He laid motionless, like if he stayed still enough, no one would see him. Ilya reached over Albina, pulling his daughter close to him and squeezing her side in a way that made her squeal. 

“No tickles, papa!” Her little legs kicked frantically, finding Shane’s leg once again. “Sorry-” Albina screeched through laughter, before Ilya released her slightly and she turned to eye Shane. “Shane?” She muttered, questioning not out of confusion, but to get his attention. Shane cracked one eye open, glancing over at her and thinking about whether she could see his heart hammering in his chest. “Why are you in papa’s bed?” She queried, tilting her head with childlike curiosity. Ilya let out a breath that seemed more like a contained laugh, like the part of him that was once everyone’s least favourite hockey star was enjoying the idea of Shane’s suffering. Shane opened his mouth. He closed it… and then opened it again, trying to find the words in a brain filled with static. 

“Shane stayed over, lapochka,” Ilya whispered, reaching up to push her rowdy hair off of her face. “We have a sleepover,” he added, releasing a gasp from Albina. 

“I wanna have a sleepover!” She rolled over onto Ilya’s chest, like she was going to hold him down until he relented. 

“Maybe,” Ilya groaned, the air knocked out of him by Albina’s fervour. Finally, Shane turned to glance at them. Ilya’s hair was a mess, just like Albina’s, and his eyes were still soft with sleep. The sight made Shane’s chest ache in a way he wasn’t prepared for. As if sensing his eyes, Albina promptly squirmed again, ending with her head on Ilya’s chest and her feet resting on Shane’s stomach over the blanket. Shane’s jaw tightened - again, he wished things like this had rulebooks. What is the correct course of action when the child of the man you’ve slept with climbs into the bed, all warmth and chaos? Better yet, what do you do when the truth presses deeper than that? That this might just be Shane’s ideal version of every morning. He caught Ilya’s sideways glance at him, the father’s brows knitted with a concern that made Shane worry he’d been spiralling longer than appropriate. Ilya wove his long, muscular arm out from under the covers, bringing it up to tangle inconsequentially in Shane’s hair. Shane exhaled, pressing himself ever-so-slightly into Ilya’s touch, forgetting for a second about the little feet tap dancing on his stomach. 

“I’m hungry,” Albina said abruptly, pushing herself upright. 

“Go put on your tapochki and I will be there very soon,” Ilya whispered, his gaze flicking from Albina to Shane and back again as she scrambled off the bed. She stopped at the doorway, turning back to the bed. 

“Shane, you can have breakfast with me,” she stated, matter-of-factly. “If you want,” she added, like there was any question. Albina didn’t wait for Shane’s response, darting out the door and towards her own room. 

The room went quiet, and Shane finally sighed a breath of release. Ilya chuckled, arm snaking down to pull Shane into him. 

“I had no idea what I was supposed to do,” Shane admitted, nuzzling his face into Ilya’s neck and breathing in his natural odour. 

“You did perfect.” Ilya placed a gentle kiss into his hair, fingers dancing over his locks. 

“I did nothing,” Shane laughed softly, feeling Ilya shiver with the vibration against him. 

“Exactly.” 

~ 

Ilya and Shane emerged only a few minutes later, Albina shuffling around the kitchen in her slippers, collecting any ingredient for pancakes that she could reach from her vantage point. Ilya instinctively floated in, lifting Albina under her arms and onto the counter. 

“I help,” she announced quietly, scooting on her knees to reach for a mixing bowl from the top cupboard. Ilya handed her the whisk before cracking the eggs one-handed. Albina watched with wide eyes like it was a magic trick. Shane lingered in the doorway, his hair still rumpled from sleep. Ilya glanced at him; he looked unsure where to stand, like he hadn’t been fully briefed on the kitchen’s rules yet. 

“You want to help too?” Ilya asked, casual on purpose. Shane brightened involuntarily at that. 

“Yeah, sure-” Albina beamed as he walked closer, reaching to hold his arm as soon as Shane was close enough.

“You can pour. That’s the hardest part because if you put too much it's really hard to flip. But if you don’t put enough then you only have tiny baby pancakes,” she explained. The three of them worked in close quarters: Albina whisking too enthusiastically, Shane laughing under his breath as Ilya reached around him to steady the bowl. At one point, Albina insisted that she needed Shane’s help whisking to ‘do it stronger’, and Ilya watched the two of them bent together, Shane’s arm hovering behind her out of fear she’d tip backwards off the counter, and he felt as if a light had been lit somewhere deep inside him.

The rest of the morning happened around them - in a calm dance that only came from the sheer power of being settled. Pancakes being poured and flipped and stacked as Albina narrated every step. Shane and Ilya moved around each other in the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world. One of them focused on breakfast while the other listened to Albina’s every word. And then they’d switch without so much as a glance in the other’s direction. They hovered across the tiny kitchen the way they used to dance the puck around each other, instinctive like nothing had changed. When they finally settled at the table, the whole apartment was warm with something other than the heat of the gas stove. 

They ate without making a fuss, Albina stealing bites off of Shane’s plate, him pretending to steal them back, only to be told off. Ilya watched with a tender smile and the burning hope that the morning would never end. 

But of course it had to. 

Shane pushed his plate away slightly, reluctantly. 

“I should go.” Ilya nodded, even though the words filled his stomach with dread. 

“Already?” Albina whined, like the life inside that apartment and the two men within its walls hadn’t been focused on anything but her for the past 12 hours. 

“You wouldn’t want my mom and dad to miss me, would you?” Shane said gently, careful to keep their goodbye light. Despite her frown, Albina shook her head. 

“Will you come over again soon?” She asked. Ilya caught his eye immediately, not even bothered by Shane seeing how wide his smile was. 

“Sure,” Shane whispered, pushing back his chair and standing with a smooth confidence that Ilya hadn’t seen from a Shane Hollander who wasn’t on the ice. 

“You can take home the picture I drew you,” Albina muttered, focused on sliding herself off of her chair. She disappeared into the hallway and left Shane and Ilya standing just an arms-length away. For a moment, neither moved. 

“Thank you… for having me.” Shane’s voice was low, but unabashed. 

“Anytime,” Ilya responded, unable to mask the genuineness of his voice. Shane hesitated for a moment, but stepped closer. He glanced past Ilya, just to be sure, then leant in. The kiss was quick and gentle, more of a promise than a question. It wasn’t hurried, or hidden. Just a brush of lips like punctuation at the end of a sentence that Ilya would happily write forever. 

Forever. 

Shane pulled back with a small, almost shy smile which mirrored the slightest rouge across Ilya’s cheeks and nose. 

“I’ll see you soon.” 

“Yes,” Ilya confirmed, his cheeks twitching with a smile he couldn’t contain. “Soon.” Shane was halfway through pulling his jacket on when Albina came skidding back down the hallway, slippers shuffling against the floor. She barrelled into the centre of their conversation - seemingly unbothered by their closeness - and thrusted the paper up toward Shane. Ilya couldn’t help but peer over. The drawing with unmistakably hers, with thick marker lines and colour everywhere. Three figures in what he guessed was an ice rink. Two on the ice with their sticks raised, one small with her best attempt at curls, and one tall with a wide smile. A third figure stood on the edge, another enormous square smile in bright red marker. 

“Is this-” Shane began to query, but there was no need. 

“That’s you,” Albina clarified, up on her tip-toes to point to the elements of her drawing. “And me. It’s hockey.” 

“And who’s that?” Shane asked gently, although he clearly knew. 

“That’s papa,” she grinned widely, pointing to the figure against the boards. “He watches.” Ilya hadn’t realised she noticed that part so clearly. His standing back, hands in pockets, just outside the rink, watching. Ilya knew Albina loved hockey practice, and loved that Shane was there to teach her. He hadn’t realised that his presence had mattered enough to make it into this picture of a moment that she clearly held dear.

“I love it.” Shane’s response seemed earnest, unguarded. “Thank you.” Ilya cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of himself. Of how good it felt to stand at the edge of things, watching something good happen, instead of fearing those things he couldn’t control. 

Albina hugged Shane, quick and fierce. Shane didn’t hesitate to return it, a steady hand on the back of her head. She gripped the back of his shirt with her small hands for a moment before pulling away and darting off haphazardly, already distracted by something else. 

“Bye, Shane!” She called, voice echoing through the hallway of their apartment. Shane straightened, still holding the picture gently and taking a few tentative steps towards the door. 

“Bye, Ilya,” Shane whispered, pushing the door open with his eyes still connected. 

“Bye, Shane.” Ilya watched as the door closed and the atmosphere of the apartment settled. He couldn’t help but think about Albina’s drawing. About the hockey, and the rink - and the way she put them all exactly where they belonged. 

~

Shane closed the door of his childhood home softly behind him, letting the familiar creek of the hinges, and the scent of his mom’s Gardenia room spray welcome him back. Without permission the weight of the morning pressed against him. Albina and Ilya and the quiet clarity of what he wanted had snaked its way into his consciousness without approval. For a moment, he thought about slipping upstairs, disappearing into his room to retreat into one of the only places he had thought of as safe. But now… maybe his safety could extend further than the square-footage of his room. He paused with a hand against the bannister of the stairs. His eyes darted over to where his mom sat on the couch, glasses on the tip of her nose as she scrolled through her phone. Something shifted inside Shane - something quiet and undeniable. This moment felt like a tether to a life he was trying to pull away from, and simultaneously a door to one he was trying to find. He lingered for a moment before shifting, with a trembling certainty, towards her. 

“Mom?” He said softly, hovering above where he lounged. Yuna looked up at him, her gaze familiar and grounding, but quizzical. 

“Where have you been?” It wasn’t accusatory, simply curious. Shane pushed her question aside, sitting beside her on the couch with a hesitancy that shifted Yuna’s gaze into something more alarmed. “Hey, Shane?” She questioned, a hand hovering over his like she knew he was an electrically charged storm. Shane perched on the edge of the cushion, his hands fidgeting beneath her touch and his mind spinning. He wanted to disappear - instantly regretting his decision not to run upstairs as soon as he returned home. And yet… something demanded he stay. The something in his chest that told him that if he ever wanted a life like the one he got to exist in last night and this morning… then he had to do this.

“Mom,” he started, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I have to tell you something.” He bit his lip harshly, twisting his face in discomfort. Yuna waited patiently, hand shifting to run a composed thumb over his knee. “I- I don’t know how to say it right.” Yuna didn’t waver, just gave him a gentle smile. “I think… I think I might be… gay.” The words left him in a rush, tumbling out in a single breath like if he didn’t say it fast, he never would. “I- I don’t know.” He continued quickly, mostly as a means of stopping Yuna’s words. “I don’t know…” Shane spoke as fast as he thought, his thoughts chaotic where they were usually measured. “I thought I could push it away. I thought I could keep living like I always have. Like everything would make sense if I just… didn’t feel… this.” Shane’s breathing slowly ever so slightly, glancing down at his lap. “I’m sorry.” Only now did Yuna’s reserve falter. 

“What?-”

“I’m sorry if this… complicates things. I know that I’ve already caused you and dad a lot of trouble, and now this… I just don’t know how to keep pretending.” Shane let the tears come, droplets falling down his face as he forced himself to meet his mom’s gaze. 

“Shane,” she said softly, bringing her delicate hand up to his cheek, absentmindedly wiping tears. “You don’t have to be sorry for this. You don’t. You never did.” Something inside him uncoiled and he allowed himself to breathe, even if just for a moment. Shane sniffled deeply, wiping a hand over his face before his eyes landed back on Yuna. 

“There’s more,” he whispered, the words tumbling out like he could barely stop them. Yuna nodded, a careful smile on her face as she clearly steeled herself for ‘more’. “I want to go back to hockey.” They’d had this conversation years before, when Shane had seen the advertised position for a kid’s skate coach at the rink, and couldn’t stop thinking about it. Yuna had been apprehensive then, but was willing to admit it had worked out for the better. This was something else entirely. 

“Sweetheart-” 

“I want to go back to hockey… properly. MLH. The Cup. All of it,” Shane stated, nodding assuredly. “I know it sounds insane. And maybe it’s too late…” His voice shook in a way that broke Yuna’s heart. “But I can’t stop thinking about it. Every day, I wake up and it’s hanging over me, and I know that until I do this, it’ll never go away, mom.” Shane’s tears had returned, his grip on the couch cushion like a vice. 

“Shane…” Yuna leaned back into the cushion, eyes clouded with worry. “I don’t think this is a good idea. You’ve already been through so much-”

“I know, but-” 

“You can’t just jump back in and expect it to be different. The pressure, the panic. I’m scared… that it’s too much for you to handle. I don’t want to see you fall apart again, or-” Shane’s hands tightened on the edge of the chair. He could feel his chest swelling and breaking at the same time. 

“Mom, I know,” he said, low and earnest, like he knew that having this conversation was the first step to proving he had grown. “I know exactly what happened before.” Shane steeled himself with a breath. “But, I’m not that kid anymore. I know that I can do this. And I need to try. If I don’t… I'll never forgive myself.”

“Okay…” Yuna muttered skeptically before sitting up straight again. “But how, Shane? Teams aren’t exactly lining up to sign undrafted 22-year-olds.” It was blunt. It felt exactly like how his mom used to speak of his career when it was a business. It was exhilarating. 

“I’ve thought about it,” Shane said confidently. “I’ve still got contacts. I know how to train. I know what it takes, and I know I can do it. Please, mom? If it goes wrong, I’ll quit. I’ll never even talk about hockey again. I swear. But, I need this. And I need you to believe in me.” With that, Yuna sucked a quick breath in, reaching up to grip Shane’s cheek. 

“If this is what you need…” She pulled Shane closer, lips against his forehead. “Then I trust you. I believe in you. But promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

Shane stayed pressed against his mother’s warm embrace for many minutes, letting the silence take over as his breathing settled. He knew his mom had more questions, more concerns. And he knew he’d be subjected to them. Yuna Hollander was far too analytical and business-minded for anything else. Something about it settled him, like there was a lighthouse guiding him back to his old life. 

When he finally pulled away from her clutches, she gave him a final look - nervous but kind, before Shane excused himself up to his room. 

Shane collapsed onto his bed, every muscle relaxing into the plush comforter. His chest felt tight, but lighter too, like he had finally set something down after carrying it for too long. The grief was there, of course - years of swallowing his words that he didn’t yet have names for. But threaded through it was now relief. He couldn’t help as his eyes stung, blinking back the tears. Shane’s phone buzzed against his chest, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He hesitated before picking it up, like the moment might break if he moved too fast. 

We miss you 

A photo accompanied the message. Ilya on the couch, head tipped back against its arm. Albina was sprawled across his chest, fast asleep with her mouth open. His arm was wrapped securely around her and his hand splayed across her back, protective without thinking about it. Something in Shane gave way as his throat tightened and the ceiling blurred. It wasn’t even the ache of distance, but the regularity of it - it felt small and warm and real. 

Miss you guys too

Shane typed back before he could talk himself out of it, settling into the safety of their brood that maybe, just maybe, Ilya was inviting him to be a part of. 

The rink is free tomorrow afternoon. Do you and Albina want to come skate with me?

Shane didn’t have to panic over the absence of reply for even a second. 

Yes 🙂

Shane smiled willingly. He put his phone down and stared up at the ceiling, letting the quiet hum of the house fold around him. His room felt different now - less like somewhere he was hiding and more like a place he was passing through. 

~

Ilya loved how big an ice rink felt when it was empty. Not even in a lonely way - more like a clean slate. Gleaming boards, freshly cleaned, ice smoothed into a pale sheet that reflected the lights overhead. Albina burst through to the rink first, her helmet under her arm and her ponytail already coming loose.

“Remember, solnyshko. Is hockey practice for Shane,” Ilya reminded, making quick strides on his own skates to catch up to her. 

“I know, I know.” He could practically feel her rolling her eyes at him. “I get to be the coach.” That had been Ilya’s promise when he told her she might not get to skate today, and he was already regretting it. 

“You heard her,” Shane chuckled under his breath, stopping at the edge of the rink with a scrape of his blade. He wore an easy, unguarded grin, and despite Ilya getting to see it more often, it still knocked the wind out of him. “Coach Albina’s in charge.” Albina gasped, delighted all over again to be taken so seriously. 

“First,” she began, doing her best to peer up at Shane over the boards. “You have to go fast.” Shane and Ilya shared a chuckle as Albina took a tentative step onto the ice. 

“Yes, coach,” he nodded, pushing off immediately. Ilya leant against the boards and just watched the two of them. Watched how Shane skated smooth and instinctively, carving clean lines into the fresh ice. Watched Albina follow him around, achieving a single lap for every one of Shane’s three. As Albina approached the gate after her lap, she reached out for Ilya’s hand, her father stepping onto the ice without a second thought. They moved slowly at first, both just watching Shane as Albina narrated everything she saw. 

“He’s really fast, papa,” she said, craning her neck to watch Shane fly past them. 

“He is, “ Ilya agreed. “Always has been.” Even now - especially now, maybe - there was something unmistakable about the way Shane moved. Like the game still lived in his body, no matter how long he’d been away from it. 

Shane looped around again, stopping near them this time. 

“The stride is looking better,” Ilya called, transferring his grip on Albina from hand to hand as she skated in circles around him. “But you are cheating on turns.” 

“I am not,” Shane practically scoffed.

“You are,” Ilya said easily, a playful grin on his face. “You always have.” 

“Yeah!” Albina added, releasing herself from Ilya to toddle confidently over to Shane. “Stop cheating, Shane!” 

“Hey, I thought coaches were supposed to be nice,” Shane protested, mocking offense. 

“I’m not being mean,” Albina assured. “I’m chirping you.” Shane looked taken aback by what the five-year-old had said. “Papa taught me that.” She looked so proud of herself, but Ilya was prouder. 

They kept moving, Albina and Ilya gliding hand-in-hand around the rink as Shane skated drills through the centre. Ilya watched the small things - finally having the time to appreciate them when it wasn’t overshadowed by the need to win. It was in the way Shane shook out his shoulders between reps. How his breath fogged in short bursts when he stopped. How the old muscle memory surfaced like it had never gone anywhere at all. 

Eventually, Shane slowed, hands braced on his knees and chest rising and falling. He pushed his helmet back and laughed gently, the sound tired but satisfied. 

“Okay,” Shane called over to Albina. “Your turn.” Albina shrieked, immediately pushing off to have a go of skating around the cones. From where Ilya stood, it mattered more than any clean lap or perfect edge. Shane choosing to stop on his own, handing the ice over to Albina was proof he was learning to listen to his body. Ilya knew all too well how hard it was to learn that wanting more didn’t always mean breaking oneself to get it. 

“Shane, look!” 

“Look at you go!” Shane said, skating over to meet Ilya against the boards. Shane leaned into him, close enough that Ilya could feel the heat radiating through layers of padding. So close it couldn’t possibly be anything other than deliberate. He didn’t look at Ilya right away - just stared out at the ice, eyes tracking Albina’s progress carefully. Ilya caught the flicker of Shane’s eyes towards the far doors before he finally settled in. Ilya stayed steady, unflinching, firm arm reaching around to rest on Shane’s padded hip. 

“Did you see that?” Albina asked as she skated past them triumphantly. 

“We saw,” Ilya said warmly.

“Perfect, pchelka,” Shane whispered, just loud enough for her to catch. Ilya smiled, but the feeling in his chest was something deeper than that, steady but quiet. Shane hadn’t reached for the word by accident. It landed with trust, echoing off the walls of the stark white, clean space, which brought Ilya such comfort. Albina beamed like she understood the gravity of every syllable - maybe she did. Ilya pulled Shane closer into him, letting his eyes flick over to the other man’s. He wanted Shane to see his approval, his gratitude. Shane eyed him back tentatively before resting his head onto Ilya’s shoulder. 

~

Shane leaned into Ilya, letting the rink hum around them. The scrape of Albina’s tiny blades faded into a gentle rhythm and he felt the quiet stretch between them, a space so comforting it warmed him amidst the cold of the rink. 

“I texted my old friend…” Shane said quietly, voice tentative like it was an admission. “His name’s Hayden… Pike. I don’t know if you remember him. We did a bunch of training camps together in juniors and now he plays for the Metros. He said he’d ask around about some contacts for me.” He watched Ilya’s face out of the corner of his eye, afraid to see a look that was pitiful. Instead, the small smile that curved in Ilya’s lips made his chest uneven. “Why are you smiling?” Shane asked, suspicion threading through his words. 

“You are… a go-getter, Hollander,” Ilya said gently, kindly. “I think you would have been drafted first… you are not lazy.” 

“And what? You are?” Shane tilted his head up to Ilya, brows knitted. 

“People have said worse about me,” Ilya replied with a shrug, the humour in his tone attempting to soften the edges of the conversation. 

“I never thought you were lazy,” Shane said quickly, steadily. “You don’t get that good by being lazy.” Shane’s voice was quieter, almost reverent. 

“Well, I guess you are lucky I am not lazy then,” Ilya said, shrugging again with a glance that made Shane’s stomach flip. 

“What?” 

“I spoke to my father,” Ilya said casually - almost too casually. “I got some of his contacts. He did a lot of… how you say… elbow rubbing back in the day.” Shane blinked up at him, feeling the words tangle in his throat. 

“I thought you didn’t like you’re father-”

“Is complicated.” The single line was enough for Shane to nod, not pressing any further. He hoped they had more time on the horizon to unpack all those things that Ilya clearly wasn’t ready to speak into existence. “But,” Ilya began, leaning just a little closer. “I like you.” His words landed differently than Shane had expected. They weren’t hurried or flashy, dripping in charisma. They were simple, earnest, saying so much in three words. Shane felt his lips curl into a grin that he didn’t even want to contain. 

“I like you too, Ilya.” Ilya laughed softly, like he was expelling his relief. 

“You know,” Ilya said after a pause, brushing his hand lightly against Shane’s arm. “We should probably get back to little coach before she decides she is boss.” Shane nodded, letting what little tension remained slide from his shoulder. 

“Let’s go.” They stepped forward together, sliding back into the rhythm of skates on ice. The rink stretched wide before them, but for once, Shane didn’t feel like the open ice was empty. It felt almost too full. 

~

Ilya hung Albina’s bag over the bench and tugged off her skates, letting them land on the floor with a soft thud. He watched Shane as he slipped off his own skates, fingers brushing the laces with a practiced motion that made him think of all the ways in which Shane Hollander had made his hockey ‘perfect’. As soon as she was freed from her skates, Albina had slipped off of the bench and headed towards the door. 

“No,” Ilya said sternly, immediately causing the child to pause. “Shoes on, and no outside without me, please.” Albina trudged back over, hesitant to argue when she knew she was in the wrong. She sat herself down cross-legged, working at her shoes. As Ilya waited, he floated himself tentatively over to Shane, who had just finished tying his shoes and was leant against the wall, watching Albina with kind eyes. “You know,” he said softly, leaning beside him. “Albina has been talking all about our sleepover.” He saw the way Shane’s cheeks rouged and couldn’t help but grin deviously. “She is already begging for one with Lexy, and…” He glanced at Shane, his voice catching slightly. “Maybe we could have one of our own. You… you want to come over Friday?” Shane froze just a fraction, a small smile tugging at his mouth. 

“Yeah,” he said, louder than Ilya had expected. “I’d like that.” Something in Ilya loosened. He could hear Albina approaching him, likely to inform him she was more than ready to go home. All he wanted was to sink deeper into the middle of his noisy, messy world. 

“Good,” Ilya whispered, catching Shane’s eyes for a moment longer than necessary. He pulled Albina up into his arms, balancing her things in his grip as he gave Shane a curt nod and turned toward the exit. 

~ 

Unlike the last time he was in this position, Shane buzzed Ilya’s doorbell with more excitement than he’d felt all week. The excitement was maybe a little out of place, given he had seen Ilya almost every day on the ice, training, coaching Albina, practising, and chirping one another - Ilya more so than Shane. But this wasn't practice. Wasn’t work. This was… something else entirely. He felt the familiar tingle in his chest; that same spark he’d first noticed the day of their handshake all those years ago, which he never dared to name. Now, it bubbled up again, raw and uncontainable. His fingers hovered over the buzzer for only a moment before pressing it. Almost immediately, he heard the click of a lock and pressed the external door open. His heart was racing as his legs carried him up the stairs with a pep he didn’t bother to hide. 

“Hi.” Ilya stood there, eyes bright and hair a little mussed, his voice quiet, just for Shane. Shane didn’t answer, simply stepping into the apartment, pulling Ilya in with him. Ilya’s arms circled him, steady and warm as their tongues met without hesitation. 

“Hey.” Shane finally pushed out a response, only separating their lips for a moment before reconnecting their kiss. It quickly became urgent, like they were trying to map every inch of each other after only getting to be civil training partners. Shane inhaled, breathing in Ilya: the salt of his sweat, the scent of garlic wafting in the cozy apartment. With a few strong steps, Shane pressed Ilya back against the door they’d just emerged through, the comfort of stability finally allowing him release. 

“Easy,” Ilya chuckled, pulling back to eye Shane down his nose. “We have time.” Shane didn’t respond with words, simply dropping to his knees in one swift motion, hands already working Ilya’s belt open with practiced impatience. Ilya’s breath hitched before he reached out to grip Shane’s jaw. 

“Dinner first,” Ilya said firmly, but with kind eyes. Shane pulled back just long enough to breathe, looking up at Ilya with glassy eyes - anticipatory of his lewd act. 

It was only then that Shane looked past Ilya to the table. It was tidy, free of markers, Barbie cars and the usual chaos of what Shane assumed having a child was like. A tablecloth was draped across it, candles mismatched and flickering softly. Steam curled from bowls of roasted vegetables and garlic bread. Shane stood fluidly, taking a few steps closer. 

“Ginger ale?” Shane chuckled, eyeing the can sat proudly across from an empty wine glass. 

“Lucky guess,” Ilya said, grinning. His joke sailed past Shane as the man looked at him with surprise. “I read profile from when they drafted you,” Ilya clarified, floating over to wrap his arms around Shane’s mid-section and tuck his chin in Shane’s shoulder, “Did not think your boring taste would have changed.” He kissed Shane’s neck, and Shane felt a jolt of electricity hum through him. 

Dinner unfolded slowly, sweetly. They talked about everything and nothing - Albina’s latest opinions, the drama at the rink, little embarrassments from Shane’s moments at home with his mom and dad that made Ilya laugh. Shane’s chest was full in a way he hadn’t expected, and his stomach was full in a way that didn’t make him feel guilty. 

Then, Shane’s phone buzzed on the table beside him, the screen lighting up: Tracy - Mitchell’s mom. Shane groaned slightly, not wanting a parents’ likely complaints to interrupt the moment. Ilya, whose hand was linked with Shane’s, thumb rubbing circles on his flesh glanced over, eyes widening. It was the same mother who just wouldn’t stop being snarky with Albina. The more time Shane spent with Albina, the more he too wanted to give that cow a piece of his mind. 

“Ignore it,” Shane said nonchalantly, reaching out to hang up before Ilya gripped his hand tighter. 

“No. Answer it.” 

“What?” Shane pressed it out with a chuckle, unsure whether this was another joke he had missed. 

“Answer it.” Ilya’s words were firm, but so much darker than the way he instructed Albina that it had Shane seeing stars. Shane clenched his jaw, but was already reaching for his phone. He swiped to answer and stood from the table to shift to the couch as casually as his shaky legs could manage. 

“Hi, Tracy.” Shane’s jaw tightened immediately as Tracy launched into her complaints. He opened his mouth to respond, but was given no liberty. Before him, Ilya slid out of his chair and crossed the few short steps to the couch, dropping to his knees between Shane’s thighs. Shane’s eyes snapped down, mouthing a charged ‘what the fuck’, without missing a beat of Tracy’s whining. Ilya answered with a smirk, his hands calm and efficient as they slid up Shane’s thighs before cupping him through his trousers. “Tracy-” Shane’s breath stuttered, but his voice managed to stay mostly steady. “Can you give me just a second?” Shane had muted the call while Tracy was still moping about being put on hold. “What are you doing?” 

“You clearly like it,” Ilya smirked, pressing his palm firmer against Shane, causing him to tip his head back. “How about…” Ilya teased, shifting to allow his finger tips to dance over Shane’s crotch. “You get hard, I keep going? Deal?” 

“You’re fucking insane.” Shane’s eyes said that he believed the words, but his mouth twitched before he licked his lips. 

“Deal?” Ilya repeated, fingers dancing over Shane’s waistband. 

“Fine,” Shane resigned, already half-hard. “Tracy- sorry. I hear you. I’ll raise it but I watched it back and it was a clean shoulder check.” Ilya tugged Shane’s waistband down just enough, Shane’s cock already stirring. He shifted closer, settling between Shane’s now wide-open knees with his face resting on Shane’s thigh. Ilya ghosted over Shane with a hot breath, causing Shane to stutter over his placated words to that awful woman. Like magic, Shane firmed up, Ilya watching as he bit his lip hard to stop the moan from escaping. Shane looked down at Ilya to meet his dark, amused eyes. He mouthed one word: ‘Hard?’. Shane glared down at him, his chest rising fast. His free hand dropped to Ilya’s hair - not yanking, but gripping tight in a controlled permission. Ilya’s grin flashed - quick and wicked before he pressed himself down, taking Shane to the back of his throat in one smooth glide. 

“I do understa-” Shane pushed his moan into a cough. “Sorry, something in my throat.” Ilya pulled off of Shane with a pop. 

“Something in my throat.” Ilya whispered. He didn’t wait to attach himself back to Shane, the coach responding with a gentle whack to Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya’s lips stretched around Shane, his tongue pressed flat against the underside the whole way down and back up again. 

“Safety is al- always the priority.” Shane sucked a breath through his teeth, watching as Ilya moved deliberately, torturously slow. He hummed around him and Shane’s hips jerked involuntarily, pushing deeper into Ilya. Ilya took it without flinching. He reached up to grip Shane’s thighs for leverage, fingers digging in in a way that only got Shane more bothered. “No, I’m listening, Tracy. I just have dinner on the stove.” Ilya pulled back again, letting Shane’s cock slip free for only a moment so he could lick a broad stripe up his length. “Yes, tell me again about that.” Shane’s breath was ragged as he pulled the phone away from his ear, clicking it to mute. “Fuck, Ilya-” He groaned, pulling Ilya back down on him. Ilya kept the rhythm, faster and sloppy with spit-slick lips and noise filling the apartment. Shane’s thighs shook, flexing either side of Ilya’s face. “Gonna cum-” Ilya hummed encouragement, taking him deep one last time. He held steadily there, swallowing around him in rhythmic pulses. Shane came with a broken moan, unable to stop his hips from snapping forward. His hands clamped tight in Ilya’s hair as he spilled down his throat. Ilya swallowed, holding tight against Shane’s crotch as he worked him through it. Shane pushed him off with a gentle nudge, unmuting the phone. “I’m watching it, Tracy. I promise. I have to go.” Shane hung up without further concern for her gripes, knowing he’d hear it tomorrow and the next day, whether or not he stayed on the phone all night. “You’re an asshole.” Ilya simply shrugged, looking up at Shane from where he lay on the rug with a contented smirk. 

“You are the one who answered phone.” Shane laughed, breathless, hauling himself off the couch and down to meet Ilya’s lips on the carpet. 

~

He looked up at Shane like he was gravity that was pulling Ilya’s gaze. The apartment felt different from down there. Softer. Maybe even better. 

“Should we finish dinner?” Ilya asked, the words drifting out of him, almost lazily. Shane smiled down at Ilya, allowing his eyes to flutter without care. 

“I’m pretty full.” Ilya couldn’t help the glitch in his brain, knowing even a margin of how Shane’s brain operated. He tipped his head slightly so he could see Shane better. 

“Are you actually?” 

“Yes,” Shane chuckled, his expression not hardening or shutting down. He smiled fondly at Ilya, like he knew exactly where the question had come from. “I’m not your five-year-old daughter you have to bribe into eating.” 

“I’m just checking,” Ilya teased, smiling despite himself. 

“I know.” From there, Shane looked unreal. Ilya grappled with an overwhelming sense that if he just stayed still, he could memorise every inch of Shane - of the stars that existed in his very being.

They stayed on the floor longer than necessary. Ilya let his hand drift until it found Shane’s wrist, resting there like he needed to feel his pulse to stay alive. Above him, Shane watched with something open in his face - something unguarded. But eventually, they moved, because the night was moving towards darkness whether they wanted it to or not. Ilya put away what was left of dinner, and Shane blew out the candles, and they wordlessly undressed for bed, sharing sporadic kisses that felt too domestic for either of them to poke fun at. 

Once Ilya laid on his side, arms wrapped tightly around Shane, he thought again of the floor. Of looking up to find that the universe had rearranged itself to put stars in his eyes.

~

Shane woke the way you wake from a good dream - reluctantly, like his body was bargaining for five more minutes of whatever peace it had found. He was warm; there was a weight across his middle and a breath against his throat. 

Ilya. 

They were tangled in one another in a way that was almost impossible. Shane’s leg was thrown over Ilya’s hip, his arm tucked beneath Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya’s thigh was pressed against Shane and his fingers were curled into the fabric of Shane’s t-shirt. Ilya held him - not possessively, but with a certainly that suggested he knew exactly where he belonged. Shane laid there and let himself have it, breathing in every inch of the quiet comfort. He glanced over at the window and noted the light creeping through the edges of the curtains. It was late morning and they had certainly slept in. The realisation settled over him like another welcome blanket - no alarms, no schedule, no urgency clawing at his ribs. His fantasy comeback would put all of that to a swift end, but for now, Shane could relish in it. Ilya shifted, murmuring something unintelligible before pushing his face deeper into Shane’s neck, breathing him in. 

“Morning,” Shane whispered. Ilya blinked awake, eyes unfocused and curls plastered to his forehead. He smiled at Shane, unguarded and boyish, like he hadn’t had the time to reassemble himself into the Ilya Rozanov the world had once known. 

“Hi,” Ilya said, voice rough with sleep. 

They stayed like that for a while, no rush to separate or speak, simply sharing gentle kisses and awe-filled glances.

“Would you want to come with me to pick up Albina?” Ilya finally said, almost carefully. “I know you will see her later at practice, but-” 

“I’d love to.” Shane didn’t let himself overthink it. Ilya’s smile bloomed immediately, wide and unfiltered, like he hadn’t expected the answer to be so easy. 

The air outside was crisp in a clean, early winter morning way that made everything feel possible. The drive was quiet but companionable, Ilya’s hand finding Shane’s at stoplights, squeezing once, twice… like punctuation. Shane had told himself not to be nervous, but he had failed. As soon as they pulled up, the reality of it hit him. Not picking up Albina; that felt like nothing in comparison to being her hockey coach, or having a sleepover at her house. But the other parents… the other eyes. The people who knew him as the guy at the rink, or worse, the guy who didn’t make it. He felt his shoulders tense without permission as he pushed the car door shut with a shaky hand. 

Then the front door opened. 

“Shane!” Albina launched herself down the stairs like a missile, backpack bouncing and hair still messy with what Shane was sure would have been an early morning wake up. She barrelled straight into him, arms wrapping around him with absolute certainty. Shane caught her instinctively, lifting her onto his hip with a laugh. Behind her, Branda smiled. “Hi, Ilya. Hi, Shane.” Her gaze flicked between them, sharp and assessing as Shane braced himself. 

Then she winked at him. 

Just like that - quick and conspiratorial. As if to say: you’re fine, you’re welcome. Just breathe. 

And Shane did. Something unclenched in his chest. He hadn’t realised how tightly he’d been holding himself until that moment. 

“Ready to go?” Ilya asked Albina, Shane slowly lowering her back down to the ground. She nodded enthusiastically, already grabbing Shane’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. She threw a ‘thank you’ over her shoulder at Branda before reaching up to clasp Ilya’s hand also. They walked back to the car together, Albina skipping between them and swinging their joined hands. She chatted about breakfast and their impending practice, and something very important that had happened with a green marker that Shane would ask Ilya to relay properly to him later. Ilya watched her with that quiet, attentive fondness that Shane had come to recognise as a settling in Ilya Rozanov. When they reached the car and Ilya was buckling Albina in while Shane leant against the door, Ilya reached up to push a stray lock from Shane’s face; he didn’t move away. 

For a brief, shining moment, it felt easy to imagine this as something ordinary. Shane hoped this was the start of something - not simply a happy moment floating on borrowed time. Just… them. 

Chapter End Notes

Please let me know what you think! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!!!

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Y'all, I'm so sorry about the delay. Life really got away from me. Good news is that I have kind of been writing the last chapter while writing this one, so that should hopefully be up in the next week.

Shane practically floated through his front door that morning, gliding up the stairs and into his bedroom. Against his better judgement, he folded himself onto his bed and allowed his head to melt into his pillow. It had been a late night, and Shane knew that he needed at least a little more sleep before reckoning with the dozen four and five-year-olds that morning. He was asleep in a matter of moments, atop his covers with his socked feet hanging off the bed. 

He was awoken what felt like only seconds later, but the time on his clock said he’d managed a 45-minute nap. 

“Sorry to wake you, honey.” Yuna stood over him, rousing him with a firm but loving grip. “But, I just got off the phone with Jason Kay from The Hockey News. He wants to do an interview,” Yuna whisper-yelled. Shane, still groggy, sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes as he peered at his mother with confusion. 

“What? Why?” Shane’s disorientation masked any other potential emotions as he continued to try and shake away the sleep. 

“I made some calls,” Yuna explained, normal tone of voice returning. “I know you know what you’re doing, but it doesn’t hurt to have people talking… generate some buzz. You know…” Shane watched her with cell phone in hand and mind clearly running a million miles an hour. It would feel comforting to see her back in her element, if the thought of people knowing what he was trying to accomplish didn’t put a knot in Shane’s stomach. Nonetheless, he was grateful. 

“Thanks, mom. But, I have to be at the rink in like, 20 minutes. Can we talk about this when I get home?” Shane queried, allowing his feet to find the floor as Yuna nodded defiantly

“Of course. Of course, honey.” She leant down and planted a kiss on Shane’s cheek. Shane leaned into her until she pulled away, moving to make herself scarce as Shane began packing his bag. 

Shane shuffled into the rink just minutes before the kids’ lesson was meant to begin. He cast his eyes to the floor to avoid the disgruntled glares, and in the hopes that it might deter Tracy from tracking him down to finish their phone conversation. Shane slipped into the back room as anonymously as he could muster. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his job, or that he didn’t want to be there. But he would be lying if he said the immediacy of his grand plans weren’t settling like a rock in his stomach. Of course Shane wanted it. It was the very thing he’d been wanting since he was old enough to want things. But it was all happening so fast. Phone calls, and interviews, and maybe soon, trials and meetings. What if he wasn’t as good as he once was? Or worse, what if hockey had moved on without him and he could never catch up? The relentless ticking of the wall clock in the silent room was the only thing that pulled Shane from his spiralling. He tightened his skates and strode out to collect the kids to the sound of only minimal complaints. 

~

Ilya hadn’t been expecting anything particularly riveting. He liked it when he got the opportunity to just watch Albina and Shane skating around and having a good time without worrying about how Shane felt or what the other parents thought. And that was exactly how the lesson had started off. The kids skated, with varying degrees of success; they played and Shane chased them around in what had quickly become their favourite game. Ilya made himself comfortable as he spectated, the fluorescent lights humming above him and the ghost of hot chips wafting through the rink. Branda sat beside him without incident, sliding him a coffee with little more than a manicured hand squeezing his knee. He returned it with a smile of thanks. 

It was not lost on Ilya how much better than the others Albina was quickly becoming. And it certainly wasn’t lost on the other parents either. It wasn’t obvious at first; despite her less-than-subtle personality, Albina wasn’t showy. But it was becoming increasingly clear that she had learnt to anticipate a puck, or cut a clean line, or stop crisp in ways that the other pre-schoolers hadn’t. And heads were turning. 

It was only made worse as Albina scored a goal - albeit sans goalie at this age. Ilya cringed with pride and Branda clapped excitedly. 

“Well,” someone muttered behind Ilya. “Somebody’s been getting extra attention.”

“Must be nice.” Tracy added with a short laugh. 

“She practices.” Ilya kept his eyes on the ice, his tone light. “A lot.”

“Oh, I’m sure she does.” Tracy’s tone was syrupy-sweet. “Private ice time isn’t cheap.” 

“My husband’s an engineer and even we’re remortgaging for privates,” the other woman chirped. 

“And what is it you do again, Ilya?” Tracy whispered, leaning forward with a purpose that made Ilya squirm. “You work… in a gym?” Ilya audibly swallowed. He had never, never, been embarrassed about his job. It was the job that had given him a chance when all he had was broken English and charisma. It was the job that allowed him to bring Albina to work because they had a creche she could play in. It was the job where he’d made his first Canadian friends; all the receptionists who swooned at his ‘single-dad’ schtick but who quickly realised his looks were the least fun thing about him. It was part of what made him feel like he belonged there, and which allowed Albina to have a normal life. 

Ilya only realised he had drawn completely inwards when Branda spoke up for him. 

“Albina is older than the rest. She’s just at that age when the kids start to really improve.” She threw words away like they were nothing. They were everything to Ilya. 

“Easy to improve when you’re the coach’s little golden ticket.” A man further down the bleachers snorted, causing a gaggle of whispers to ensue. “If you can’t do… teach your way to the MLH, hey, Hollzy?” The dad called it just an inch too loud that Ilya saw Shane flinch instinctively at the old nickname. 

“He is harder on her than the rest.” Ilya tried to tighten his jaw, but his voice shook.

“Of course he is,” the first woman said. “Has to make it seem fair.” Her words hung, ugly and insinuating. 

“Hmm.” Tracy relished in the abject humiliation. “So it’s not a handout… it’s an investment.” That one landed harder; the implication that Albina would ever be just a pet project to Shane felt like a lash to Ilya’s stomach. Ilya opened his mouth - unsure what he was even going to say - but another voice cut cleanly through the chill air. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Branda spun around like lightning, her slender hands gripping the top of her chair back so she had clear vantage of all the parents behind her. “Quit being such fucking vultures! You’re embarrassing yourselves.” A few heads snapped towards her. Tracy bristled. 

“We’re just saying, it looks-”

“It looks-” Branda interrupted, “Like a child who loves hockey and practices her butt off.” She gestured towards the ice, where Albina was resetting her stance following Shane’s whistle. “I would know, she just about sent a practice puck through my TV last night!” 

No one spoke back to her. 

“You want to talk about advantages?” she went on, still calm. “Her only advantage is having adults who believe in her. That’s not cheating - that’s parenting.” Branda whipped back around and into her seat with a huff and crossed arms. The air had shifted, and no one met each other's eyes. Ilya’s own eyes were glued to the ice as the murmuring died down, trying to convince himself that nothing significant had happened at all. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Branda swiped up her coffee, shifting to lean closer to him, a caring hand finding his forearm. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, low enough that it barely carried past the hum of the rink. She waved her coffee cup dismissively. 

“Please… don’t even worry about it.”

“I could’ve-” 

“I know-” she cut in gently. “You would have done the polite thing. The very restrained, serious, diplomatic thing.” She feigned her best attempt at a Russian accent, forcing a small laugh out of Ilya. “Which is why I had to step in.” On the ice, Shane skated backwards, calling out corrections to the kids; they hung on his every word. “They’re not entirely wrong, you know.” Branda whispered; Ilya immediately stiffened.

“Not wrong?” Ilya kept his gaze trained on Albina, her feet steady and eyes trained on the puck until they flicked back to Shane. 

“About him investing in her.” The word landed wrong in Ilya’s chest. It sounded so transactional and calculated. He clenched his jaw and felt something brace inside him, leg furthest away from Branda bouncing without control.  

“If this is about Lex-” 

“It’s not.” Branda shifted to turn fully towards Ilya. “I’m not siding with them, Ilya.” The steel in him hadn’t dropped just yet. “I’m saying,” she continued, “people don’t pour that kind of time into a kid unless they’re planning to be around.” The rink noise swelled - whistles and scrapes, and the hollow thud of the puck against the boards. He watched Shane skate over to Albina, crouching to meet her at eye level. He spoke words too quiet to hear, but Albina nodded, serious, before pushing off and away again.

“He’s her coach.”

“Mhm.” Branda paused, a grin on her face. “And?” Ilya dared to look over at her. She held his gaze steadily, no judgement to be seen. “I can tell the difference between someone trying to build a resume, and someone hoping to build a life…” Branda’s voice was soft, as if she anticipated the ricochet of good news. 

“But others will say-” 

“Fuck ‘em!” Branda threw her arms up, a droplet of coffee flying over her shoulder. Ilya watched it hit the cold concrete, immediately beginning to crystalise. “You should be happy that he’s investing in her… all of her.” Her words settled between them even if Ilya couldn’t. All of her. “I’m not blind,” Branda chuckled, shifting back to face the ice, crossing her legs over one another. “Who picks their kid up from a sleepover with said-kid’s hockey coach?” She laughed with a playful eyeroll, so full of love that Ilya couldn’t help but laugh back. Ilya looked out onto the ice at Shane giving  high fives to the kids as they skated off the ice. Albina hung back, always desperate to soak up every second of practice. When Shane finally coaxed her to the boards she jumped to high five him before pushing forward to hug his leg. Not five minutes ago that would have made Ilya sick with unease, worried about whispers of jealousy and conspiracies of favouritism. Now, Ilya looked at Albina pressed into Shane’s thigh, Shane’s hand on her helmet. 

Ilya hoped it was a long-term investment. 

~ 

The rink was especially chilly and bleak as Shane watched the kids filter out. Albina walked ahead of Ilya, her backpack bumping ahead her as she skipped towards the glow of sun outside. Shane stayed back, leant against the counter, not wanting to intrude.

He felt like static and it was clear that Ilya sensed it. 

“Okay?” Ilya questioned, gaze flicking back and forth between Shane pensively leaning and Albina desperate to cause chaos. 

“Yeah.” Shane’s voice was flat and his gaze was trained on Ilya’s sneakers. “Will you practice with me?” If Shane had dared glance up, he would have seen Ilya’s tender observance. His raised brows and twitch of a touch, desperate to reach his lover. 

“I have somewhere to be.” Ilya said. Not apologetic, just a statement, but his eyes betrayed him. Shane felt the lump in his throat, not because of the denial, but as if it was the final straw that broke his very fragile ecosystem. As much as he needed to practice - wanted to, even - Shane couldn’t bear the idea of being left alone that day. Just skating laps and thinking about the truth behind his unretirement, worming its way through the rumour mill. He also wasn’t quite ready to go home and find his media schedule taped to the fridge like the old days. He was grateful, but just not ready. 

“Can I come?” Shane asked, quick and breathless, too aware of the widening space inside his chest. 

“Of course,” Ilya said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Shane wasn’t sure why he expected hesitation. 

The building was stark in the same way that an empty ice rink was. Cold and still, decorated in shades of white and beige. This place however, was devoid of humanity in a way that Shane could never see an ice rink being. The blast of chilled air and the thrum of fluorescent overheads kept the rink alive, even without children buzzing around it. This building, despite the smattering of people, felt empty. The automatic door sighed closed behind them, the air smelling faintly like disinfectant. A row of plastic chairs lined one wall, occupied by people holding folders and avoiding contact with one another. Shane trailed behind Ilya as he guided Albina over to a row of free chairs. She dropped into it, Ilya reaching into her backpack to produce a tupperware container of cut up fruit. Shane sat slowly beside him, eyes catching on the sign behind the counter. 

Department of Home Affairs 

He didn’t comment on it. Just sat as still as possible while watching Ilya produce a thick manila folder from his own bag. His hands rested on it - not gripping but also not steady. He tapped the outside and ran his thumb along the worn edge, like he was trying to smooth out creases that weren’t there. Shane couldn’t hold himself inwards anymore, regardless of how inappropriate he knew it was to ask in that moment. 

“What is this?” he whispered. 

“Just renewal,” Ilya said, like it was simple and not suffocating. “Permanent residency updates. Like to check I exist and am not war criminal,” Ilya whispered, a gentle smirk on his lips as he spoke practically into Shane’s neck. Even Shane could see that there was something in the way his shoulder sat permanently bristling in this place - like he knew he had something to lose… Shane realised, maybe he did. He watched as people got called forward, approaching the counter to produce documents like offerings. Passports, birth certificates, utility bills. Proof of address, proof of income, proof of love disguised as legality. Proof that they belonged. 

“You do this every year?” Shane questioned, feeling as though his voice echoed even though he was barely audible. 

“Every few,” Ilya clarified. “Just depends. It’s only routine.” It was as if Ilya was trying to assure Shane - to comfort him. It practically made him sick. Albina shifted to lean her head against Ilya’s arm and he adjusted automatically, enveloping her tightly before floating down to place a tender kiss atop her helmet hair. 

“Ilya Rozanov.” His name was called with a formulaic tone and stilted pronunciation that left Shane barely recognising it as the very name that hadn’t left his peripherals in months. Ilya rose seamlessly, turning to glance over his shoulder for only a moment. 

“You will watch her?” He threw away, already walking up to the desk like he knew Shane would never say no. Shane watched Ilya produce stacks and stacks of papers - stamped, and sealed, and signed. Years of his life - Albina’s entire existence - reduced to reams of paper. 

“Yes,” he heard Ilya respond. His voice had shifted to something respectful and measured. Every word clear like he was trying to erase his very actuality as anything other than a ‘good ol’ Canadian’. “That’s correct.” Shane couldn’t hear the questions that Ilya was answering, but he did so carefully and yet with haste, producing every document before it had even been asked for. “Yes, she’s listed as dependent.” Shane’s gaze shifted to Albina, sat chewing through her diced fruit as she watched another child playing a game on a phone. “Yes, proof of employment is attached.” The woman behind the counter flipped through pages with indifference, unperturbed by the entire chapters of Ilya’s being that sat before her. There was no drama to it, no swelling music or tense, blood pumping stillness, just bright white lights and the soft slap of stamped paper. Ilya signed something. Handed something back. Waited. The woman disappeared through a door with half of Ilya’s life tucked under her arm and for a moment Ilya just waited there with empty hands. Shane felt it, thicker through the air than he could have imagined. There they were in this stilling of time in which Ilya and Albina’s right to belong there - belong there with Shane - was in someone else’s hands. 

The woman returned; papers restacked and a stamp visible on the top page. 

“All done. Valid through to February 2015.” Ilya nodded once, dispensing a curt thank you before swivelling on his heels and travelling back to them. Shane could see that his shoulders had deflated - that something in him had loosened. Ilya bent down, scooping Albina up with the vigour of good news, before gesturing for Shane to follow him towards the exit. When they walked back through the automatic doors, the afternoon sun felt warmer than it had an hour ago. Shane tried to linger, desperate to talk through the cocktail of uncomfortable feelings that seemed baked into the walls of that place. But Ilya walked swiftly back towards the town centre, a smile lighting his face as he cooed at Albina. 

“Coffee?” Ilya called, turning back over his shoulder to meet Shane’s wandering eyes. 

“Yeah,” Shane whispered, forcing his feet to move.

~ 

The cafe was two streets down from the immigration office. It wasn’t particularly trendy, or even packed for a Saturday morning. It was the kind of place with mismatched wooden chairs and a chalkboard menu written with careful looping handwriting. The warmth from the coffee machine lingered in the humid little room and as soon as Ilya placed Albina down, she made her way to a small table for three by the window. Shane began by following Ilya to the counter before he turned, a careful hand hovering over Shane’s back. 

“I’ll order. You go sit with her.” Shane nodded with an ease that Ilya hadn’t been expecting. He had so far only seen glimpses of a Shane Hollander willing to completely let go - and mostly in the bedroom. But Shane seemed mellow, walking gracefully around the cramped tables to sit across from Albina. 

Ilya waited patiently for their drinks, taking comfort in the fact that Albina was being well looked after. When he finally returned, he placed a black coffee in front of Shane and a hot chocolate near Albina before returning to collect his coffee, loaded with an ungodly amount of descriptors and even more sugar. 

Ilya let Albina try some of his whipped cream. He forced Shane to try some too. Albina made Shane eat a marshmallow and Ilya watched as he convinced her she wouldn’t like his drink. It was homely, and unbothered. The most perfect punctuation to a day that often loomed over Ilya. 

In all the comfort and warmth of the afternoon, Ilya's hand had snaked up to rest atop Shane’s. He looked at the grain of the wooden table, at the crumbs practically baked into the lacquer coating, at Shane’s delicate hand as it flipped up to intertwine with his, the older man not missing a beat of his indepth conversation with Albina about broken-stick disposal. Ilya allowed his mind and eyes to wander, comforting warmth making home in his stomach and chest. He watched as people filtered past on their Saturday afternoon walks. Groups of young women in active wear pushing strollers, older ladies walking their fluffy dogs, kids running ten steps ahead of their parents, hockey juniors on their way out of practice and towards the nearby McDonalds. 

He felt it - the shift. The way one of the boys’ gaze lingered just a fraction too long, squinting through the window. The flicker of recognition, or perhaps curiosity. Or maybe nothing at all - maybe just a glance at the pastries on display. 

But it was too late. Shane followed his view. He saw them. One of the kids from training, a few years younger. Someone who knew him, most certainly. Who was probably only a few days away from catching wind of Shane’s comeback. Someone who would remember this - no doubt. 

~

The boy’s eyebrows raised slightly. It might have meant nothing. It might have meant everything. It didn’t matter either way to Shane. He couldn’t help it as his hand moved determinedly out of Ilya’s. 

“It’s fine,” Ilya whispered, fingers twitching to chase Shane’s touch. “Just people.” Shane’s pulse was too loud in his ears. He couldn’t help but imagine the worst: the story that travelled without context, or worse, the story that travelled with truth. The boy outside lifted his hand slightly in half-recognition, half wave. Shane stood. Quickly. Albina looked at him, confusion spreading across her face as she looked up from her hot chocolate, marshmallows disintegrating. 

“I-” Shane started, already pushing his chair back. “I just remembered I told my mom I’d be home.” It was perhaps enough to convince Albina… but not Ilya. Ilya didn’t move - he just watched. The room hadn’t changed; the coffee scent still lingered in the air, and Albina’s marshmallows hadn’t ceased to dissolve. But something had changed. 

“It’s okay,” Ilya said carefully, trying not to sound too sharp or pleading. 

“You’re not finished,” Albina whispered, innocent eyes peering over at a half-drunk cup of coffee. It should have been enough to crack Shane; to force him back into his seat. But it wasn’t. 

“I know.” He forced a smile that didn’t quite land. “Next time.” The boys outside were still there; pretending not to stare, pretending as if their presence wasn’t burning a hole into Shane. 

“Text me when you are home.” Ilya said it like it was nothing. Like it was normal. Like Shane wasn’t quietly unravelling. The sound of Shane’s chair screeching backwards was too abrupt, the tone of the bell above the door as he exited too shrill. The thud of his sneakers on the pavement vibrated too heavy through his body. 

~

“Is Shane okay?” Albina asked it lightly, and Ilya was grateful she wasn’t privy to the gravity of the situation. He didn’t need to be shattered any further. 

“Da, lapochka,” he whispered, his hand reaching over to run sweet circles over her much tinier one. “Shane is just… busy.” Albina nodded like that was enough. Ilya wished he could tell himself that was the truth. That Shane was simply busy and there was nothing Ilya could have said or done to make him stay. 

He could lie to himself. 

~

When Shane got home, the torture of silence felt fitting. Like he deserved it. He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and stood in the hallway with his jacket still on. His phone sat in his pocket like a question he hadn’t decided to answer. He told himself to wait and let the air settle. He waited five minutes and considered whether he even deserved to text Ilya. Ten minutes passed. The evening light had begun to slide slowly through the kitchen window, turning the tiles pale gold where it reflected. 

Shane lasted 26 minutes before pulling his phone out, thumb hovering over Ilya’s name.

I’m home 

The message sat for barely a breath before the small grey typing bubble appeared. 

It disappeared. 

Appeared again. 

Okay 

That was it. Shane exhaled through his nose, sinking into the edge of his couch. He typed something before deleting it. Typed it again but deleted that too. His chest still stung with the weight of what happened at the cafe - too many eyes and too little air. Eventually, he summoned the courage to write the only thing that felt even remotely honest. 

I’m sorry

The reply didn’t come immediately this time. Shane told himself that Ilya was just busy… doing the dishes, or helping Albina in the bath, or… ignoring him. 

Don’t have to apologise 

The words arrived soft on Shane’s screen and he stared at them for a long moment. He dragged himself upstairs and into the shower, leaving his phone unanswered and his thoughts jagged. Evening continued its slow transformation outside his window: golds fading into something bluer. 

I didn’t mean to leave

He relented, fearing his words wouldn’t make sense outside of his brain. How is it that you don’t mean to do something that you stood, and acted on. The typing bubble flickered again. 

I know

It ended there, evening settling properly. Dinner hours passed, Shane sat quietly around the table with his parents as his mom discussed scheduling and plans. He almost found solace in it for a time, letting himself sink into the old regularity of places to be and people to mingle with, even if he’d always hated that part. 

“You alright, Shane?” his dad asked once there was finally a lull in conversation. Shane gave a quick - perhaps too eager - nod, wiping his mouth with a napkin. 

“Did a big conditioning session today, so I’m just tired.” The steadiness of his voice hid his lie with ease. 

When Shane finally escaped his parents' prying eyes, a stapled and highlighted schedule of the next two weeks in his hand, he shuffled to his bed, putting on a game. The sound was low and he was barely watching it, opting to stare as his ceiling fan made slow, relentless rounds. His phone buzzed just as the Raiders scored a goal. 

Albina wants to know if she is still having practice Tuesday? 

Shane smiled faintly, grin illuminated by the phone screen. 

Was planning on it

He tried to come off as nonchalant about it, not that Shane had ever mastered that skill. 

Good. She will be disappointed if you are not there

The idea that Albina would still have a lesson without him unsettled Shane. Albina was his student, his skater, his… 

I’ll be there 

It was typed with a determination that would have once embarrassed him. Now, he imagined Ilya and Albina, in their little apartment across town, sitting cozily in their living room. Ilya on the couch, likely with the same hockey game on TV, and Albina with colouring or toys, or whatever chaos she could conjure, spread across the floor. Shane closed his eyes and imagined, just for a moment, how he fit there. Maybe yelling at the hockey from the other side of the couch, or talking to Albina about her drawings, or… curled up into Ilya’s side as he chirped players from behind the television screen. 

Sorry again about today

It wasn’t ideal

But is done now

Shane let out a slow breath. That felt like forgiveness in Ilya-language. 

See you Tuesday then. I’ll be there early

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately. 

Of course you will

Shane set his phone down on the nightstand and finally allowed himself to sink into his mattress, the Raiders domination of Ottawa long forgotten and a warmth in his chest that hadn’t been there since they had found that little coffee shop. 

Two weeks later, Shane found himself back where everything had started. 

Not the MLH arena in Buffalo where everything had ended, or the packed stadiums he had dreamed about - but a rink, nonetheless. The same he coached in most days, where he could see the years of divots his skates had made and could count the number of times he’d face-planted the Western-most board. 

An idea he had hoped would start quietly, quickly became anything but. He had tried to keep control of it. Just some extra ice time - slipping into the rink after hours, running drills alone and sweating up a storm while Ilya leaned on the boards and called out corrections in his blunt, unsentimental way. 

Then one of the junior coaches approached him. 

“You want some real ice time, Hollander?” he said, half joking through a sideways smirk and a nudge. “Come skate with my boys.” 

The first time Shane had stepped into the junior practice, the room had gone a little quiet. Everyone knew who he was… or at least who he used to be. The hockey wonderkid who should have been drafted; the name that had floated around scouting reports before everything went sideways.

But at the end of the day, the juniors were simple creatures. If someone could skate, then they skated. And boy, could Shane still skate. Word spread the way it always did in hockey - casually through group chats and assistant coaches and the quiet grapevine of people who pretended not to like gossip that ran through every league. 

A former top prospect back on the ice.

Eventually, wind spread further and someone agreed to come watch. Not officially - it was made clear it was by no means a formal tryout. Just a scout from the East Coast League passing through town. Curious enough to spend an afternoon seeing what shape Shane Hollander might still be in. 

The rink felt smaller today - claustrophobic, even. Like the air itself knew someone important was sitting up in the stands and had to crowd Shane with the same suffocating knowledge. 

The players around him were barely younger - nineteen, twenty - but they carried their youth like armour. Fresh-faced and loose-limbed. Loud with the kind of confidence that came from not having failed yet. They jostled each other in line for drills, chirping and carrying on despite their coach trying to quieten them down. They were just as nervous about the ECHL scout being there, they were simply showing it with excited jitters to combat Shane’s stoicism. One of them grinned towards Shane.

“Let’s go, grandpa.” Shane couldn’t help but snort a laugh, pushing out his nervous energy against his will. 

“What are you, nineteen?” he snapped back, quip more cutting than he had intended. 

The whistle blew. They began. 

Shane moved on instinct alone. His edges bit cleanly into the ice. His shots snapped the puck around sticks and through legs in quick, familiar patterns, as if nothing had changed at all. Shane didn’t dare look towards the stands; he could feel the presence there anyway. 

A shot came flying at Shane seven minutes into the first 20. He fumbled it. Not badly, but just enough that the puck hit half an inch out of his sweet spot and went skipping awkwardly into the boards. The sound echoed too loud. Shane reset as best as his turbulent insides could. The next shift was better. His hands were quick, cutting cleanly around the kid that had called him old and earning a surprised whistle from the bench as his shot on goal found the back of the net. For a moment the rhythm had returned - the quiet, electric feeling of being exactly where he was supposed to be that Shane had trailed after for the last five years. 

But it didn’t stay. 

The next shift he hesitated, half a second too long, and his shot was blocked. The puck rattled off his stick during a clean pass. He sent the puck flying past his teammate in a pass gone amiss. Nothing catastrophic but not his best work. And Shane knew that difference better than anyone. 

His side won the game 2-3. Close when it shouldn’t have been. Hard when it should have been easy. If Shane couldn’t wipe the floor with some AA juniors, what hope did he have of ever stepping foot on MLH ice? 

By the end of the scrimmage, Shane’s lungs burnt and the tight pressure in his chest was a bitter mix of fatigue and anguish. The juniors spilled off the ice in loose groups, loud again now that the drills were over. Shane lingered, ten steps behind them on the walk back to the locker rooms. He had to force himself not to look into the stands out of fear that he wouldn’t see the scout - that he had seen enough and gotten the first plane back home. 

Shane didn’t realise he hadn’t been changing until the locker room was empty and he was left staring at his half untied skates. He let the silence stretch out around him and permitted the anger to burn in his chest like he deserved it. 

The click of the door was soft, but it echoed through the empty locker room like the period at the end of a sentence. Ilya didn’t interrupt the quiet right away, just stood by the door. As stoic as the Russian often tried to be, even Shane could tell by the look on his face that the Ilya didn’t come with good news. Ilya couldn’t even open his mouth to deliver the blow before Shane folded into his padded arms. He didn’t cry. He wasn’t sad. He was angry. Fuming at himself for every misstep and wrong decision on the ice. How dare he go out for brunch or spend an evening with Ilya and Albina when he could have been at the rink. How dare he think that he deserved that.

“You know,” Ilya said after a moment, voice thoughtful as he floated over to sit beside Shane. “You always tell Albina to get up when she falls.” Shane didn’t look up, but allowed himself to shift slightly into Ilya’s embrace. “Maybe you should tell yourself the same, Hollander.” The words landed gently. Too gently. 

“No, Ilya.” Shane exhaled sharply and turned, extracting himself from Ilya’s grip. “It’s not the same.” Ilya’s brows knitted and he looked so small next to Shane’s padded form. “You don’t get it,” Shane continued, his breath coming faster now, Ilya’s hand never ceasing to hover behind Shane. “You have… a life. You have Albina. You have a whole world outside of this.” Shane gestured helplessly towards the rink. “This is it for me.” His voice was quiet and raw. “Hockey is my life.” The words sounded childish once they were out, but it didn’t make them any less true. “I tried again, and I failed again, and everyone-” Shane’s body shifted as his breaths became deeper and fewer, hurting his chest with the lack of oxygen. Ilya moved immediately, one hand on Shane’s knee and the other on the back of his neck. “This- this is my nightmare, Ilya.” The weight of it finally broke something open in Shane. His shoulders folded inwards and he leant forward as best as he could in his hockey gear. He pressed his head into Ilya’s lap, nuzzling his thigh in search of any comfort. Ilya’s hand settled between his shoulder blades, steady and warm. 

“I understand.” It was all Ilya said, just allowing Shane to breathe into his jeans, the sweat on the nape of his neck slowly drying as he settled back down to earth. “Having Albina doesn’t mean I stopped missing it.” Ilya admitted, hand ghosting through Shane’s hair as he glanced upward. “There are days I would give lots to feel that again. The speed, noise… to be truly good at something.” It was an admission if Shane had ever heard one. 

“You’re a good dad.” The words escaped without thought, but his panicked state meant there was no room for anything but truth. 

“It never feels like it,” Ilya whispered, eyes shining with uncertainty. Shane pushed himself up, pecking Ilya’s lips quickly, unsure if he had the words to fix things. “Even if this never works… you are a great coach and those kids adore you.” Ilya added, the brutal honesty both steadying and unsettling Shane. 

“I just want to do it right. Make everyone proud.” His voice crackled with impending tears. Ilya studied him for a moment before reaching for his hand, pulling him towards the door without ceremony or warning. He cracked the door with a low creak, just enough to see the stands. The arena was mostly quiet, just buzzing with low murmurs and the hum of overhead lights. But it wasn’t entirely empty. Halfway up the stands sat Albina, where Ilya had left her with Lexy and Branda. She was perched sideways on her seat, one pink boot hooked under the bench while the other swung aimlessly around. Her tongue poked slightly out in fierce concentration as she wrestled with a granola bar wrapper that refused to cooperate. 

“She doesn’t care,” Ilya said, low and genuine. “She thinks you hung up the moon.” He watched as Shane shifted, almost uncomfortably beside him. “She is proud already.” Ilya allowed his hand to float to Shane’s lower back, the other man’s eyes glued on the little girl in the stands. “So am I.” Instinctively, Shane leant back into Ilya’s touch and Ilya took it as his queue to gently pull the door shut. 

“I blew it,” Shane whispered, turning on his still-laced skates to look up at Ilya. Ilya thought about the lingering joke, dirty and not fitting with what Shane needed. 

“You did not.” He settled for instead. He watched Shane’s shoulders sink, opting to ignore his kind words in favour of self-pity. Ilya sent an over-exaggerated hand flying towards the door as he scoffed. “East Coast Hockey League?” He said dryly. “If they had single brain cell they would sign you immediately.” Shane rolled his eyes, fingers shifting to the hem of his shirt like he’d decided he was finally going to get changed. “You’d be the only thing worth watching.” Ilya took a step after him. 

“You’re biased,” Shane stated flatly, pulling off his jersey and folding it with practiced concentration. 

“Yes,” Ilya responded simply. He shifted to lean against the lockers, his posture casual as his eyes raked over Shane carefully removing and packing his clothes. “Besides,” he continued, “I may have mentioned your name to someone else.” Shane straightened slightly, trying and failing to keep his cool, nervous system on fire. 

“Who?” 

“Brandon Wiebe.” Shane flicked around, wearing his bottom pads and shorts, but nothing else. 

“Brandon Wiebe? Like from the Cens?” 

“Yes.” Ilya gave him a quick nod, unable to hide his smirk. “I sent videos of you when we train.” 

“The Ottawa Centaurs…” Ilya could see Shane’s mind running miles a minute. 

“Slow down, Hollander. How about Belleville first?” Shane’s shoulders sagged, disappointment flashing across his face before he could hide it. Ilya stepped closer without thinking, lifting both hands to cradle Shane’s face. His thumbs brushed lightly along the edge of Shane’s jaw. “First,” he said quietly. “Not forever.”

“What if I ruin that too?” 

“You won’t.”

“But-” Ilya cut him off with a gentle peck, allowing Shane to dissolve into him. 

“I will help.” Shane frowned, his eyebrows threaded with worry. 

“You shouldn’t have to.” Shane practically groaned, letting Ilya take too much of body weight. 

“Why not?” Ilya wrapped one hand around to hold the back of Shane’s neck; the other remained on his face, thumbing his cheek. 

“Albina…” It was all Shane said at first, as if his body was ten steps behind his brain. In an instant, Shane straightened up, pulling away from Ilya. “A whole life depends on you. You shouldn’t have to babysit some washed-up nobody.” Shane missed the sad look of despair that spread across Ilya’s face. 

“I want to help.” His words were simple, but they landed with a solidity that had Shane actually listening instead of spiralling. “I will skate with you and train with you - I have still got it, you know,” Ilya teased, charm dripping from his every word. “I can yell at you when you are being idiot,” he continued, pressing until he forced a small chuckle from Shane. “I will earn the right to be your WAG.” Shane blinked through his confusion. 

“My what?” 

“Your WAG.”

“You do know that means wives and girlfriends?” Shane’s smile crept in, even if only in response to Ilya’s misunderstanding. 

“Yes.”

“So,” Shane said slowly, head tilting. “Does that make you my boyfriend?” Ilya pretended to consider seriously, his lips pursed and his brows furrowed. 

“I think so,” He said quietly, adoration blooming in his voice. “Probably.” For a moment neither of them moved. 

~

Shane’s legs hummed faintly from the practice. Muscles buzzing as he pushed through the packed waiting area with his bag slung over his shoulder. It was the kind of exhaustion that lived deep in his bones, that felt equally good and bad. Shane wove around people, some giving a quick congrats, and all of them paying very little attention to Ilya trailing behind him. 

At the railing near the front door stood Shane’s parents. Yuna stood completely upright, arms folded tight across her chest as though she was holding herself together by the sheer force of needing to be okay for Shane. David stood beside her, watching as people milled around. Yuna’s gaze was fixed on the ice until Shane stepped into her view, forcing her to take an immediate step forward. Shane would be lying if he said he hasn’t noticed the way her shoulders dropped ever so slightly. 

“Hi, honey.” Her voice was soft, but edged with the relief that Shane was still upright. That he hadn’t completely shut down and needed to be scraped off the floor of the locker room.  

“Hi, mom.” Shane approached her slowly, allowing her to place her manicured hand on his upper arm. She looked at him the way mothers always do, checking him over quickly but thoroughly.

“You okay?” Her question landed gently, but it carried the weight of everything she had seen from him - that day and long before. Shane paused for a moment, but the honest answer rose up before he could even second-guess it. 

“Yeah.” He nodded once, the smallest grin flickering over his face. “Yes. I’m okay.” Yuna visibly exhaled, the air thick around them releasing. 

“Oh,” she said softly. “Good.” Her gaze shifted then, drawn by the tall shape standing just behind Shane’s shoulder. 

Ilya. 

For a moment, she studied him with polite curiosity, but much like her son, she couldn’t hide the way her pursed lips tried to place the man who was but a foggy memory at this point. Shane felt Ilya's presence behind him more than he could see it. His hand lifted slightly, hovering near the small of Shane’s back as though he might rest it there. Shane shifted back into him for only a moment before Ilya’s hand dropped. Shane cleared his throat faintly. 

“Mom,” he says, turning back slightly. “This is Ilya… Rozanov.” Yuna looked at him properly then, something flickering across her face. A faint crease in her brows that suggested recognition - not of the man himself, but of the name. Of the long-ago arguments and newspaper clippings and late-night sports broadcasts where that name has been spoken with admiration and frustration in equal measure. 

“Hello, Ilya.” She was polite, almost cautious. 

“Hello.” Ilya nodded his head curtly. His voice was calm, his accent softened but unmistakably there. For a second, the three of them stood there in the strange quiet of almost-introduction. 

Then- 

“Shane!” The word exploded across the stands like a firecracker. Shane barely had time to turn before a small body launched itself down the steps and into him with the force of a tiny comet. He caught her automatically, arms coming up in the easy reflex of someone who had done this before. She landed against him and lifted her hips to wrap herself snugly around him. She fit there without effort. “You skated so good,” she declared, bright eyes staring him down with fierce certainty. 

“Oh, yeah?” Shane laughed, his voice warm and startled all at once. “That good, huh?” She nodded with intensity, beaming at him with satisfaction. Only then did Shane remember the rest of the world existed; he turned back to his mother whose expression was one he couldn’t read. “This,” he said, “is Albina.” He glanced quickly towards Ilya. “Ilya’s daughter.” Yuna’s expression softened, the lines of worry leaving her forehead in favour of something warm. 

“Hello there,” she cooed at Albina in the comforting way she did when Shane was sick or sad as a kid, and a new kind of love seemed to blossom in Shane. Albina studied her with deep concentration, head titled slightly to one side. 

“Albina, this is my mom,” Shane explained, hiking Albina higher on his hip as Ilya took the cue to take his bag from him. She peered at Yuna with the careful, curious gaze that children use when they’re deciding whether some is safe, or interesting, or both. It didn’t take Albina long to reach her conclusion. 

“Do you miss Shane when he comes to my house for sleepovers?” she asked with complete sincerity. The question hung in the air like a dropped glass that hadn’t quite hit the floor yet. Shane watched as Yuna stilled. Something flickered across her face - obvious surprise, but also something sharper. There was the presence of a quick, perceptive understanding sliding into place. Her gaze lifted briefly past Shane’s shoulder towards Ilya, and for half a heartbeat their eyes met. Neither of them flinch. Instead, the corner of Yuna’s mouth lifted very slightly, the way it did when she recognised the need to treat something gently. Shane had seen it many times before. 

“Well,” she began, “I suppose sometimes I do. But I’m sure you make my Shane feel very welcome at your house, don’t you?” She questioned, words directly at Albina, but obviously intended for Ilya too. 

“Yes.” Albina nodded with veracity. “We play hockey together, and we draw and have pasta.”

“That’s wonderful,” Yuna responded. It seemed like she might have even meant it. 

“Wait, what?” David interrupts like he had just realised he was a part of the conversation… like he had just realised where he was. “What do you mean sleepovers?” Shane’s eyes closed briefly, exhaling instinctively. The entire day had caught up with him in that moment - the skating, the nerves, the way his chest had nearly cracked open under the weight of being watched. The quiet locker room conversation with Ilya, the word boyfriend, the fragile hope threading its way through everything. Albina shifted comfortably in his arms, entirely unaware that she had just launched a conversational grenade into the middle of the stands. 

“I’ll explain later,” Yuna jumps in. 

And, strangely enough, those words didn’t feel nearly as terrifying as they once might have. 

Chapter End Notes

Please let me know what you think. I hope you've enjoyed so far. I've appreciated all your kudos and comments! :) x

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

The very last chapter is done. It's more of an epilogue. So quite long with time skips and flashbacks. Hopefully you guys like it!

“Let’s go, dad! Davay-davay!” Shane’s head whipped around as he settled into position for the first face-off. “Ty smozhesh’!” He smiled wide at Albina, raising his hand to catch her kiss as she blew it; he pushed it into his imaginary pocket. It was something they’d been doing for the eight years that Albina had been watching Shane play hockey - from scrimmages at their shared rink all the way up to the MLH. 

It was the sixth Cup match against the Minnesota Nomads, who had three wins to Ottawa’s two. They needed to win if they wanted to hold onto any hope of the Cup. Shane glanced at the coloured paints beneath the ice, shifting his stick back and forth to stay warm. It was the third time they had made the playoffs, but the first time they’d ever made it far enough to get even a whiff of the Cup. 

Shane took his rookie lap with Ottawa three days after his 25th birthday, and didn’t even scratch the list of oldest Rookies in the MLH, which Ilya reminded him regularly. Now, he was 30 years old with the C on his chest; five years into his MLH  career and 12 years away from the breakdown that almost ended it all. 

As the shift ended with an icing call, Shane moved leisurely towards the bench and glanced again into the stands. He looked to Ilya sporting his own ‘playoff beard’ in solidarity for the one Shane couldn’t grow. He looked to Albina; a teenager as of just two weeks ago, and Shane had to steel himself or he’d cry right there on the ice thinking about it. He’d watched her grow up - the good, the bad, and the ugly included.

“But I already told Jessie I could go,” Albina said, words tumbling out too fast. “Everyone else is going!” She whined. Shane was at the kitchen counter, rinsing the plates from dinner and only half-listening at first. “It’s just a sleepover.”

“It is not just a sleepover if I do not know the parents,” Ilya replied from the living room. His tone was calm, but there was a firmness underneath like he knew his daughter would not back down easily. Shane kept his back turned, but he was listening properly now. 

“You always do this,” Albina snapped, so much sharp frustration in her little 12-year-old body. “Why does everything have to be a big deal?”

“Because sometimes it is a big deal.”

“Why can’t you just trust me?” Albina groaned, inching closer to where Ilya was perched on the edge of the couch with every question and talk-back. 

“I do trust you, Solnyshko. It is every-”

“Everyone else you don’t trust,” Albina mocked. “Yeah, I know.” Shane could sense the eye-roll from the kitchen. He placed a mug down gently, careful not to make his presence too strongly felt. Sure, they did all live together now, in the upgraded apartment that Shane had bought them with his MLH money, but it still felt wrong to interject himself into their bickering. It just wasn’t his place. “It’s just Jessie. You’ve literally met her.”

“I have met her,” Ilya said. “I have not met her parents.”

“They’re normal,” Albina groaned, exasperated. “They’re not, like, criminals.”

“That is not the point.”

“It is the point,” she shot back, taking a defiant step closer to her father. Shane turned slightly under the guise of putting a plate away, trying to eye Ilya to see if he wanted Shane to disappear to their bedroom. Ilya’s eyes were cast on Albina, unmoving. 

“What if I call Jessie’s parents?” His suggestion was met with another groan. 

“That’s so embarrassing! Why are you trying to ruin my life?” If the moment hadn’t been so tense, Shane would have laughed at Albina’s clearly genetic dramatics. 

“I am not trying to ruin your life, Albina. I am just trying to keep you safe - that is my job as your father.” 

“You’re not even-” Albina stilled herself, inhaling with a quivering lip. She knew those words would take it too far, but she wasn’t yet old enough to express her anger in better ways. “Uggh!” She screamed, turning on her heels and storming off into her room. Ilya turned also, before Shane could make eyes with him. He walked with haste into his and Shane’s bedroom, leaving Shane standing in the now eerily quiet apartment. 

Shane stood in the kitchen for a long moment, one hand resting flat against the counter as he stared at nothing in particular. He could hear Ilya moving around their room noisily - clearly caught between unleashing his frustrations and making it worse. 

Before he could overthink it, he moved. But not to Ilya. He stopped outside Albina’s door, unable to hear anything through the thick wood. He raised his hand, hesitating for only a second, before knocking gently. 

“Al?” he called, voice quiet and careful. 

“What?” Not ‘go away’, not ‘leave me alone’. Shane took that as permission, opening the door slowly enough to allow Albina to shoo him away if necessary. 

Her room was dark, lit only by the low glow of her desk lap and the beams from streetlights outside her window. Albina was curled on her bed, back to the wall. She was obviously older now than when they met, but in moments like that, Shane couldn’t help but still see her as tiny. 

“What?” Her eyes flicked to him, guarded. Shane stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. 

“Can I sit?” There was a pause, and then a small shrug. Shane crossed the room and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, leaving plenty of space between them. For a moment, neither spoke. Shane watched as Albina picked at a loose thread on her comforter. 

“You don’t have to talk, but if you want-” 

“He’s being so annoying,” she huffed. Shane nodded once, like he was logging the information rather than reacting to it. 

“Okay,” he replied. She glanced at him, like she was expecting more. 

“That’s it?” Albina queried. Shane folded his hands together. 

“I don’t think it would be fair for me to pick sides.” Albina groaned, flopping down dramatically against her pillows. 

“Why not?” Albina drawled, rolling her eyes and shuffling further up her pillow again. 

“Because I care about you both too much.” There was a beat of silence, Albina staring at the pink stars on her comforter. 

“He just doesn’t listen. He just decides things and then that’s it, and I don’t get a say, and it’s not fair.” Shane nodded along. 

“You’re right. He does do that sometimes.” Albina looked at him with obvious surprise. “But your papa has also lived a life much longer than yours and sometimes he knows about dangers that you can’t see yet.”

“What does that even mean?” Albina queried, squinting at Shane. 

“It means,” Shane said carefully, searching for the right words. “Papa loves you… more than anything else in the entire word. And sometimes love makes people… nervous.” Shane thought of all the nerve-racking, scary things that came with loving Ilya… with loving Albina. Like sending Albina off to her first day of school without knowing whether she’d be okay. Or when Shane was hit on the ice and stayed down for a bit too long. Or when Ilya finally admitted he needed to talk to someone about the feelings he just couldn’t contend with any longer. “Papa would rather make you mad at him forever, than ever have to see you hurt or sad.” Shane glanced at her, then away again, giving her space to think. The silence permeated for a while.

“I didn’t mean what I said.” Her voice was even quieter now. 

“I know… and Papa knows too.” 

“Do you think he’ll still be mad?” Shane was quick to shake his head. 

“No. He’s probably standing against the door right now, trying to listen in.” Albina let out a small, reluctant chuckle and Shane smiled faintly at that.

“I have a good dad…” Albina whispered, somewhat like she was disgruntled to be admitting losing the argument, but mostly with adoration. 

“And we have a really good daughter.” Shane echoed, standing from the edge of Albina’s bed. “Let’s talk about this sleepover some more in the morning.” Shane settled, Albina shuffling to get out of bed in favour of heading to her bathroom. As she passed by, she reached up and slung her arms around Shane’s neck. 

“Goodniiiight, dad,” she drawled, looking up at Shane and making a silly face that suggested the fight had left her. 

“Goodnight, pchelka,” Shane whispered, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. She pulled away from him and began walking to the ensuite. 

“Make sure you come out and say goodnight to papa.” Shane instructed. 

“I will.” Those were the rules after all. 

When it was time to enter the ice for his next shift, he looked at them again. His baby and his babygirl. Ilya was dressed in his ‘WAG Jacket’, embroidered and rhinestoned during one of his many ‘working bees’ at someone’s house, complete with wine and gossip. Albina was wearing his jersey. Not an overpriced replica from some gift-shop, but his actual away jersey. 24 - the same number she chose when she made her first minor league squad a few years ago. Ilya’s name and Shane’s number finding home on the back of a curly-haired pocket-rocket of a player, the culmination of her papa’s fire and her dad’s coaching. 

How lucky Shane knew himself to be to get to love someone twice. 

But it hadn’t always been that way. At the very beginning, when Shane’s ALH career was just taking off, he was reluctant to let word spread of the situation he, Ilya and Albina found themselves in. In Shane’s defence, the hockey world felt so enormous when he finally stepped back into it - brighter lights, sharper expectations, and especially eyes everywhere. 

He started by referring to Ilya vaguely. His ‘friend’, his ‘coach’, his ‘training partner’. The words felt wrong in his mouth, but he used them anyway - out of necessity. 

Ilya never pushed. He stood just outside the edges of Shane’s public life, steady and patient, as if understanding exactly what it cost to be in the centre of it. When Shane came home from practice, Ilya had dinner ready on the table. When he was too wired to sleep, overthinking a loss, Ilya stayed up with him and talked strategy. When he came back from road trips, exhausted and overstimulated, there Ilya was waiting on the couch with a blanket and a niche YouTube video he knew Shane would like. 

But the truth just couldn’t stay small. 

The way Ilya handed Shane a bottle of water during morning skate without asking. The way they always arrived at and left games together. The way when Shane Hollander was papped with acting-phenom Rose Landry, the rumours were quickly dispelled. Ilya’s presence had settled so strongly in Shane’s life that it couldn’t help but grow. 

And it grew in Albina, most of all. She was impossible to hide in the best possible way. 

By the time she was old enough to understand what cameras were, she had already decided she liked them. She showed up at games from the very start in oversized jerseys, red and gold glitter down the part of her perfect braids - done by Yuna, of course. She waved wildly from the stands and hollered like she was personally responsible for every one of Shane’s goals. 

The people were quick to notice… and they loved her for it. There were always clips of Albina cheering, or scolding the referees with dramatic indignation. Albina clinging to Shane after games like he was something she had claimed and would not be giving back. Commentators laughed and fans latched onto it, allowing her to quietly and organically become part of the furniture in the Ottawa locker room. 

Shane hadn’t meant for it to happen. But one night, after a totally unremarkable home game that he barely remembered playing, he found himself sitting on the bench while Albina chattered beside him. Shane’s arm was around her and she was nestled into the crook of his shoulder, little hands playing with his larger one. Ilya was just behind them, watching with an undeniable adoration.

And someone took a photo. 

It spread. Not explosively or cruelly. But it spread, nonetheless.

@rinkside.replays
📸 Different kind of post-game moment tonight.
#NHL #BehindTheScenes #HockeyLife

❤️ 148K likes 🔁 32K reposts 💬 9.8K comments

top comments:

@puckbunny22
WHO is that child and why is she holding his hand like she owns him 😭

↳ @blue_line_babe
because she DOES

↳ @netfrontchaos
that is HER player actually

@stats_over_vibes
man just dropped 2 assists and is immediately in dad mode

↳ @zoneentryking
“dad mode” is sending me 😭

@watchingthebench
okay but… the guy behind him

↳ @just_here_for_drama
THANK YOU I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE

↳ @blue_line_babe
“the guy”? Umm put some respect on Ilya Rozanov’s name plz

@neutralzoneclutch
Is that his kid??

↳ @hockeydetective
nope. don’t think so. which raises MORE questions

@oldschoolfan
focus on the game not this nonsense

↳ @iceisfamily
He DID focus on the game. did you miss the scoreboard or

@rinkratlexy
THATS ALBINA 😭😭😭

↳ @everyone
WHO???

↳ @rinkratlexy
Ilya's daughter! she’s always at the rink with him!!! she yells at refs it’s iconic

@goalhornbaby
idc about anything else that kid loves him so bad

@linechangechaos
this feels like we just got dropped into season 3 without watching seasons 1 and 2

↳ @puckbunny22
LITERALLY

@netfrontgrinder
Imagine explaining this 2 the locker room back in the day 💀

@throwawaypuck
idc what anyone says this is weird

↳ @iceisfamily
it’s a kid???

↳ @throwawaypuck
Not talking about the kid

@softforgoalies
no one talk to me I’m thinking about how safe that kid feels

@watchingthebench
I’m bookmarking this for when we find out everything later

↳ @quietcorners
There’s nothing to find out. It’s clearly not “new”. Just new to us.

Shane tried at first to maintain the separation. To keep things compartmentalised and under control. But it quickly became exhausting. It was a slow and lazy breakfast one Sunday morning when it hit Shane as he looked at Ilya and Albina watching a game on TV. This was not something temporary he needed to hide - it was his life and he loved living it. He loved the way Albina reached for him without thinking. The way she called him dad by mistake a few months earlier and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was in the way Ilya’s hand found him when no one was supposed to be looking. Suddenly, hiding it felt less like protecting and more like erasing. And Shane refused to erase the little life he had built.

@shanehollanderhockeyplayer
I’ve never been very good at talking about my life off the ice but I think some things deserve to be said properly.

Ilya is my partner. Albina is his daughter. And by extension, mine. We are a family. 

I’m still the exact same player I’ve always been. I’ve had them in my life for a long time, and everything I’ve built in this sport has been with their support behind me.

❤️ 2.4M likes 🔁 780K reposts 💬 312K comments

top comments:

@zaneboodramcens
Proud of you. Always.

@rinkside.replays
well. that answers that.

@softforgoalies
“we are a family” I AM UNWELL

@nhlfansdaily
Respect. Nothing but respect.

@watchingthebench
we knew. we just didn’t know.

@iceisfamily
this is bigger than hockey.

@oldschoolfan88
keep it off the ice

↳ @blue_line_babe
he literally is?? this is his LIFE

@albinafanclub
SHE HAS A NAME AND WE LOVE HER

@benchchirper88
Some of you owe him an apology

@throwawaypuck
don’t care just win games

↳ @netfrontchaos
he does both actually

@goalhornbaby
family looks good on you 🫶

@leagueupdates
One of the most significant personal announcements we’ve seen from a current player.

And after that, things changed. Not all at once, and certainly not perfectly. There were headlines and opinions - noise and outrage. But there were also fans who softened; who saw Albina wedged in between them, grinning like she won the lottery. There were people who chose kindness, and through it all… Ilya stayed exactly the same. Steady and unwavering. 

There was a night, weeks after when everything seemed like it might never settle, where Shane sat at the kitchen table long after Albina had gone to bed and the apartment had gone quiet. His phone sat face-down in front of him, trying to force himself to ignore the world buzzing around him. 

Ilya stepped into the room without turning on the light. He didn’t ask anything. He just reached out, finding Shane’s hand in the dark, and threaded their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. For the first time in a long while, there was nothing within Shane that felt split or hidden. As Ilya’s thumb brushed once across the back of his hand, Shane realised that he would never again have to carry anything alone. 

~

Intermission settled over the building in a suspended quiet. Not silent - it was never silent. But like the mid-breath pause of the game while people got snacks, smoked outside and disappeared into the foyer to bag the refs. Ilya stood just behind the glass, one hand resting on the railing, eyes tracking the empty rink as the ice crew moved in smooth, practiced lines. He wasn’t entirely sure where Albina was at that moment, but she was with David and Yuna, so he knew she was well looked after - spoiled even. 

He also knew exactly where Shane would be. In the locker room with his head down. Towel around his neck as he ran through plays in his mind with that particular, relentless focus that never really left him. Not even now, after everything. Ilya’s mouth curved faintly as he thought about the fact that some things simply don’t change. 

He shifted his weight slightly, adjusting the jacket draped over his shoulders. It still felt strange sometimes - this version of himself so removed from hockey, but somehow so fiercely ingrained in it. There was a time - long, long ago - when his life orbited the game in a different way. Structured and demanding. Measured in hours worked, shifted covered, things won and earned the hard way because there had never been another option. Hockey had been something he gave to constantly, without expecting to get anything back. 

But now, it gave him all this…

It started with the apartment. Shane had framed it as a practical decision - like he did all things. It was closer to the rink, better for travel, more space for Albina as she got older and outgrew her toddler bedroom, and better high schools in the area. All true, all reasonable. But when Ilya had stepped inside for the first time, it had felt like walking into a version of his life he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine, for fear of feeling like he’d failed himself and his daughter. 

There was light everywhere and so much space for makeshift hockey games. The kitchen was the kind that didn’t require strategy to navigate, with endless counter space. They had bedroom doors that they could close without pressing up against their beds on the other side. It was perfect, and Shane had thought about every little detail - for them. 

Quitting his job had felt bigger than it should have. Not because Ilya didn’t want to - Gospodi, he had wanted to - but because it had made up such a big part of those tougher years when they first moved to Canada. He panicked that without the proof of usefulness, he would simply fade away.

But, Shane never pushed. Never once said you don’t have to do this. He just made it possible not to. When it finally tipped, it was freeing instead. 

In the morning, Albina would sit on the counter and talk while Ilya braided her hair and Shane would make them breakfast. In the afternoons, he did the school pick up and then either took Albina to her own practice or to cheer Shane on at his home game. In the evenings, when Shane came home exhausted, Ilya had created a steady space for him. Dinner on the table, the soaps Shane preferred stocked in the shower, a blanket on the couch and a backrub imminent. If it turned into something more, well that was simply coincidence. 

That became his purpose. It wasn’t the kind one could put on a resume, but it was the most important job he’d ever had. And, as it turned out, the job came with… colleagues. 

Ilya almost didn’t go. That was the embarrassing truth of it. He had stood in the kitchen long after dropping Albina off to Yuna and David, staring at the message on his phone with the kind of suspicion most people reserved for scam emails and tax audits. 

WAG night at mine on Thursday. Wine, cheese, complaining about our idiot hockey players that we love. You’re coming. No excuses. -Cassie xxx

As if that were not strange enough, there had been three separate follow-up messages from other numbers he didn’t recognise. 

You have no choice you’re literally one of us now 

Bring nothing. 

Actually, bring gossip 😉

Don’t be weird Ilya. We want intel on Shane 😜

He had stared at the screen for a long time, then set the phone face-down on the counter as though that might somehow make the whole thing feel less real. 

A game was one thing; a family section in the area, all of them half-watching the ice was another. That was easy enough to slip into. There was structure, and distractions, and a reason to be there. But a wine night felt like being invited directly into the centre of something. 

He was still thinking about what, exactly, one might do at a ‘cheese night’ when Shane wandered into the kitchen in socked feet, hair damp from the shower. 

“Okay?” He asked softly, hand ghosting Ilya’s back. 

“I have been invited to… wine, and cheese, and… complaining.” Shane chuckled, reaching over to flip the phone, a parade of messages lighting up the screen. 

“You should go,” Shane added, reaching up to peck Ilya’s lips. He pulled away to see the puzzled look on Ilya’s face. 

“Shane Hollander wants me to go to a party? Talking, and gossiping, and giggling about weird, quirky husbands?” Ilya was now smirking, arms reaching around Shane to rest on his bum. 

“Just because it’s my personal nightmare doesn’t mean you won’t like it. I actually think you’ll have a lot of fun,” Shane said honestly. 

So Ilya went. 

When Cassie opened the door, she took one look at him standing there with a bottle of wine that he had been specifically told not to bring and barked a laugh. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she grinned, stepping aside. “You’re nervous.” She smiled at him in a way that made it clear she was not fooled, but certainly endeared, and reached up and took the bottle from his hand. “Come in. We’re in the kitchen. Caitlin’s already two glasses deep, so you better catch up quick.” 

The house smelled warm and expensive, like baked brie and candles, and some kind of hand soap that had definitely cost too much money. Voices drifted in from the kitchen - low and overlapping, and punctuated every few seconds by floaty laughter. Ilya paused just inside the hall, shrugging off his coat, suddenly too aware and nervous of the space he might have taken up. 

“Come on, Prince Charming,” Cassie teased gently. “Come sit down.” 

There were six women in the kitchen and dining area, all arranged in a kind of elegant domestic sprawl - one perched on the counter, two at a table, one kneeling beside a charcuterie board that looked more architecturally sound than Ilya’s old apartment. A bottle of red was already open - so was a white. There were olives in little bowls, crackers fanned out like someone had styled them for a magazine, three kinds of cheese, and a suspiciously aggressive amount of prosciutto. 

Every head turned when Ilya entered, and for one second he feared that this was where it became awkward. Instead, one of them lit up and pointed at him with a breadstick. 

“Oh my god, finally,” she said. “Sit down, before Selena eats all the good cheese.” 

“I bought the good cheese, thank you very much.” Selena protested from somewhere near the island. 

“Exactly,” Cassie said, steering Ilya towards an empty chair, “and that’s why you can’t be trusted around it.” 

It happened so quickly Ilya barely had time to be nervous about it. A glass of wine appeared by his elbow. Someone asked whether Albina was feeling better after the cold she’d had last week. Someone else wanted to know if Shane always folded his clothes with military precision, or only after they lost a game. There was a brief, but very serious debate over whether LaPointe’s girlfriend was too young to own the shoes she’d worn to the last game. They even debated whether Troy Barrett maybe had the hots for one of the social media managers. 

And just like that, the room folded around him. It wasn’t ceremonious, just natural. Ilya found himself answering questions without thinking too hard about them. Yes, Shane was as rigid with his rituals at home as he was on the ice. No, Albina had not inherited a single ounce of Shane’s neatness. Yes, Shane labelled everything in the fridge, and yes, Albina ignored every single one with cheerful impunity. That got a laugh warm enough to make Ilya smile into his glass. 

Later, after enough wine had softened the edges of the evening, they migrated from the table to the living room. Shoes disappeared and someone put on music from ten years ago and immediately regretted it. Cassie brought out another board - specifically dessert themed, and Ilya pounced on it alongside the women. 

Ilya ended up on the rug with his back against the sofa, listening while Caitlin described the time Evan had forgotten their anniversary but accidentally redeemed himself by getting into a fight with a mascot on the same night. He laughed so hard that he had to cover his face with one hand, and when he looked up he found Cassie watching him with open satisfaction. 

“What?” he asked. 

“It’s nice to have you here, Ilya.” 

By the time he left, someone had packed leftover cheese into foil for him. Lisa had made him promise to come to the next one, and Cassie hugged him at the door with the casual confidence of someone who had decided months ago that he belonged to their particular chaos whether he liked it or not. 

When he got home, the apartment was dark except for the lamp in the living room. Shane was stretched half-asleep on the couch in Ilya’s soft, grey sweatpants. 

“How was it?” He croaked. Ilya carefully knelt onto the couch, crawling slowly up Shane. 

“I had fun,” he admitted, leaning down to place gentle kisses on Shane’s clammy neck. 

“I know,” Shane whispered, tipping his head back to allow Ilya in. Ilya huffed out a laugh, causing Shane to flinch. He bent up and kissed him, slow and brief. Their kiss tasted faintly of wine. As their child-free evening found itself carried away into their bedroom, Ilya’s chest fluttered with the idea that, yet again, he had found space in his life for more places to belong. 

There were things that stayed constant, too. Like Branda. Ilya’s expression softened properly at the thought of her. Lexy had quit hockey two years earlier, but Branda has remained, stubborn and affectionate and somehow even nosier than before. Without the regular rhythm of the rink, Ilya might have assumed they would have drifted apart naturally, the way adults often do when the things tethering them together disappeared. Instead, Branda texted him more now than she ever had when their daughters shared ice time. 

She sent him grainy photos of Lexy’s school projects and voice notes that started with ‘you are not going to believe this’, and ended 12 minutes later. Sometimes she dropped by the apartment under the thinnest possible pretenses. Sometimes he took Albina to hers and stayed for coffee that turned into lunch while they dismantled the latest rink drama piece by piece. 

There was something sweetly absurd in it, Ilya thought. The fact that one of the most enduring friendships of his adult life had begun with Branda saying things loudly and obliviously, and Ilya had found home in that. 

The strangest development of all, however, was Shane’s parents.

At first, Yuna and David had looked at Ilya the way people looked at incoming weather. Not with fear or dislike, but with caution sharpened by memory. The kind that came from having heard a name too many times in too many charged contexts. From having watched their son come home from games, exhausted or angry and always finding, somewhere in the story, the same shadow moving alongside him. Ilya. 

Still, Yuna was gracious, and David was courteous in the way people often were when they hadn’t decided on someone yet. But Shane could still see the way Yuna studied Ilya with concern. Not because she thought he would be cruel, but because he was far too close to that life that had once cost Shane so much. 

But Ilya seemed to understand that almost immediately. He didn’t try to charm them - simply arriving at their house each time with steady manners and Albina in tow. 

And perhaps that was what did it for them. The version of Ilya that existed with Albina was perhaps the most devastating evidence of all. Because no matter what they had once imagined about him; no matter how much old hockey lore had shaped their first impression, there was no mistaking the softness of Ilya with her. 

The way he could tie her shoelaces and talk hockey strategy with Yuna at the same time. The way he always seemed half-tuned to her, even in another room. The way he never spoke down to her, as though her feelings were no less real for being loud and sticky and six years old. 

Soon, Yuna stopped studying him like a case file, relishing in her new role of spoiling Albina rotten. David took a particular liking to him, the pair discussing politics and doing puzzles while Yuna and Shane… and Albina, discussed the media plans for the next week. Slowly, but surely, the lines blurred. Ilya stopped being Shane’s boyfriend-who-was-visiting, and simply became Ilya. Part of the furniture. Part of the ritual. Part of their family. 

By the end of Shane’s first season with Belleville, visits to his parents house had settled into something almost ritualistic. The house always smelled of fresh dinner rolls, and onions softening in butter. 

Albina loved Sunday night dinners on principle. She liked that Yuna always had a bowl of little chocolates tucked somewhere ‘for after’. She liked that David could be bullied into nearly any game if she approached with enough dramatic force. She liked that no one minded when she wriggled out of her socks and left them places, or talked too loudly, or climbed onto chairs by her knees instead of using them properly. 

One particular evening, they were all at the table: Shane at one end, David at the other, Albina wedged between Yuna and Ilya. She was in the middle of explaining something enormously important about a spelling test and a girl named Marnie, when she knocked her fork to the floor. It clattered under the table, sending bits of pasta sauce flying. 

“Oh, Gospodi-” Ilya started, already leaning down to retrieve it. Yuna put her hand out quickly. 

“It’s fine, son. I’ll get another one.” The word landed so lightly she might not even have noticed saying it. 

But Albina did. 

“He’s not your son,” she said accusatorily. The table fell into a surprised quiet. The kind that came when a child had wandered, with total innocence, into the middle of something more delicate than she knew. Yuna looked at Albina for a moment. Then she smiled, like she was grateful to Albina for asking the exact question adults were too careful to say aloud. 

“No,” she said gently. “Not by birth.” 

“So, why did you call him son?” Yuna reached over to smooth a crumb from the table nearby, as if buying herself a few seconds. When she looked at Shane, he couldn’t hide his tender expression. 

“Sometimes,” she began, “you don’t have to belong to someone in the official way for them to become family to you. I care about your papa a lot… and after a while, your heart can make room for more family. And that’s that…” 

For a second, nobody spoke. Ilya’s eyes had dropped to his plate in the way they always did when he was trying not to let himself be seen feeling too much. One of his hands rested beside his glass, open and motionless against the table. 

“Oh,” Albina finally said, brows furrowed like she was clearly thinking. “Like how papa isn’t my papa but he actually is?” Before anyone could entertain a response, her face lit up and she continued. “Does that make you my grandma?” David barked out a laugh so sudden he had to cough into his napkin. Shane himself leant back in his chair with a helpless grin breaking over his face. 

“Well,” Yuna began, bringing her hand to her chest like she had been physically struck by sweetness. “I suppose it might.” Albina looked pleased with that, turning back to Ilya with a wide grin and the remnants of garlic bread in her teeth. 

“In Russian,” Ilya said, his voice low and a little rough around the edges. “We say babushka.” Albina’s eyes widened at once. 

“Babooo-shka?” Ilya gave her a quick nod. Albina, delighted, abandoned her dinner entirely to turn and lean against Yuna. “Can I call you that?” Yuna slid her arm around her automatically, tucking Albina in close with a naturalness that took away every fear Shane had that his being gay would deprive his mom and dad of the grandparent experience. 

“You can call me that whenever you like.” Yuna looked down at her with a wide smile.

For the rest of the dinner, Albina remained tucked against her, leaning over every few minutes to ask some new question - like whether babuskha’s house had different rules to home, or whether she could stay over forever if she wanted. Ilya couldn’t look at them without the fear of tearing up, and he hoped that family felt like that forever. 

By the time he caught sight of Albina, the teams were back on the ice warming up for the 2nd period. Albina bounded back over to the family box, chatting up a storm with David, who listened tentatively in the same way Shane often did. 

~

The 2nd period passed in a blur of sharp edges. Shane barely felt the crowd anymore; he kept his mind narrow on purpose. Midway through the period, he forced a turnover and drove the zone hard, shoulder checked at the boards, but stayed upright. At the whistle, bent over at the bench, he let himself glance towards the stands. 

He found them all at once. Albina practically hanging over the railing. His dad beside her, trying and failing to look calm. His mum talking to Ilya with that intense, animated look she only got when she was able to really discuss hockey with someone. And Ilya… Ilya stood with one hand on the rail, watching the ice in quick scans. Just seeing them tethered him. 

The next shift, Shane drew a penalty. On the power play, he slipped into the open seam, took the pass clean, and shot. 

Saved. 

The crowd groaned, Shane circled back into position, pulse pounding in his ears. 

When the horn for the 2nd period sounded, he skated for the tunnel with his chest heaving. He lifted one gloved hand towards the stands, carrying them all with him as he disappeared off the ice. 

~

Ilya had taken himself out into the carpark during the 2nd intermission, desperate to find some emptiness to clear his mind. The score was 4-2 in Minnesota’s favour, and Ilya was more nervous than any game of hockey he’d ever played. 

“He’s reading them well tonight.” Yuna had come up beside him so quietly, Ilya almost startled. He turned his head and found her there with her arms folded, eyes on the icy gravel. Ilya loved watching hockey with Yuna; she had this way about her. No dramatics or vague fan-language; none of that nonsense about ‘wanting it more’. She watched like someone actually seeing the game; she reminded him of Svetlana. 

“Yes,” Ilya said, shifting slightly to make room for her leaning against the wall. “He is not chasing. This is good.” 

“He was overcommitting early, but he’s turning it around.” 

There was always something faintly delightful to Ilya about being reminded that Shane’s obsession with hockey had not developed in a vacuum. Yuna might have worn a nice coat and had manicured fingertips and a face built for kindness, but she had strong opinions. Usually correct ones. 

“Their left d-man is cheating high when Shane carried through centre. He’s noticed.” Ilya gave. 

“Mm. He’s baiting him now,” Yuna smiled faintly. They stood for a few moments in companionable silence, equal in their love of the game and their love of Shane - that never needed questioning. “You think they can do it?” Yuna finally asked. Ilya waited a while before he answered. 

“I don’t know,” Ilya admitted. “I hope so, but Shane is carrying a lot tonight.” 

“He always has,” Ilya murmured. “Makes things heavier than they need to be.” 

“He is getting better now,” Ilya said after a moment. 

“He is.” 

Then, because Yuna was who she was, and because no conversation could remain fully emotional for more than thirty seconds if there was a hockey game in front of her, she tipped her chin toward the arena door. 

“Their second line keeps leaving the back door open.” 

“Yes,” Ilya snorted. “Dillon is playing stupid tonight.” Yuna laughed with him, gripping his arm to stabilize herself as she tipped her head back. “But, I guess he is young.” 

“He’s what? Twenty-six?” 

“That’s young,” Ilya shrugged. 

“That’s old enough to not make stupid choices.” Ilya laughed outright at that, warm and quick. 

There was something unexpectedly easy in standing there with her like that, shoulder to shoulder, speaking the language of the game while the crowd thundered from inside. A few years ago, he might have expected scrutiny from her - and maybe once that had been fair enough. But that version of them was long gone. What remained had been built slowly, over dinners and summer road trips and ordinary Sunday lunches, and all the hundreds of tiny proofs that made a relationship real. 

Ilya turned back to the arena door, knowing the intermission would be nearing its end. That Shane would be skating back out onto the ice to warm up. Helmet tight and face flushed with concentration as he skated toward the faceoff circle. There were nights still when Ilya couldn’t comprehend the sheer possibility of it. That Shane had made it, after everything. After all the fear, and pressure and grief; after their coming out and the public scrutiny of their family. 

Ilya loved the hockey of it all - of course he did. The flashes of brilliance that he got to see in Shane everyday. But that wasn’t the whole it, and maybe it never had been. Because he loved the rest even more. 

The man who left notes hidden around the house when he left for road trips. The one who checked Albina’s homework with the seriousness of a playoff review. The one who still woke from bad dreams sometimes and reached across the bed until he found Ilya there. The one who laughed more now. The one who had slowly, but surely, wiggled his way into his and his daughter’s life in a way that etched into them. 

Ilya noticed it for the first time one evening when she was meant to be brushing her teeth, but instead, he found her standing solemnly in the hallway of their new apartment. 

“Chto ty deh-lay-yesh’?” Ilya asked gently. Albina glanced up at him. 

“I miss Shane,” she said, words coming out with aching honesty. 

“Oh, I know, lapochka,” Ilya whispered, reaching down to scoop her up. 

“He’s been gone for ages,” she droned, bottom lip jutting out and eyes wet. Shane had only left yesterday, but in her defence, it was his first proper road trip with Belleville since they’d all officially started living together. “He always says goodnight,” she whispered. 

Road trips were proving to be difficult for Albina - truthfully both of them. The shape of the place just changed when Shane was gone. The routines snagged in odd places and the quiet settled differently. Even their little world that had once been reserved for just the two of them, felt incomplete until Shane walked back through the door. 

“He can still say goodnight,” he said. 

“How?” Albina frowned. Ilya walked her to the couch, sitting down with her on his lap. He pulled out his phone and travelled to his text thread with Shane. 

I have a little lady up way past her bedtime who would like to talk to you

Not even 20 seconds after Ilya had sent the message, his phone began ringing. Ilya clicked the green phone and quickly switched over to the speaker-phone. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi, Shane!” Albina yelled, excitement abundant. “I was calling to say goodnight!” Then, after a moment: “I miss you.”

“Oh,” Shane whispered, voice laced with adoration. “I miss you too, pchelka. Goodnight. Tell papa to make sure he tucks you in properly.” Albina let out a fierce nod and a small laugh, the sadness in her face easing at last. Ilya brought the phone up to his own ear and he picked Albina back up. 

“Bye, baby. Ya tebya lyublyu.” Ilya slipped his phone back into his pocket as Albina wrapped herself around him, skinny limbs and sleep-warm weight, and rested her cheek against his shoulder as he carried her to bed. 

“One more sleep until Shane comes home?” she murmured. 

“Two,” Ilya said softly, pushing her bedroom door open with his foot. “Then he comes home.” Albina sighed as though two sleeps were an act of cruelty. Still, when Ilya laid her down and tucked the blanket - properly - around her, she looked calmer. Ilya kissed her forehead and headed for his own bed. 

Nightly ‘goodnights’, and ‘miss yous’, and ‘love yous’, quickly became a stalwart of their family. 

Ilya slowly made his way back inside, anxiety building with every step. Until, he saw Shane step back towards centre and something warm and steady unfolded in his chest beneath the nerves. 

Because yes, of course he wanted this for Shane. Wanted the win, and the Cup, the ring, the whole bright stupid glory of it. He wanted Shane to have every shimmering thing he had ever wanted and worked for. He wanted, fiercely and selfishly, to watch him lift that trophy above his head with that astonished smile that came when joy arrived before Shane could filter it. 

But underneath all that lived was a calmer certainty. Win or lose, Shane was getting a ring tonight. The thought came to him so plainly it was almost funny. 

He kept his face perfectly neutral, because Yuna was perceptive enough already and did not need this particular piece of information when she was already wired by the antics of the impending 3rd period. But, his hand found his pocket anyway, fingertips brushing the small velvet box hidden deep inside his coat like a secret pulse. 

He hadn’t planned it around the game, exactly. Or maybe he had, in the stupid way life insisted on tangling things together. Ilya couldn’t have imagined a more perfect version of the life they had made together. Albina with her loud heart and growing attitude. Shane with his impossible hands and undeniable softness. The three of them stitched together by so many small details that forever no longer felt like a dramatic word. Instead, it felt practical - and Shane loved practical. 

Yeah… win or lose tonight, Shane Hollander was getting a ring. 

~ 

They didn’t win. 

Not for lack of trying, of course. The puck had gone the other way. The clock had bled out. And then there it was - the noise, ear-splitting and gut-wrenching. One side of the arena in rapture, the other entirely broken. 

For one strange second, Shane didn’t move. He was bent slightly at the waist, sucking air, gloves heavy at the ends of his arms. Around him, the ice became unavoidable in ugly little details: the scrape of blades turning sharp with celebration, a stick tossed up into the air, the red numbers on the clock fixed into place like something mocking and permanent. 

They had lost. 

Shane stayed there long enough to feel it land. Then he straightened, pulled in one breath and skated towards the line. 

The handshakes were what they always were: ritualistic and exhausting, and that strange kind of mercy hockey believed in even after it had finished brutalising you. Gloves off, sweat cooling too fast; looking men in the eye while your pulse still tore through you. ‘Good game’, ‘Hell of a series’, ‘Go enjoy it’. He meant it enough to say it, even if he couldn’t mean it enough to feel it just yet. 

A few years ago, losing might have felt like death. Now, it still felt sharp and real, but survivable. 

When he got back to the locker room, he sat down and unlaced his skate with hands that did not quite feel like his. The room smelled of sweat, damp equipment, and the bitter stale edge of adrenaline burning off. 

Eventually, after the media and the speeches and the long, slow indignity of having to be gracious before he was ready, Shane made his way down the corridor toward the family area. People milled around, carrying flowers and jackets, and phone chargers and all the little debris of loving athletes through big nights. Shane had barely stepped through the door when he heard-

“Dad!” He looked up just in time to brace himself. She was too old now to launch herself at him without consequence. But she still did it sometimes, and Shane still caught her every time. 

“You were so good,” she said, voice muffled into his shoulder. Shane shut his eyes and held her tighter. 

“Hi to you too,” he murmured. She pulled back just enough to look at him properly. Mascara smudged a little under one eye, team jersey half disappearing beneath a puffer coat. Thirteen now, but somehow still that little five-year-old that had captured his heart. 

“It was stupid,” she informed him. “And unfair. And I hate their goalie.” That got a laugh out of him - rough and surprised, but real. 

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Me too, a little.” 

“Not a little.” 

“Okay, not a little.” They both laughed. Then she studied him with that fierce adolescent scrutiny that had only sharpened as she got older, as though checking him for structural damage. 

“You okay?” There it was. The question everyone asked because they had to. The one that had been following him since the horn. And the thing was, with Albina, he wanted to tell the truth. So he did. 

“Not really,” he whispered, pulling her tightly under his arm. “But I will be.” She nodded, like she respected the answer. Then, because she was still herself - the undeniable amalgamation of Ilya and Shane - she pressed a crumpled protein bar into his hand from the pocket of her coat. 

“I stole this from papa’s bag because I knew you’d forget to eat.” Shane stared at it, and then her. 

“Al…” 

“What?” Before he could say anything, Ilya appeared before them. He looked less composed than he usually did after Shane’s games. Tie loosened, coat unbuttoned; something tender and watchful in his face that Shane knew was just for him. 

Behind Ilya came Yuna and David. Yuna approached with her mouth set in that controlled way she had when she was keeping her own feelings neat for someone else’s sake. David walked further behind carrying everyone else’s charged emotions with commitment. Yuna got to him first. 

“Oh, honey,” she said, and cupped his face with both hands before he could dodge it, as if he were still 17 and breakable in old ways. 

“I’m okay,” he said automatically. She gave him a look that told him exactly what she thought of that. Then she kissed his cheek anyway. 

“You played beautifully.” Yuna whispered. 

Ilya hadn’t said anything yet. He stood just to the side, close enough that Shane could feel him there. Albina had moved back toward him, leaning into his side while keeping one hand hooked in Shane’s sleeve. 

Shane looked at Ilya. Ilya looked back. 

“Hungry?” He asked at last. It was so practical that Shane couldn’t help but laugh. 

“I’m all good, I’ve got this,” Shane joked, holding up the protein bar Albina had given him. Ilya shot her a look. 

“That’s where that went!” 

They started moving then, slowly, the group of them filtering toward the exit where the late-night cold met them outside. Shane fell into step beside Ilya, who slowed until they were a few paces behind Shane’s parents and Albina. 

“You really will be okay?” Ilya asked, squeezing Shane’s hand. Shane looked down the sidewalk at his family. Albina arguing with his dad about something idiotic, at his mom pretending not to enjoy it, after the whole messy impossible shape of his life walking there ahead of him like proof. 

Then he looked at Ilya. 

Sure, the loss still hurt. It would hurt tomorrow, too, and maybe for a while after that. But underneath it all was such a full life waiting for him that he considered, it might not hurt for too long. 

“Yes,” Shane replied, and he meant it. 

He might have lost tonight, but would get there. Not in the shining, cinematic way people liked to imagine when they watched inspirational sports films. There would still be losses after this - bad, ugly ones. There would be injuries that frightened people around him - slumps and rumours. Nights where the game felt easy as a breath, and nights where Shane questioned how long he could keep doing this for. 

But Shane Hollander would get there. 

He would finish his career with two Cups and an MVP award to his name. 

But the real shape of his legacy would live elsewhere. It would live in the years, and in the steadiness with which he kept going. 

His decision to build a family in plain sight. 

There would be Ilya forever standing by his side with the same look of fondness on his face every time, as if he couldn’t quite believe he had been allowed to keep this life. 

There would be Albina, growing up in jumps and flashes so startling that Shane would sometimes feel winded by it. One day all knees and missing teeth, and righteous little-girl fury; the next somehow taller, louder, cleverer, leaning in doorframes with Ilya’s dry expression and Shane’s hoodie draped around her shoulders. He would help with spelling tests and science projects and teenage heartbreaks. He would sit in cold arenas long after his own practices, watching her carve her own fierce little path across the ice, and in the hockey world. He would become one of her parents, and it would end up being the greatest part of his legacy. She would be. 

There would be his parents growing older with Albina braided inseparably into their hearts. Endless joy found in Wednesday night dinners, and Sunday breakfasts and Christmas mornings.

There would be grief too, because no real life was spared it. The ache of missing Ilya’s mother would never vanish from their lives completely. There would be nights where Ilya spoke of her more freely, and Shane would listen. There would be moments when Albina laughed a certain way or tied a scarf around her hair to avoid her straightened locks going frizzy, and Ilya would go quiet with memory. Shane would stand beside him, understanding that love often meant helping someone carry the people they could not stop carrying. 

And hockey - well, that would go on changing too. 

That was one of the gifts of staying long enough. The league that Shane entered would not be the league he left behind. 

He would live to see other queer players come into their own. Some would arrive quietly, with careful statements and guarded smiles. Some would come in laughing, as if there had never been any other option but honesty. He had made space for all these kids, without even trying. Just by being himself. 

By the end, the story told about Shane would be bigger than statistics, though there would be enough of those too. It would be about resilience, and brilliance, and the rare stubbornness required to bend a life back toward joy after it had once gone so badly wrong. 

But even that would not be the whole of it. When people spoke of Shane Hollander years later, they would think of the family that seemed to orbit him at the edge of every camera frame. 

Ilya, unsmiling until Shane looked his way, Albina waving like she owned the arena. The three of them together in parking lots, at charity skates, at school fundraisers, at the grocery store in the off-season. Comfortable and together - his happy little family. 

In the end, when the game had finally given him all it was going to give, Shane would come home for good. To Ilya at the stove, older and greyer, but still gorgeous and chiselled in a way that only riled Shane up more. To Albina, half-grown, and gone more often than not, skating her own way through the country with his number on her back - a reminder of his investment. 

He might have lost tonight, and one day he would win. But years from now, when someone asked him what mattered most - what had truly mattered in the end, after all the cups and awards, and the long bright career - Shane would not have said the Championship games, or the headlines or even the rings. He would look towards Ilya and Albina, toward the life waiting warm and noisy around them, and know the answer at once. 

Not what he won. 

But, who he came home to.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much to everyone who has read this. I've had so much fun writing it! I hope I have finished the story with justice and that you like it :) x