Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son & Svetlana Vetrova, Troy Barrett/Harris Drover, Harris Drover & Ilya Rozanov, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais & Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike/Jackie Pike, Alexei Rozanov's Daughter & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Alexei Rozanov's Daughter

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Sergei Vetrov, Alexei Rozanov's Daughter, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Harris Drover, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Troy Barrett, Wyatt Hayes, Zane Boodram, Luca Haas, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog

Additional Tags:

POV Multiple, Rich Shane Hollander, Sugar Daddy Shane Hollander, Sugar Baby Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Calls Ilya Rozanov "Baby", Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Freak4Freak Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Social Media, Spoiled Ilya Rozanov, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Was Never a Professional Hockey Player, Ilya Rozanov Was Never a Professional Hockey Player, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Good Dog Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog, Smart Ilya Rozanov, Smart Shane Hollander, Confident Shane Hollander, Loverboy Ilya Rozanov, Loverboy Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is Hollander Catnip, Soft Shane Hollander, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, Girl Dad Shane Hollander, Girl Dad Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Language:

English

Series:

Part 11 of Hollanov Lulu-verse

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-06 Completed: 2026-10-11 Words: 34,154 Chapters: 13/13

The Ultimate Cozy Exile

Summary

“You dropped out of college!” Svetlana repeated as she threw her hands up. “You had two semesters left in Boston! You were top of your program! You talked about moving to New York, opening your own firm, taking over the world—and now your big life ambition is sitting on a plush couch in the Canadian tundra waiting for Mr. Real Estate to finish his stock trades?”

Ilya laid his fork down with a deliberate clink against the ceramic plate. He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward, his blue eyes sharp and terrifyingly clear.

“Sveta,” he began, his tone dropping into that familiar, authority. “In Boston, I woke up at six every morning to run in the freezing rain. I spent eight hours in lectures surrounded by rich idiots who thought they were geniuses because their dads bought a building. I spent four hours every night memorizing financial models I already knew how to build in my sleep, just so some eighty-year-old professor could give me a checkmark on a piece of paper. The point is, why would I fight the world when I can just enjoy the simple pleasures of life? I spent my whole life surviving. Shanya gave me a place where I don’t have to.”

Chapter 1: Svetlana Vetrova

Svetlana’s thumb hovered over the screen, watching the blue location dot pulse steadily against a sea of dark green topographics on the map. Two hours north of Ottawa, deep enough into the dense pine forests that the asphalt had given way to packed dirt three miles back.

“This is insane, Sveta,” Sasha muttered, his knuckles white against the steering wheel of the rented car. “He hasn’t answered a text in two months. He sends one message—one—saying he’s not coming back to Boston with a snarky ‘Sayonara,’ and then ghosting? What if he’s dead in a ditch? What if that Canadian guy did something to him?”

“Ilya is fine, he is just being an idiot,” Svetlana replied, though her voice lacked conviction. She stared out the passenger window as the trees suddenly parted, revealing a timber-and-stone structure nestled against a private lake. Calling it a cottage was a cruel joke; it was a mini-mansion, modern and secluded, wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass and surrounded by greenery.

Sasha parked near a pristine black SUV. “Looks like a gilded cage.”                                                                                                                                       

“Let’s just get to the door.”

They stepped out and made their way towards the entrance. Svetlana took a deep breath and knocked hard. Footsteps echoed inside, before the lock turned with a soft click, and the door swung open.

Ilya stood in the entryway, wearing a ridiculously soft plush hoodie, cotton shorts, and wool socks. He was holding a mug of steaming coffee, his hair messy in an effortlessly luxurious way, looking healthier than he ever had during those brutal semesters in Boston. A lazy smile was plastered across his face—until his eyes landed on Svetlana and Sasha.

The smile dropped instantly, replaced by annoyance.

“What the fuck are you guys doing here?” Ilya asked flatly.

Sasha blinked startled, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “What are we doing here? Ilya, you vanished! You skipped out on the fall semester, sent a cryptic two-line text, and stopped answering your phone!”

“I just muted the group chat, you drama queens,” Ilya rolled his eyes, leaning against the doorframe and taking a sip of his coffee.

“We were worried about you!” Svetlana snapped, shoving her way past him into the foyer before he could shut the door. Sasha hurried in behind her. “We thought you were being held hostage! We took a plane to Canada and then drove two hours into the middle of nowhere because your phone location was the only clue you were still alive!”

Her steps slowed to a halt as she took in the interior. Sunlight streamed through soaring, floor-to-ceiling windows, bringing the pristine blue of the lake right into the living room. Further down the hall, a sleek, commercial-grade gym stretched out—replete with heavy rack setups, custom weights, and modern cardio equipment—promising total privacy without missing a single luxury.

“Hostage?” Ilya snickered, shutting the door and locking it back up. “Look around, Sveta. Does this look like a hostage situation to you?”

“Ilya, you literally dropped out of college and cut off everyone you’ve ever known,” Sasha stepped up to him, his hands raised placatingly. “You’re isolated in the wilderness. If Hollander is controlling you, or if he’s forcing you to stay—”

“Shanya?” Ilya interrupted, letting out a loud laugh. “Shanya isn’t even here right now! He went into town to pick up groceries and those pastries I like.”

Svetlana crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “Then why are you locked in here? Why haven’t you left?”

“Because why the hell would I leave?” Ilya gestured wildly around the living room with his mug. “Look at this place! I have a lake and a dog. I have a private gym where I don’t have to listen to college freshmen grunt while failing a bench press. Papa David and Mama Yuna visit every weekend and bring incredible food. And more importantly, I have Shanya!”

“You’re twenty-one, Ilya!” Svetlana raised her voice, frustration mounting. “You can’t just retire to a lake house in Canada and hide from the entire world forever!”

“Watch me,” Ilya shot back without missing a beat. He walked over to the plush sectional sofa, sank into the cushions, and put his feet up on the glass coffee table. “I spent years running around, stress-crying over finals in Boston, pretending I cared about networking, dealing with Moscow nonsense. Shanya asked me what I wanted for the summer. I said I wanted to do nothing. So he brought me here. Then summer ended, and I realized… I still want to do nothing.”

“So he’s just keeping you here?” Sasha asked, bewildered.

“He’s not keeping me here!” Ilya groaned, rolling his eyes back. “Shanya is sickeningly sweet. He literally asks me five times a day if I’m bored, if I want to go back to the city, if I want to fly somewhere, if I need space. He’s like a gentle cocker spaniel in human form. It’s disgusting how loving he is. And every single time, I tell him: No. Lock the door, make some tea, and come sit on the couch with me.”

Svetlana stared at him. She looked for any sign of hesitation, any hidden distress in his posture, but there was none. Ilya was completely, unnervingly content.

“So… you just locked yourself in a Canadian cottage by choice?” she asked slowly.

“It’s a very nice cottage,” Ilya corrected. “And yes. I have no intention of leaving. I’m happy and relaxed. My skin has never looked better.” He leaned forward, pointing a finger at both of them. “Which brings me back to my original question: why are you interrupting my peace?”

Sasha looked at Svetlana, completely lost. “Should we… call someone?”

“If you call anyone, I’m setting Anya on you,” Ilya warned mildly, taking another sip of coffee. “Now, unless you brought those Russian chocolate glazed curds I can’t get in Ottawa, you two can turn right back around and leave before Shanya gets back with my croissants.”

Svetlana pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. She had prepared for a rescue mission, a dramatic confrontation, maybe even calling the local authorities. She hadn’t prepared for her best friend voluntarily turning into a pampered, domestic hermit.

“We drove two hours from the airport, Ilya,” Svetlana said, dropping onto the armchair opposite him. “We aren’t leaving until we at least get lunch.”

Ilya huffed, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Fine. But you’re taking your shoes off. Shanya just had the hardwood waxed.”

The gravel outside crunched under the tires of a returning car. A moment later, the front door swung open, and Shane walked in carrying a stack of high-end bakery boxes and a large thermal container, looking like he had stepped straight out of a catalog. He had a warm smile on his face, a far cry from the shadowy mastermind Svetlana and Sasha had spent the entire drive imagining.

“Baby, I’m back,” Shane called out softly, stepping into the foyer. He paused, his brown eyes taking in Svetlana and Sasha sitting on the couches, before his smile widened with genuine warmth. “Oh, wow. We have visitors!”

Ilya didn’t even get up from the sofa; he just gestured lazily toward the counter. “Shanya, these are the intruders. Sveta and Sasha. Guys, Shanya.”

“Svetlana, Sasha! It is so nice to finally meet you both,” Shane greeted, setting the boxes down and stepping over to shake their hands with a firm, but polite grip. “I’ve heard so much about you from Ilya over the last three years.”

Svetlana took his hand, her mind racing as she processed the man standing in front of her. This was the guy? For three years, Ilya had been doing the long-distance thing with this sweet-faced Canadian who had started college in Montreal, realized he had an uncanny genius for the stock market, dropped out, and promptly built a fortune in investments and real estate. Ilya constantly referred to him as ‘Mr. Real Estate,’ but looking at Shane in a plain henley shirt, fussing over whether the drive up had been rough on them, the entire situation just felt absurd.

What the fuck is going on?

“I brought lunch,” Shane announced, lifting the thermal container. “My dad made his chicken pasta alfredo—it’s still warm, luckily. My parents are staying at their cabin, which is ten minutes away, so he made a huge batch.”

Instead of kicking them out for barging into his private home, Shane set to work. He moved around the kitchen with effortless hospitality, opening guest rooms down the hall, pulling out fresh linens, and setting four places at the dining table. On his way past the couch, he bent down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Ilya’s head and leaning over to scratch a cocker spaniel, who had made her way to the blond’s side from outside, behind the ears. “Good girl, Anya,” he murmured affectionately as the dog’s tail thumped happily against the floor.

He poured four glasses of ginger ale and set the steaming bowl of pasta in the middle of the table.

“I am so glad Ilya finally invited some of his friends over,” Shane said cheerfully as they all sat down. “I was getting a little worried about him trying to adapt to Ottawa. I mean, personally, I prefer being here at the cottage because it’s private and I can do all my investment work remotely. I’ve never really enjoyed the city ambient or the crowds. But I thought Ilya—who used to love going out to clubs and being in the middle of everything back in Boston and Moscow—would have a much harder time adapting. It’s so great that he has friends around now.”

Sasha froze, a forkful of alfredo halfway to his mouth. He slowly turned his head to exchange a bewildered, wide-eyed look with Svetlana.

They both looked over at Ilya.

Ilya was leaning back in his chair, swirling his ginger ale with an utterly insufferable, smug grin plastered across his face. He kicked Svetlana gently under the table.

“See?” Ilya purred, resting his chin in his hand. “I told you. I’m the one who’s locking myself inside, not him.”

Svetlana looked at Shane, who was currently cutting up extra chicken to sneak to Anya under the table with an innocent expression, and then looked back at her best friend, who was voluntarily living like a pampered hermit prince in the Canadian woods.

She took a long sip of her ginger ale and rubbed her temples.

“Yeah,” Svetlana muttered under her breath, loud enough only for Sasha to hear. “Ilya definitely needs help. But not from Hollander. He needs help from himself.”

After clearing his plate, Shane gathered his dishes and carried them over to the sink, returning a moment later to set a plate of croissants on the table. “I’m going to head down to the dock for a bit to finish up some portfolio reviews before the market opens tomorrow morning,” Shane said softly, leaning over the back of Ilya’s chair to press a lingering, affectionate kiss into his boyfriend’s golden hair. He straightened up, offering a warm smile to the rest of the table. “Take your time with lunch, guys. Stay as many nights as you want. The guest beds are made, and the lake is breathtaking at sunset.”

“Thanks, Shane,” Sasha said, his tone still carrying a slight pitch of disbelief.

“You’re an angel, Shanya,” Ilya added sweetly, not bothering to look up from where he was unceremoniously ladling a third helping of chicken alfredo onto his plate.

Shane whistled for Anya—who trotted after him with a happy wag of her tail—and stepped out the glass sliding doors toward the lower deck.

The second the door clicked shut, the silence fell over the dining room again. Svetlana sat with her arms crossed, watching as across from her, Ilya chewed contentedly, humming a faint, terrible tune under his breath.

“You are out of your absolute mind,” Svetlana told him flatly.

Ilya didn’t even blink. “Mmm. The pasta is great, right? My future father-in-law makes a killer sauce.”

“Ilya!” Sasha leaned over the table, keeping his voice down as if Shane might hear them through two layers of double-paned glass. “He thinks you’re adapting! He literally thinks you’re trapped here by circumstance or weather or loneliness, and you’re just sitting here like a cat in a patch of sunlight, letting him bring you baked goods!”

“I am not letting him bring me baked goods,” Ilya corrected smoothly, swallowing. “I am requesting that he bring me baked goods. Big difference.”

“You dropped out of college!” Svetlana repeated as she threw her hands up. “You had two semesters left in Boston! You were top of your program! You talked about moving to New York, opening your own firm, taking over the world—and now your big life ambition is sitting on a plush couch in the Canadian tundra waiting for Mr. Real Estate to finish his stock trades?”

Ilya laid his fork down with a deliberate clink against the ceramic plate. He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward, his blue eyes sharp and terrifyingly clear.

“Sveta,” he began, his tone dropping into that familiar, authority. “In Boston, I woke up at six every morning to run in the freezing rain. I spent eight hours in lectures surrounded by rich idiots who thought they were geniuses because their dads bought a building. I spent four hours every night memorizing financial models I already knew how to build in my sleep, just so some eighty-year-old professor could give me a checkmark on a piece of paper.”

He gestured out the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the private lake, where the water glinted under the autumn sun.

“Here, I wake up whenever my body decides it’s done sleeping. Shanya makes me coffee. I work out in a gym that has better equipment than Harvard’s. I read whatever the hell I want. I swim in a private lake. Papa David and Mama Yuna bring us wine on Fridays. And when I’m bored, Shanya buys another piece of commercial real estate and lets me analyze the risk metrics for fun.”

Sasha blinked. “He lets you do his risk metrics for fun?”

“It keeps my brain sharp,” Ilya replied with a shrug. “The point is, why would I fight the world when I can just enjoy the simple pleasures of life? I spent my whole life surviving. Shanya gave me a place where I don’t have to.”

Svetlana stared at him. The sheer, unapologetic logic of it was uniquely Ilya. He hadn’t been manipulated, nor had he been brainwashed. He had simply looked at the multi-million-dollar lakeside mansion with an endlessly devoted boyfriend, and said, ‘Yeah, I’m good right here.’

“You’re a monster,” Svetlana whispered, though the corner of her lips twitched. “You made us drive two hours into the Ottawa wilderness thinking you were in a cult or a hostage situation.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” Ilya pointed out, taking a sip of his ginger ale. “You tracked my phone like crazy ex-girlfriends. That’s on you.”

“You sent ‘Sayonara’ to the group chat!” Sasha yelled exasperated.

“Because ‘Sayonara’ means goodbye!” Ilya smirked. “It’s efficient.”

From down by the dock, the faint sound of Shane laughing floated up as Anya splashed into the shallow water. Ilya’s eyes drifted toward them, his expression softening into something so genuinely, disgustingly affectionate that Svetlana felt like she was intruding just watching him.

“He really is the best, isn’t he?” Ilya murmured, almost to himself.

“He’s too good for you,” Svetlana said immediately. “He thinks you’re a fragile flower needing time to adjust to Canada, while you’re secretly running a domestic monarchy from his sofa.”

“He knows exactly who I am,” Ilya replied, looking back at her with a lazy, wicked grin. “He just likes taking care of me. And I like letting him. So, are you guys staying for dinner or what? Shane’s making steaks tonight.”

Sasha looked at Svetlana. Svetlana looked at the luxurious guest wing, then out at the pristine lake, then back at her plate of artisanal alfredo. “Fine,” Svetlana sighed, reaching for her fork. “But you’re letting me use the sauna first.”

Later that day found Svetlana sitting on the edge of the plush king-sized bed in the second-floor guest room, her fingers sinking into the absurdly high-thread-count duvet. Down the stairs, she could hear the muffled, rhythmic thump of a treadmill—Ilya, finally deciding to utilize the state-of-the-art gym he’d been bragging about all afternoon.

Sasha was pacing near the floor-to-ceiling window, a crystal glass of sparkling water in hand, looking out over the pines as twilight turned the lake a deep, ink-colored blue.

“I still can’t process it,” Sasha shook his head, turning around with a look of utter defeat. “We spent weeks planning a covert rescue operation. I bought a crowbar, Sveta. It’s in the trunk of the rental car right now.”

“Leave the crowbar in the trunk,” Svetlana sighed, leaning her head back against the carved wooden headboard. “If you break a window in this house, Shane will probably just apologize to you for having tough glass and offer to buy you a better crowbar.”

“He’s terrifyingly nice,” Sasha agreed, shuddering slightly. “When I asked where the extra towels were, he gave me a full five-minute tour of the linen closet and offered to heat them up in the towel warmer for me. Who has a towel warmer in a forest?”

“A guy who made millions in real estate before turning twenty-five and decides his life’s purpose is pampering our idiot best friend,” Svetlana replied. She then stood up, smoothing down her sweater. “Come on. Let’s go watch the monster in his natural habitat.”

They padded down the broad hardwood staircase, guided by the warm, dim ambient lighting embedded along the baseboards. The lower level opened up into a glass-fronted fitness wing. Through the glass, they could see Ilya on the squat rack, his face flushed, moving plates with the easy, practiced form he’d refined back when he still pretended to give a damn about varsity athletics in Boston.

Shane was sitting on a weight bench nearby, a laptop resting on his knees. Green and red financial charts flickered across the screen, but his attention wasn’t on the numbers. He was watching Ilya devotedly, occasionally calling out a quick word of encouragement or jumping up to spot him without being asked.

When Ilya racked the bar with a metallic clang, Shane handed him a rolled, chilled towel and a freshly shaken protein bottle. Ilya took both without a word, dropping down on the bench beside Shane and resting his sweaty forehead directly against the other’s shoulder, who reached up, idly running his fingers through Ilya’s damp hair, his eyes never leaving Ilya’s face.

Svetlana knocked gently on the glass doorframe before stepping inside.

“Hey,” Shane smiled, looking up. “Did you find the sauna okay? I can set the temperature higher if you want to use it before dinner.”

“No need, everything was perfect. Thank you,” Svetlana said softly. She walked in, crossing her arms and looking down at Ilya, who was lazily sipping his protein shake while practically slumping into Shane’s side. “You know, back in Moscow, Ilya used to complain if someone breathed too loudly within five feet of him.”

“He complains here, too,” Shane chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to Ilya’s temple. “Mostly when I tell him it’s time to stretch after lifting. But he’s allowed to be moody. He’s had a long few years.”

“Long few years?” Sasha echoed, leaning against a cable machine. “Shane, he was top of his class! He had three different hedge funds trying to sign him before he even finished his sophomore year!”

Shane’s expression grew a little more thoughtful, his gentle brown eyes turning to Sasha. “I know. He’s brilliant. But being brilliant while everyone expects you to perform like a machine isn’t living, Sasha. When we met, he was sleeping three hours a night and living off espresso and fast food.”

Svetlana bit the inside of her cheek. She remembered the sheer panic she’d felt back in Boston—the paranoid late-night conversations with Sasha, convinced that Ilya was being manipulated and cut off from everyone who loved him. But looking at Shane now, he was so open, so down-to-earth, without a single trace of the dark, controlling dynamic she and Sasha had spent months obsessing over back home. They’d convinced themselves Shane was keeping Ilya locked away in some gilded cage. But seeing them together now, the whole idea felt absurd. Shane hadn't trapped him here. He’d just built a real safe space, opened the front door, and Ilya had walked right in, kicked his shoes off, and locked the rest of the world out behind him.

“You’re enabling a supervillain,” Svetlana commented, though there was no real bite left in her voice.

Ilya lifted his head from Shane’s shoulder, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “I am not a supervillain. I’m a retired child prodigy. There’s a difference.”

“You’re twenty-one!” Sasha groaned, throwing his hands up in the air. “You can’t retire at twenty-one!”

“Watch me,” Ilya repeated smugly. He stood up, tossing his towel at Sasha, who caught it with an expression of disgust. “Shanya, tell them about the movie theater room in the basement. I want to watch them realize we have a buttery popcorn machine.”

Shane laughed, getting up from the bench and closing his laptop. “It’s true. We do. Come on, I’ll start prepping the steaks for dinner, and you two can pick whatever movie you want.”

As Shane and Sasha walked out toward the main kitchen—Sasha already asking wide-eyed questions about the outdoor grill setup—Ilya lingered behind, catching Svetlana by the sleeve of her cardigan.

“So,” Ilya said softly, his playful smugness slipping away for just a second, leaving behind something vulnerable and genuine. “Are you still worried?”

Svetlana looked at him—really looked at him. The dark circles under his eyes that had been permanent fixtures since high school were completely gone. He looked rested and content.

“I think,” Svetlana started, reaching up to pinch his cheek hard enough to make him hiss, “that you are the most spoiled, manipulative, lazy bastard in North America.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Ilya smirked, pulling away and rubbing his cheek.

“No,” Svetlana admitted, looking toward the kitchen, where Shane was already laughing at one of Sasha’s terrible jokes. “I’m not worried. But if you don’t call us at least once a week, I’m personally coming back here with a sledgehammer.”

“Fair deal,” Ilya grinned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they walked out toward the warm, brightly lit living room. “Now come on. Shanya bought the expensive ice cream.”

Chapter 2: David Hollander

David Hollander adjusted his reading glasses, picked up a piece of the two-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle—a breathtakingly complex rendering of the Swiss Alps—and studied the tiny sliver of blue sky on the cardboard edge. Across the long mahogany table, the fireplace cracked softly, casting a warm, amber glow across the cottage’s grand living room.

To his left, his wife, Yuna, was comfortably curled up in an armchair, sipping tea while idly offering suggestions. To his right sat his son, Shane, looking thoroughly relaxed, sorting puzzle edges into neat, organized piles. With his sharp features, soft freckles dusting his nose, black hair, and warm brown eyes inherited from Yuna, Shane looked like a picture of peace—a stark contrast to the high-stakes world of multi-million-dollar hedge funds he managed.

And next to Shane sat Ilya.

With his bright blond hair messy and his piercing blue eyes half-closed, Ilya was slouched so low in his chair that his spine seemed optional. One of his broad hands was hooked around the neck of Anya, who had pinned his legs to the floor. Ilya was absentmindedly feeding the dog small bits of crust from the sourdough bread David had baked that morning, looking for all the world like a pampered housecat who had decided the outdoors were an entirely unnecessary concept.

David chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he slotted a blue piece into the upper corner of the mountain skyline.

“What’s so funny, Dad?” Shane asked, looking up, his brown eyes light with humor.

“Nothing, son,” David said, his voice deep and rumbling. “Just thinking about the phone call you gave me three months ago. You sounded so grave. ‘Dad, Ilya is coming to stay at the cottage for a few weeks to clear his head.’ You asked me to make sure the pantry was stocked with three different kinds of tea, that the gym weights were calibrated, and that we didn’t play music too loud because he was burnt out.”

Ilya raised a pale blonde eyebrow, not bothering to lift his head from the back of the plush chair. “I was very fragile, Papa David. A delicate flower.”

“You look exceedingly fragile,” David teased dryly, eyeing the broad shoulders and muscular frame of the blond former collegiate athlete who had just eaten half a platter of smoked salmon before the puzzle was even dumped onto the table. “A tragic figure, truly. Bound to the shores of Ontario against your will.”

Ilya snorted, resting his chin in his hand. “The conditions here are brutal. The wifi is too fast, the lake is too peaceful, and Shanya keeps bringing me pastries against my explicit lack of resistance. I am a prisoner of luxury.”

Shane reached over, nudging Ilya’s shoulder with his own, his eyes softening affectionately in that way David had come to recognize over the past three years. “You know, baby, if you miss the stress of Boston so much, I can always set an alarm to scream at you at five in the morning and pour cold water on your face.”

“If you do that, I am taking Anya and moving into Papa David’s cabin,” Ilya replied smoothly, leaning sideways until his blond head rested against Shane’s shoulder. “Papa David actually appreciates me. He makes sourdough. You just make money.”

“Hey,” Shane laughed, running a hand through his own black hair before pressing a quick kiss into Ilya’s blond locks. “My money buys the flour for his sourdough.”

“A valid economic ecosystem,” Yuna chimed in from her armchair with a gentle smile, setting her teacup down with a light clink. “Though I must say, Ilya, your friends Svetlana and Sasha seemed quite convinced you were being held against your will when they barged in last week.”

Ilya groaned softly, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Please do not remind me. Sveta still texts me every morning at eight to check if I’ve ‘seen sunlight.’ I had to send her a photo of the deck today just to shut her up.”

David picked up another puzzle piece, feeling a sense of contentment settle over the room. When Shane had first dropped out of McGill University to pursue his investment career, David had worried—the way any father worried—that his son would end up isolated, consumed by numbers and screen time in a house in the woods. And when Shane had started talking about a brilliant, intense Russian student living in Boston, David had wondered how two people so vastly different would ever build something that lasted.

But watching them now—Shane, calm, grounded, and fiercely protective; Ilya, sharp, brilliant, yet completely at peace letting his guard down here—David knew his son had made the best choice of his life.

“Well,” Yuna said gently, looking over at the blond boy slouched against her son. “Svetlana might be nagging you, but she only does it because she cares. She was relieved to see you looking so rested, Ilya. We all are.”

Ilya looked down at his lap, a faint smile touched his lips. “I know. She’s annoying, but… she means well.”

“She knows you’re happy here, baby,” Shane whispered, his fingers lacing through Ilya’s under the table, out of sight. “Everyone who sees you here knows it.”

Ilya didn’t answer with words. He just squeezed Shane’s hand back, leaning heavier into his side, watching the firelight flicker across the polished wood of the table.

“Alright then,” David slapped his hand onto the table with finality as he found a matching pair of sky pieces. “Now that the emotional moment is out of the way, someone pass me the edge pieces. Ilya, stop feeding the dog from the table, or she’s never going to leave your side.”

“That’s the plan,” Ilya smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief as he leaned down to give Anya a generous scratch behind the ears. “She’s my security guard. If anyone tries to drag me back to society, she’s taking a bite out of them first.”

Shane laughed, resting his chin on Ilya’s shoulder as they both reached for the next piece of the puzzle, completely at home in the warmth of the cottage.

Time passed without David noticing until the grandfather clock in the corner of the living room chimed eleven soft, resonant tones. Outside, a gentle autumn rain had begun to tap rhythmically against the floor-to-ceiling glass, but inside, the fire crackled warmly, throwing dancing shadows across the mountains of cardboard pieces scattered across the mahogany table.

Yuna had long since retired to the primary bedroom with a book, leaving the three men—and one thoroughly asleep cocker spaniel—to the silent, obsessive battle against the Swiss Alps.

Shane leaned back, yawning as he rubbed his brown eyes, pushing his dark hair out of his face. He looked at the half-finished sky section, then down at his laptop sitting on the side table, where a few notification lights were blinking from overseas markets opening in Europe.

“I’m going to take a quick look at the Nikkei futures and head to bed,” Shane said, his voice so as not to break the ambient hush of the room. He leaned over, resting his hand against the back of Ilya’s neck, his thumb lightly brushing the warm skin at his hairline. “Don’t stay up all night, okay?”

Ilya didn’t look up from his small, meticulously sorted grid of dark green forestry pieces. “Shanya, please. I am on the verge of a breakthrough. Go do your little stock trades.”

Shane chuckled, his freckles creasing as his smile widened. “Dad, don’t let him bully you into staying up until three in the morning.”

“Are you kidding?” David didn’t even lift his eyes from a handful of granite-grey mountain face pieces. “I’m the one keeping him focused. He spent twenty minutes trying to force a shadow piece into a glacier because he thought he was smarter than the manufacturer.”

“It was a manufacturing defect,” Ilya insisted smoothly, not a single trace of shame in his bright blue eyes as he flicked a glance up at Shane. “Go to sleep, Shanya. Leave the real work to the adults.”

Shane shook his head, pressing a soft kiss to Ilya’s temple before giving his dad’s shoulder a fond squeeze. “Goodnight, puzzle buddies. Try not to destroy the alpine summit.”

As Shane’s soft footsteps vanished down the hall, the living room settled back into its easy, rhythmic. The soft clink-clink of cardboard pieces, the low pop of burning pine logs, and the breath of Anya resting her head across Ilya’s wool-socked feet filled the space.

For ten minutes, neither of them said a word. It was a comfortable, earned silence—the kind that only built up between people who spent hours hovering over the same table, working toward a shared, pointless goal.

David leaned over, his reading glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose as he hovered a jagged piece over a gaping hole near the center of the canvas. He dropped it in and it fit with a crisp, perfect snap.

Ilya didn’t look up, but his mouth twitched into a subtle, approving line. “Nice edge matching.”

“Thank you,” David said mildly. “I’ve been tracking that ridge line since eight o’clock.”

Ilya reached out with long, pale fingers, sliding a cluster of six connected pieces—a tiny cable car suspended between two peaks—across the polished wood toward David’s side of the table. “Here. I finished your tram.”

David picked up the tiny cardboard assembly, admiring the sharp, clean construction. “You know, Ilya, for a guy who claims he hates structured activity, you have a remarkably dangerous level of spatial patience.”

“Puzzles aren’t structured activity,” Ilya muttered, picking up two pine-tree pieces and trying them against each other with a soft click. “Puzzles are just logic without consequences. In Boston, if I miscalculated a variable in a model, some professor wrote a red note on my paper and three classmates tried to compete with me. Here, if I put a tree in the wrong place, I just shrug and proceed to find the right piece.”

David slowed his hands, looking across the table at the blond boy. The firelight caught the side of Ilya’s face, highlighting the intelligence that usually stayed hidden behind layers of lazy sarcasm and easy indifference.

“Is that why you like it out here so much?” David asked gently. “No red notes?”

Ilya paused, a piece held balanced between his thumb and index finger. He stared down at the Swiss forest taking shape beneath his hands. For a second, the room felt loaded with the weight of everything Ilya had spent years running from—the pressure, the cold expectations, the ghosts he never talked about.

He didn’t mention Moscow, or the family he left behind. He just rotated the piece in his hand, looking at the tiny splash of green print.

“In Boston… in Russia… everyone always wanted something from me,” Ilya explained, his voice barely louder than the rain against the glass. “They wanted me to pass the exam or be whatever version of a son or student they needed. If I stopped moving, I felt like everything was going to collapse.”

He laid the piece down. It fit seamlessly into the forest floor.

“Shanya is the only person who ever looked at me when I was being lazy and didn’t ask me to get up,” Ilya looked up, his piercing blue eyes meeting David’s warm, gaze across the puzzle board. “And you… you just make me bread and let me do puzzles with you.”

David felt a lump form in his throat. He reached across the table, his weathered hand coming down to rest briefly over Ilya’s wrist, giving it a firm, grounding squeeze before letting go.

“Bread and puzzles are always available here,” David told him softly. “For as long as you want them.”

Ilya blinked, a sudden flush of faint pink touching his ears, though he quickly looked away, clearing his throat with an exaggerated, dramatic sigh. “Good. Because if Shanya tries to make me eat another one of those kale smoothies, he gets obsessed with on Tuesdays, I am legally seeking asylum at your cabin.”

David let out a rich, booming laugh that made Anya flick her ears in her sleep. “Deal. I’ll keep a spare key under the porch mat.”

They fell back into work, the rhythm picking up speed as the remaining pieces dwindled. The Swiss Alps were rapidly taking final shape—the snow-capped peaks locking into the deep blue of the sky, the cable car bridging the chasm, the tiny pine forests filling the valleys below.

They worked in tandem, hands moving over the mahogany board with synchronized precision. Nine pieces became six. Six became three. Finally, only a single, oddly shaped piece of dark slate grey remained on the table, the very tip of the highest Alpine peak.

Ilya looked at David for a long second, his blue eyes soft, before he turned back to the puzzle. With a light, careful press of his thumb, he slotted the final piece into place.

The Swiss Alps were complete.

The two of them sat back, looking at the intricate picture resting under the warm glow of the lamp. Outside, the rain had settled into a soothing hum against the glass, wrapping the cottage in an impenetrable cocoon of warmth.

“Not bad,” Ilya muttered, a small, genuine smile lingering on his lips. “We make a pretty good team, Papa David.”

“Not bad at all,” David agreed, pulling off his reading glasses and folding them onto the table as he looked at his puzzle buddy. “Now go to bed before Shane comes out here and accuses me of keeping his hostage awake past his bedtime.”

“He’s not that strict,” Ilya smirked, though he finally stood up, stretching his arms high above his head until his joints popped. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” David said softly, watching as the blond boy padded down the hall, slipping into the dark room where Shane was waiting.

David lingered at the table for a moment, staring down at the finished puzzle glowing under the warm lamp. Outside, the rain kept up its steady beat against the glass, but his break was definitely winding down. Within a week, he and Yuna had packed up their bags and made the drive back home so David could get back to the office, leaving Shane and Ilya behind to run things from the lake. Shane was working remotely anyway, and neither of them was in any hurry to give up the peace of the woods.

With a sigh, David adjusted his tie, leaning back in his ergonomic chair in his office at the Treasury Board of Canada. Outside his corner window, Parliament Hill stood gray against the overcast morning sky.

On the corner of his desk sat a familiar silver frame holding a photo of himself and Yuna on a hiking trip in Banff. Right beside it rested a brand-new, dark wood frame he’d put up just last week.

In the new photo, Shane was wearing a dark navy sweater, his black hair neatly styled, soft freckles visible across the bridge of his nose as he smiled broadly into the camera. Squeezed beside him was Ilya, bright blond hair sticking up in every direction, wearing an oversized gray hoodie, his piercing blue eyes squinting against the sun. Between them, Anya—their goofy, cocker spaniel—had her head planted squarely on Ilya’s lap, tongue lolling out in bliss.

“Morning, David,” Jean-Luc greeted, pausing at the threshold of David’s office with a steaming mug of government-issued coffee. Jean-Luc’s eyes drifted to the new frame on the desk. “Ah, new photo! Is that Shane?”

“It is,” David answered smoothly, picking up a pen to mark a column on the budget draft in front of him.

“Look at him. Unbelievable,” Jean-Luc chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “You must be so proud of how he turned out. Building an investment portfolio like that from scratch? The boy is practically a financial prodigy.”

David offered a polite, practiced nod, a small smile touching his lips. “He works hard, Jean-Luc. He’s very disciplined.”

“A visionary, really,” added Sarah, passing by in the hallway and slowing down to join the morning chitchat. “Honestly, David, we were all so worried for you when he dropped out of university. But look at him now!”

David’s smile stayed fixed, though his eyes held an ironical glint.

He remembered four years ago vividly. He remembered standing right here in this office, surrounded by these exact same senior policy analysts and treasury directors, after Shane had made the decision to drop out of McGill University. Back then, Jean-Luc had clucked his tongue and offered pitying condolences, whispering behind closed doors about how unfortunate it was that David’s brilliant son was flunking out of school to gamble on the stock market. While Sarah had gently suggested career counseling for “disappointed parents.”

Now, because Shane’s real estate holdings and portfolio valuations had breached eight figures, he was a “visionary.”

“And who’s the handsome blond kid next to him?” Jean-Luc asked, squinting at the frame. “Ah, right—that’s his… partner, isn’t it? The Russian boy?”

“That’s Ilya,” David corrected, his tone lowering into a protective register.

“Right, right,” Sarah said with a light, patronizing laugh. “Shane’s trophy boy! Honestly, David, it’s almost poetic. Shane makes a fortune in real estate, moves out to a private lake mansion, and gets himself a gorgeous piece of arm candy to keep him company in the woods. Must be nice to be young and rich.”

“He really is quite breathtaking, isn’t he?” Jean-Luc added casually, taking a sip of his coffee. “Like a model Shane keeps around for galas and fancy donor dinners. Good for Shane. A guy who works that hard deserves a bit of luxury.”

David didn’t correct them. He didn’t tell them that the “arm candy” in the photo possessed a mathematical mind so terrifyingly fast it routinely made Shane’s senior risk analysts cry during portfolio reviews. He didn’t tell them that Ilya was currently slouched on a velvet sofa two hours north, wearing wool socks, sipping espresso, and casually tearing apart federal tax loophole strategies for fun while feeding sourdough crusts to a dog.

He allowed the comments to fly because he knew, with absolute certainty, how Ilya would react to them.

In fact, David recalled with suppressed amusement the conversation they’d had just two weekends ago before Shane’s firm hosted a high-end charity gala in downtown Toronto. Ilya had stood in front of the full-length mirror in the cottage’s master bedroom, smoothing down a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo that Shane had ordered for him from Milan.

When David had jokingly mentioned that Shane’s business associates might mistake him for a high-maintenance trophy boyfriend, Ilya had turned around, resting his chin on Shane’s shoulder with an utterly dazzling, wicked smirk.

“Mistake me?” Ilya had purred in his thick accent, blue eyes sparkling with sheer delight. “Papa David, please. I am the ultimate arm candy. I stand there looking pretty, I drink their eighty-dollar champagne, and when some fifty-year-old CEO tries to talk to me about emerging markets, I tilt my head, look blank, and say, ‘Oh, I do not understand numbers, I just like Shanya’s house.’ It drives them crazy. Shanya loves it.”

Shane had groaned, burying his face in his hands, though his dark brown eyes had been shining with helpless, adoring laughter as he pulled Ilya in by the lapels of his suit.

David cleared his throat, snapping back to the present, and looked up at his two colleagues with an impeccably neutral expression. “Ilya is very happy with his role,” David said mildly, his tone dry as bone. “He takes his duties as Shane’s arm candy very seriously.”

“Well, who wouldn’t?” Sarah laughed, entirely missing the subtle humor. “Living in a mansion, going to galas, doing nothing all day? Sounds like the dream.”

“It certainly suits him,” David agreed, slotting his pen neatly back into its holder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Jean-Luc, I have to finish reviewing these Q3 appropriations before the minister’s briefing.”

“Right, right. Good talk, David!”

As his coworkers drifted down the carpeted hallway, their chatter fading into the background hum of office printers and ringing telephones, David reached out and gently nudged the photo frame a fraction of an inch to the right.

It was then that his phone buzzed against the polished mahogany surface of his desk at precisely 12:15 PM.

He didn’t even need to glance at the caller ID to know who it was. On weekdays, 12:15 PM meant Shane’s European trading desk had closed for lunch, and Ilya had officially migrated from his morning routine of scrolling through commercial property deeds on the couch to occupying the kitchen counter.

David slid his thumb across the screen and put the phone to his ear. “Treasury Board of Canada, Hollander speaking.”

“Papa David,” Ilya’s voice echoed through the receiver, accompanied by the distinct background hum of a high-end espresso machine running. “Your son is attempting to make soup from scratch.”

David leaned back in his leather chair, a smile spreading across his lips. “What kind of soup?”

“Something with lentils and kale. It looks like swamp water,” Ilya reported gravely. “I told him that as his official arm candy, I am legally protected from consuming leafy vegetables floating in broth. I am built for pastries and smoked fish. I am delicate.”

In the background, David heard Shane’s laugh, followed by the soft clatter of a wooden spoon against a pot. “Baby, tell my dad the truth. Tell him you’ve already eaten two cinnamon rolls today.”

“That is fake news propaganda generated by the financial sector,” Ilya shot back without missing a beat, though David could practically hear the wicked smirk through the phone line. “Anyway, David, I am calling because Shane says we need to go into Montreal next weekend for some real estate fundraiser, and he wants me to wear a velvet jacket.”

“Velvet?” David asked, raising an eyebrow at his window.

“Deep emerald velvet,” Ilya explained, his tone shifting into one of dramatic relish. “It costs more than my entire tuition for freshman year in Boston. I am going to look ridiculously expensive. When Shanya’s rich investor friends ask me what I do for a living, I am going to tell them I am a professionally retired and that I collect Shanya’s credit cards as a hobby.”

“Please don’t embarrass my son in front of the pension fund managers,” David said dryly, though his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Oh, they love it,” Ilya purred. “Last time I did that, three of those old hedge fund managers tried to give Shanya their business cards because they thought his ‘lifestyle brand’ was hilarious. Being arm candy is a very complex business strategy, Papa David. You wouldn’t understand. It requires immense sacrifice, like standing near an open bar for two hours.”

“I’m sure it’s exhausting,” David chuckled. “Could you let me talk to Shane for a second?”

“Fine.” There was a rustle of movement, the sound of the phone being handed over.

“Hey, Dad,” Shane said, his tone light and deeply content. “Don’t listen to him. He’s been staring at that velvet jacket online for three days. I had to order it just to get him to stop dramatically sighing on the rug.”

“He’s playing his role, Shane,” David said, his eyes drifting back to the framed photo on his desk. “My colleagues at the Treasury Board were just telling me this morning how lucky you are to have such a breathtaking trophy boyfriend.”

Shane let out a genuine laugh that echoed warmly through the line. “They have no idea, do they?”

“Not a clue,” David agreed softly. “I am glad you are both doing great. Anyway, I have to go back to work. Take care of yourself, son.”

“Will do. Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too.”

David hung up the phone and set it back on the desk next to the wooden frame. He picked up his red pen and went back to his budget spreadsheets with a lighter heart.

Chapter 3: Hayden Pike

The Ritz-Carlton ballroom in Montreal smelled faintly of expensive lilies, champagne, and old money. Hayden Pike adjusted the collar of his suit jacket for the fifth time in ten minutes, mentally calculating how many pre-season games he’d rather be playing right now instead of standing under the crystal chandelier.

“Relax, Pike,” JJ muttered beside him, swirling a glass of sparkling water. “The front office said we only have to stay for two hours. It’s good PR for the Voyagers. Show your face, smile at the board members, and let the rich people feel like they’re friends with NHL players.”

“I’d rather do bag skates in the dark,” Hayden grunted, leaning against a high-top table and scanning the crowd of tailored tuxedos and evening gowns. “Half these people don’t even watch hockey. They just like the tax write-offs.”

“Look over there,” JJ nudged him with an elbow, gesturing subtly toward the central lounge area near the bar. “Who’s the kid?”

Hayden followed JJ’s gaze. Standing in the center of a circle of sixty-something pension fund executives and high-profile real estate developers was a guy who couldn’t have been older than twenty-four or twenty-five. He had jet-black hair, soft freckles across his nose, and wore a sharp navy tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. However, what caught Hayden’s attention wasn’t his suit, but how utterly unaffected he looked by the powerful men hanging onto his every word.

“That’s Shane Hollander,” a passing board member chimed in, overhearing JJ. “Hollander Capital. Dropped out of university a few years back and built one of the most aggressive private equity and commercial portfolios in the province. Kid’s a genius.”

Hayden’s eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t know much about high finance, but he knew what a powerhouse looked like. The black-haired kid—Shane—was softly spoken, his brown eyes calm and observant. Whenever one of the older executives tossed a grand standing pitch his way, Shane responded with a dry bite that had the entire circle chuckling.

“He looks our age,” JJ whispered, sounding genuinely impressed. “And he’s running a fund like that? Damn.”

“He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else,” Hayden observed, recognizing the faint, polite glaze over Shane’s brown eyes. There was an understated grace to him, a grounded confidence that Hayden found himself strangely respecting.

If I had to talk to suit-and-ties all night, Hayden thought, I’d want a guy like that in my corner.

Before JJ could respond, the glass doors to the balcony swept open, as a tall, broad-shouldered blond man stepped back inside. He was wearing a deep, emerald-green velvet jacket that practically screamed for attention, tailored to perfection across a frame that clearly belonged to a high-level athlete. He carried a fresh glass of eighty-dollar champagne in one hand and held a half-eaten crab cake in the other.

Without a single glance at the older millionaires, the blond strode straight through the circle of executives and unceremoniously draped himself over Shane. He threw an arm around Shane’s shoulders, burying his face dramatically into the crook of Shane’s neck with a loud, theatrical sigh.

“Shanya,” the blond groaned in a thick, rich Russian accent, loud enough for half the circle to hear. “I am starving. I ate the little fish thing on a cracker, but it is not enough. These events never have good food and their vodka is shitty. Take me home.”

Hayden froze, his mouth opening a fraction of an inch in sheer disbelief, as the entire circle of executives went dead silent. JJ almost choked on his water.

Shane, for his part, didn’t even flinch. He didn’t look surprised, embarrassed, or annoyed. He simply reached up with familiarity, his fingers curling around the blond’s hip to him, sliding his thumb gently against the emerald velvet.

“Baby, you had two croissants in the car,” Shane chastised softly, his tone dry as bone, but a faint, fond warmth crinkling the corners of his brown eyes.

“Those were appetizers,” Ilya declared, lifting his head to rest his chin directly on Shane’s shoulder, blinking his bright blue eyes with an expression of utterly blank, gorgeous innocence at the staring executives. “Hello, old rich people. Shanya, who are these men? Are they giving us more money?”

One of the pension managers let out a booming laugh, clapping Shane on the shoulder. “Ah, Hollander! Your boy is as sharp as ever!”

“He’s a handful,” Shane smiled calmly, pressing a brief, subtle kiss against Ilya’s blond hairline before turning back to the group. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us, my partner requires real food.”

Hayden stood frozen by the high-top table, watching as the prodigy investor calmly steered the dramatic, velvet-clad Russian away toward the catering tables. The blond was already leaning his entire weight into Shane, whispering something that made Shane shake his head with a soft, helpless laugh.

“What… was that?” JJ muttered, staring after them. “Was that guy serious?”

Hayden scoffed softly, shaking his head as he watched Shane patiently hand the Russian a napkin while the blond dramatically examined a plate of sliders. The blond was undeniably stunning—tall, a jawline that could cut diamonds, and piercing blue eyes—but his attitude was completely unhinged. He acted like a spoiled, high-maintenance trophy boyfriend who didn’t possess a single brain cell beyond looking pretty.

“God,” Hayden muttered under his breath, watching Shane gently fix the blond’s collar while the Russian purred something into his ear. “That Hollander guy seems smart as hell. He could do so much better than that arm candy.”

When the two obligatory hours finally passed, Hayden sighed in relief as he stepped out of the Ritz-Carlton. Beside him, JJ was already tapping on his phone, scrolling through group chats.

“Some of the guys are meeting up at a club in the Old Port,” JJ informed him, slinging his leather jacket over his shoulder. “You coming, Pike? First round’s on the rookies.”

“Pass,” Hayden said, flagging down a cab. “I’m going home. Unlike you single degenerates, I’ve got a family waiting.”

“Suit yourself, old man,” JJ grinned, clapping him on the shoulder before jogging down the steps toward a group of teammates waiting by a limousine.

Twenty minutes later, Hayden pulled into the driveway of his house in the suburbs of Montreal. The front porch light was on, throwing a warm, soft glow over the manicured lawn.

He kicked off his dress shoes, padded silently upstairs, and cracked open the door to the nursery. The nightlight cast a soft pink glow over the twin beds. Three-year-old Ruby was spled on her stomach, holding a plush moose, while Jade was curled into a tight little ball on the opposite side. Hayden stepped in softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to each of their foreheads, smoothing back their fine hair before quietly pulling the door shut.

Down the hall, light spilled out from the master bedroom.

Jackie was propped up against a mountain of pillows on the king-sized bed, a book resting over her bump. She was seven months pregnant with their third—a boy this time—and she looked radiant in the warm lamp light, her hair pulled up into a messy bun.

“Look who survived the rich people,” Jackie teased, looking up from her book with a sleepy smile.

“Barely,” Hayden sighed. He walked over, bending down to press a kiss to her lips, then resting his hand over her stomach, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of his unborn son beneath his palm. “How are you feeling? Did the twins give you any trouble?”

“They were angels tonight,” she said, leaning into his touch. “Don’t you dare get on this bed before you take a shower.”

Hayden chuckled, shedding his suit jacket and heading into the master bathroom. Ten minutes under the hot water washed away the lingering tension of the evening. He threw on a pair of grey sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, dried his hair with a towel, and climbed into bed beside his wife, pulling her into his side.

Jackie rested her head against his chest, her hand casually tracing circles over his arm. “So, was it as terrible as you expected?”

“Worse,” Hayden grunted, leaning his head back against the headboard. “I spent two hours trying to look interested while board members explained tax brackets to me. But honestly… the weirdest part of the night was this guy who was our age.”

Jackie raised an eyebrow, looking up at him in curiosity.

“Jet-black hair, freckles, navy suit, he dropped out of school a few years ago and built this insane private equity and real estate empire. Everyone was surrounding him like he was the messiah. Quiet guy, though. Smart. Really dry humor.”

“Wait,” Jackie paused, her eyes brightening with sudden recognition. “Black hair, freckles, real estate? What was his name?”

“Shane something. Hollander, I think?”

“Shane Hollander?” Jackie sat up a little straighter, a laugh bubbling up from her chest. “Are you kidding me? Shane was in a couple of my intro finance classes back when I was at McGill!”

Hayden blinked, looking at her in surprise. “Seriously?”

“Yes! He always sat in the back, but he was an absolute genius. He literally dropped out after one semester because he got bored or realized he could do it better on his own. By the time I was a senior, professors were using his portfolio management strategies as case studies in my advanced classes! Everyone was like, ‘Yeah, this guy used to sit right in that chair, and now he owns half of downtown.’ It was hilarious.”

“Well, the guy is definitely sharp,” Hayden hummed in agreement. “But babe, I swear to God, the whole thing turned into a straight-up telenovela halfway through the night.”

Jackie giggled, resting her chin on his chest. “Why? What happened?”

“Okay, so Hollander is standing there, talking to all these fifty-year-old pension fund managers, right? Very professional and composed. Out of nowhere, this Russian guy steps through the balcony doors.” Hayden gestured dramatically with his hands.

Jackie gasped, covering her mouth.

 “This guy walks straight past all these multi-millionaires, drapes himself over Hollander like he’s about to faint, and calls him ‘Shanya’ in this thick accent,” Hayden continued gravely. “Then he starts whining about how he ate a crab on a cracker and he wants to go home.”

Jackie burst out laughing, the bed shaking beneath them. “No way!”

“I am dead serious! I thought it was a hidden camera prank,” Hayden chuckled. “I mean, I’ve seen puck bunnies my whole career, right? Girls who hang around the rink for the clout or the lifestyle. But I didn’t think arm candies like that actually existed in the corporate world! This guy literally acted like a high-maintenance, gorgeous trophy boyfriend who doesn’t have a single thought in his head besides looking pretty and spending Hollander’s money.”

“And what did Hollander do?” Jackie asked, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye.

“That’s the crazy part! Hollander didn’t even blink,” Hayden shook his head in disbelief. “He just grabbed the guy by the hip, fixed his collar, told him he already ate two croissants in the car, and politely excused them both so he could go feed his Russian. I was standing there with JJ like, ‘Man, Hollander seems so smart, he could do so much better than that guy.’”

Jackie laughed so hard she had to hold her bump, leaning against Hayden’s shoulder. “Babe, you have no idea. Those hyper-smart finance guys? They always fall for the dramatic ones. It keeps their lives interesting.”

“It was unhinged,” Hayden smiled, wrapping his arms securely around Jackie and pulling her close as the house settled into a deep, late-night calm. “Anyway. I’m just glad I get to come home to a brilliant woman who doesn’t wear emerald velvet.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll buy a velvet robe tomorrow,” Jackie teased, kissing his jaw before nestling into his neck.

Hayden chuckled softly, switching off the bedside lamp, completely content with the normalcy of his family.

Two months later, he found himself in a maternity suite at Saint Mary’s Hospital. Beside the bed, the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor provided a soothing pulse to the late-night silence.

Hayden sat in the comfortable armchair near the window, a small, blanket-wrapped bundle resting securely against his chest. Little Arthur was fast asleep, his tiny hands tucked up against his chin, his breathing light, while on the bed, Jackie was out cold, her face soft and relaxed after twelve grueling hours of labor.

It had been a whirlwind of a week. The Montreal Voyagers’ playoff run had ended in a tough, hard-fought second-round elimination. It stung—especially after grinding through eighty-two regular-season games—but the sting faded the second Hayden saw the notification that the Boston Raiders and New York Admirals had both been knocked out as well. If the Voyagers couldn’t lift the Stanley Cup this year, at least those two hadn’t won it either; the Detroit Red Wings had swept the finals, leaving Hayden free to focus on what actually mattered.

Which was right here in this room.

Carefully, so as not to wake the baby, Hayden reached out to the bedside table with his free hand. Resting on the bottom shelf was a glossy issue of Canadian Financial Digest. Hayden picked it up, flipping through the high-grade paper with one hand just to pass the time.

Page after page was filled with charts, market predictions, and high-society commentary. He was about to set it back when a vibrant, full-page spread caught his eye. At the top of the page, in bold, gilded typography, the headline read: INSIDE THE WEDDING OF THE CENTURY: SHANE HOLLANDER & ILYA ROSANOV.

Hayden’s eyebrows shot up as he squinted at the main photograph.

It was the guy from the gala.

The article went into lavish, near-absurd detail about the three-day wedding extravaganza hosted at a private estate overlooking the Amalfi Coast. It sounded like something written by a playwright on an unlimited budget. There were details about a chartered fleet of private yachts transporting guests, custom Italian silk, a three-tiered fountain flowing with vintage Dom Pérignon, and a five-course dinner prepared by a three-star Michelin chef flown in directly from Paris.

According to the journalist, the highlights included the groom—Ilya Rosanov, now officially taking the name Ilya Hollander—arriving at the evening reception clad in a floor-length, custom-tailored burgundy velvet cape over a bespoke cream tuxedo. The article quoted Ilya directly from his toast: “Shanya bought me an entire Italian villa for our wedding present, but the most romantic thing he did was hire a security detail specifically to keep journalists from asking me if I know how stocks work.”

Shane, looking sharp, composed, and undeniably happy in a dark charcoal tuxedo, was pictured in several candids with his arm locked firmly around Ilya’s waist. In almost every photo, Shane was either looking at Ilya with helpless devotion or handing him a glass of wine while Ilya dramatically posed for the cameras. There was even a photo of their cocker spaniel, Anya, wearing a matching silk bow tie, sitting lazily beside Shane’s dad, David, who was holding a glass of champagne with an amused smirk on his face.

The article gushed about “the ultimate power union of finance and unapologetic luxury,” detailing how Shane’s investment fund had surged past new valuation records while his husband casually “managed the domestic monarchy from their private retreat in Quebec.”

Hayden snorted, shaking his head as he stared at the photograph of Ilya dramatically raising a glass of champagne from the deck of a yacht.

Jesus Christ, Hayden thought. It really is a straight-up telenovela.

It was completely over the top, absurdly extravagant, and so far removed from Hayden’s reality that it felt like reading fiction.

Hayden looked away from the magazine and turned his gaze back to the bed. He gazed at Jackie, sleeping soundly in her hospital gown, her hair messy, and wearing no makeup. He looked down at his newborn son, Arthur, whose tiny fingers were clutching the soft cotton of Hayden’s t-shirt. In a few hours, when the sun came up, he’d go home to pick up Ruby and Jade, bring them here to meet their baby brother, and then head back to their simple suburban house to cook dinner and unpack hockey gear.

He made great money as a first-line player in the NHL. He had a great contract, a beautiful home, and a solid career. But reading about that ultra-rich, high-society world—where guys wore velvet capes to Amalfi Coast weddings and bought private villas on a whim, Hayden knew with absolute clarity that it wasn’t for him.

Hayden gently closed the magazine, sliding it back onto the lower shelf of the nightstand. He shifted Arthur slightly in his arms, bowing his head to press a gentle kiss to his son’s forehead.

He had his home, his kids, and his wife. And as far as Hayden Pike was concerned, he had the best life in the world.

Chapter 4: Harris Drover

Harris sat at a corner table on the terrace of Le Petit Solem, arguably the most exclusive coffee bistro in the city, nursing a double-shot oat milk latte. Across the small round marble table sat Ilya, wrapped in a cashmere coat that probably cost more than Harris’s first car, lazily stirring a croissant into his foam.

And ten feet away, leaning casually against a stone pillar with an earpiece tucked discreetly into his collar, stood Nikolai—a six-foot-four wall of a man who looked like he could snap a birch tree in half with his bare hands.

Harris took a slow sip of his latte and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Ilya, I swear to God, Nikolai is staring straight at me. Am I about to be executed?”

Ilya didn’t even turn around. He just took a slow bite of his pastry, his bright blue eyes glinting with lazy amusement. “Nikolai is not staring at you, Harris. He is monitoring the perimeter. Shanya hired him because some aggressive real estate blog tried to photograph us leaving the cottage last month.”

“He looked at my muffin like it was a concealed weapon!” Harris whispered aggressively, though his lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “I’m a social media manager, Ilya. My most dangerous tool is Canva.”

“You are Shane’s head of media branding now,” Ilya corrected smoothly, resting his chin in his hand. “Which means you are high-priority personnel.”

Harris sank back into his iron chair, shaking his head. He was used to managing the online presence of high-end hockey franchise like the Centaurs, navigating tenant complaints and curating aesthetic Instagram feeds. But his life had taken a surreal, hyper-luxurious detour six months ago when he bumped into Ilya at a high-end Ottawa tea shop.

Ilya had been in town visiting his future in-laws, David and Yuna Hollander, looking thoroughly bored while Shane finished up a remote board meeting. Harris and Ilya had struck up a conversation over a shared, burning hatred for overpriced matcha, and within twenty minutes, they were laughing like old friends. They just clicked—Harris’s sharp, witty humor perfectly matching Ilya’s dry, dramatic sarcasm. Shane had walked into the shop an hour later, seen his usually guarded fiancé laughing hysterically over a berry tart, and instantly declared Harris a permanent fixture in their lives.

When Shane’s real estate empire expanded to the point where he needed a complete overhaul of his corporate image and private portfolio marketing, Ilya hadn’t even hesitated.

“Hire Harris,” Ilya had told Shane over breakfast.

Harris had almost panicked at the offer. He values their friendship far too much to let it look like he’d befriended the Russian man just to get an ‘in’ with one of the most successful young real estate moguls in Canada. He’d stammered through an explanation that he didn’t want any money or contracts to ruin their dynamic.

Shane had just smiled—that soft, gentle, slightly amused smile he reserved for people Ilya loved—and patted Harris on the shoulder.

“Harris,” Shane had said smoothly, using that calm, grounded tone that made everyone instantly relax. “If Ilya trusts you, I trust you. Besides, your portfolio work for Centaurs is brilliant.”

Since then, Harris had been folded seamlessly into the Hollander inner circle. He managed the sleek, understated media rollouts for Shane’s multi-million-dollar developments and regularly received frantic, dramatic text messages from Ilya at two in the morning complaining about the lack of proper Russian sour cream in Quebec.

“Speaking of branding,” Harris said, pulling his iPad from his leather satchel and sliding it across the marble table. “Here are the draft teasers for the new commercial high-rise in Montreal. It’s minimalist and elegant. Shane wanted me to show you first to see if you thought it looked ‘too corporate.’”

Ilya picked up the tablet, his long fingers scrolling through the high-resolution mockups. The lazy, sleepy persona he projected to the world flickered for a second, replaced by that terrifyingly sharp, analytical gaze Harris had learned to respect.

“The typography is good,” Ilya mused, tapping a slide. “The lighting on the glass façade highlights the structural lines. But change the caption on slide three. Shanya doesn’t ‘redefine luxury.’ He owns it.”

Harris grinned, jotting down a quick note. “See? This is why you’re worth every penny of Shane’s money.”

“I am priceless,” Ilya corrected, handing the iPad back and reaching for his coffee. “Shanya tells me this every day.”

“I’m sure he does,” Harris chuckled. “Now tell me truth—did Shane actually buy that burgundy velvet cape for the Amalfi wedding, or did you steal it from a theater troupe?”

Ilya gasped theatrically, clutching his hand to his chest. “Nikolai! Escort this man away! He is insulting my fashion!”

From ten feet away, Nikolai didn’t even blink, though the corner of his stoic mouth twitched just a fraction. Harris laughed, completely at home in the absurd, wonderful world of the Hollanders.

Harris picked up a fresh biscotti, dipping it into his latte while pulling up the draft roster specs on his iPad. “Speaking of major branding overhauls, the Ottawa Centaurs front office wants me to put together the new season launch campaign by Friday. And for the first time in three years, I might actually have something legit to hype up.”

Ilya leaned back, resting his chin in his hand, his blue eyes flicking over to the screen. “Because of the new trades?”

“Because the entire roster just got restructured,” Harris corrected, tapping the digital whiteboard. “They managed to pull off a miracle. We got Hayes from the Toronto Guardians—easily one of the best goalies in the league right now—and Troy as a top-line forward. Plus, they drafted Luca Haas, who’s an absolute monster at center, and somehow convinced Ryan Price not to retire, trading him in from Buffalo to anchor the defense.”

Ilya hummed softly, taking a sip of his coffee. “So, Boodram finally gets a good team to captain.”

“Exactly!” Harris exclaimed, leaning over the table. “Bood has been carrying the entire franchise on his back as captain for years. He’s incredible, but the team had no center depth to back his powerplays. With the Guardians falling apart after the Kent scandal and the many arrests, and Buffalo in a total tailspin, the Atlantic Division is basically down to the Boston Raiders and the New York Admirals.”

“What about Montreal?” Ilya asked lazily. “Didn’t they make the second round last year?”

Harris snorted, waving a hand dismissively. “The Voyagers are a mess right now. Mediocre talent across the board, and the ones who are actually good get stuck rotting on the second or third lines because their coach only promotes his personal favorites—and his favorites are terrible. If the Ottawa Centaurs can build actual chemistry with these new guys and hatch the system correctly, this is their year to hit the playoffs.”

Ilya’s gaze sharpened slightly as his fingers traced the rim of his cup. “And the new forward? Troy does not have the best reputation in the league, he was Kent’s best friend… well, until the monster was found in the act of raping a politician’s daughter.”

Harris’s expression sobered up, his enthusiasm dampening into something a bit more cautious. It drove him crazy that it took a victim with the right connections just to get justice for her and all the other women Kent had hurt. That rapist should’ve been stopped way sooner, instead of the Toronto Guardians shielding him.

“Yeah,” Harris frowned. “That’s the one wildcard everyone in media relations is holding their breath over. His reputation in Toronto was… rough. People called him a bad boy, and not in a fun, leather-jacket kind of way. There were rumors about him involved in locker room fights.”

Ilya’s mouth set into a fine, flat line. “Shanya will not like that.”

“I know,” Harris sighed. “Believe me, I was ready to veto any individual promo shoots with him until I did a deep dive. From what I’ve gathered behind the scenes, a lot of that narrative was spun by Toronto’s front office to smear him.”

Ilya raised a pale eyebrow. “Why would his own team destroy his image?”

“Because Troy stood up for a woman who was sexually assaulted by Kent when the other players and the coach tried to cover for him,” Harris whispered, his voice laced with disgust. “He refused to stay silent, called out the toxic locker room culture, and the Guardians’ management turned on him. They tried to bury him, leaked framed stories to the press, and made his life a living hell until he demanded a trade.”

“So, he is not a bad boy,” the coldness in Ilya’s eyes melted away in understanding. “He just refused to be a coward.”

“Looks like it,” Harris agreed, nodding slowly. “It sounds like he was trapped in a nightmare environment and fought his way out. Obviously, we’re going to wait and see how he integrates with Bood and the rest of the guys, but I’m choosing to view things in a positive light until shown differently. If he’s the guy I think he is, he’s going to fit in just fine here.”

“Good,” Ilya said, his tone softening as he gestured toward Nikolai, who was currently watching a delivery truck back into an alleyway with hawk-like precision. “If he causes trouble for the team, I will have Nikolai talk to him.”

Harris let out a sudden, loud laugh that made a nearby couple turn their heads. “Please don’t send your Russian mob enforcer after our new top-line forward, Ilya. I need him scoring goals, not hiding in a locker room locker.”

“Nikolai is very gentle when he gives warnings,” Ilya smirked, taking a final bite of his croissant. “He just stands there in silence, it is surprisingly very effective.”

“I’ll keep that in mind as Plan B,” Harris chuckled, wiping his hands on a napkin and locking his iPad. “Now come on, ‘arm candy.’ Shane texted me five minutes ago asking if I let you eat a third pastry. We need to head back before he sends a search team.”

Ilya gasped, sliding gracefully out of his iron chair while adjusting his cashmere coat. “Tell Shanya that my pastry consumption is a matter of national security, and if he questions it, I am moving into your apartment.”

“Over my dead body,” Harris laughed, stepping out into the crisp Ottawa sunlight with Ilya and his towering bodyguard close behind. “I like my peace way too much.”

He then parted ways with Ilya and Nikolai, hailing a cab. Ten minutes later, he was walking through the security gates of the Canadian Tire Centre, home of the Ottawa Centaurs.

Inside, the arena echoed with the familiar, rhythmic thud of pucks slamming against plexiglass, the sharp scrape of skates digging into fresh ice, and the low, echoing reverberation of whistles blowing. The pre-season energy in the building was electric—charged with the undeniable, jittery optimism of a franchise that knew it had just pulled off an impossible off-season rebuild.

Harris headed straight down the concrete tunnel; his iPad tucked securely under his arm and a camera crew trailing closely behind him.

“Alright, people, let’s keep it organic for the day,” Harris called out over his shoulder to his videographer, Maya. “We want behind-the-scenes, unfiltered chemistry. The fans have been waiting months for this rollout.”

As they pushed through the double doors, the first person Harris spotted was captain Zane Boodram standing near the bench. Bood had his helmet off, damp hair sticking to his forehead, talking strategy with a tall guy, that looked as intimidating as Nikolai.

That was Ryan Price.

The veteran defenseman, who had been on the verge of hanging up his skates just three months ago, looked completely revived. He was nodding along to Bood’s notes, a focused look on his face.

“Bood!” Harris called out with a warm smile.

Bood looked up, his face lighting up into a broad smile. “Harris! Man, it’s good to see you. Tell me you brought good news and not just another mandatory media training slideshow.”

“Better,” Harris laughed. “I brought camera gear and high-res promo setups. We’re shooting the new ‘Rise of the Centaurs’ media package today. How are the new guys settling in?”

“Honestly?” Boodram wiped his sweat-drenched face with a towel, leaning against the board. “It’s night and day. Price is already running defensive drills like a drill sergeant, and Hayes is brick-walling everything in net. I haven’t seen a goalie move laterally like that in Ottawa since I was drafted.”

Speaking of the devil, down near the crease, Wyatt was casually dropping into a butterfly position, catching a rapid-fire succession of pucks with a loud, satisfying snap of his leather trapper. Beside him, nineteen-year-old rookie center Luca was resting on his stick, breath misting in the cold rink air as he watched Wyatt work with wide eyes.

“And Troy?” Harris asked carefully, his eyes drifting toward the far side of the ice.

Bood’s expression shifted, softening into something protective and proud. “He’s a machine, Harris. First one on the ice this morning, last one off. He was a little guarded the first couple of days, you know? But the guys wrapped their arms around him immediately. He’s family now.”

Harris felt a small knot of tension in his chest unwind completely. “Good. Let’s get them under the lights.”

For the next three hours, Harris took over the secondary practice rink, transforming it into a high-end photography studio. Softboxes flickered, rim lights cast sharp silhouettes across the ice, and the hum of high-speed cameras filled the space.

First up were the quick-fire social media Q&As and team chemistry promos.

“Alright, Luca, you’re up first, kid,” Harris said, guiding the young center to the mark on the ice. “Look right into the lens and tell the fans what it feels like to put on the Centaurs jersey for the first time.”

Luca grinned, his cheeks flushing pink under the ring light. “It’s surreal. I grew up watching hockey and now I get to play it professionally. It’s like a dream come true. And the Centaurs are great! We’re building something special here, and Ottawa’s going to feel it from night one.”

“Perfect,” Harris said, snapping a quick series of stills on his handheld DSLR. “Great energy. Next!”

Ryan Price stepped into the frame next, adjusting his gloves. The veteran defenseman looked imposing under the studio lights, like a weathered force.

“Ryan,” Harris started, stepping back to let Maya frame the shot. “Everyone thought you were heading for retirement after Buffalo. Why Ottawa? Why now?”

Price leaned on his stick. “Because when I saw the moves Ottawa was making—getting Hayes, picking up Troy, drafting Luca—I knew this wasn’t a rebuild. It’s a takeover. I came here to win a Cup, but also to find the love for hockey that I’ve lost. Simple as that.”

“Love it,” Harris murmured, his thumbs flying across his iPad to log the clip for the primary promo trailer. “That’s going straight to the season-opener teaser.”

Finally, Troy stepped up to the mark.

Up close, the top-line forward looked like a pretty boy with the body of a professional athlete. There was also a guardedness to his posture, but as Boodram skated over and playfully shoved his shoulder to break the ice, Troy let out a bright laugh that completely transformed his face. Harris watched through his viewfinder as Troy threw his arm around Bood’s shoulders for a joint promo photo.

“Troy, hit us with one line for the fans,” Harris called out, raising his camera. “What can Ottawa expect from you this season?”

Troy looked directly into the camera lens, his expression hardening into unadulterated determination. “They can expect us to give them hell every single night. We’re not backing down from anyone.”

Click.

The shutter closed on a picture-perfect shot: Troy, Bood, Price, Wyatt, and Luca all standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the ice, bathed in white light, looking like an absolute juggernaut ready to tear through the Atlantic Division.

“And… wrapped!” Harris shouted, his voice echoing across the rink.

The team erupted into cheers, pounding their sticks against the ice as they skated toward the tunnel, laughing and cracking jokes. Harris sat down on the bench, flipping through the fresh batch of photos on his tablet screen. It was then that his phone buzzed with a text from Ilya.

Ilya: Did you survive the hockey players, or does Nikolai need to rescue you?

Harris chuckled, quickly snapping a photo of the camera display showing Troy and Boodram grinning together and hitting send.

Harris: Survived and thrived. The Centaurs are going to dominate this year. Tell Shane his investment in this team is paying off.

A second later, Ilya replied.

Ilya: First of all, this is my team, not my husband’s. It was a beautiful birthday gift from Shanya. Second, make sure they don’t embarrass us.

 

Chapter 5: Troy Barrett

The edge of sharp steel on fresh ice echoed off the high girders of the Canadian Tire Centre. It was the final skate of the year—a bitter morning that smelled of sweat, melted frost, and team pride.

Troy glided past the blue line, taking a deep breath to burn the cold into his lungs. The Ottawa Centaurs had been eliminated after Game Seven of the Eastern Conference Finals, falling just short of the Cup. It hurt. Every muscle in his body ached from that brutal third-period battle against the New York Admirals. Every single collision along the boards, every shot blocked with his shins, and every frantic shift in overtime had left its mark. His lungs still burned when he pulled in a sharp breath of arena air, and his left shoulder was a dull, thumping ache beneath his pads.

Still, as Troy looked around at his teammates, everyone was holding their heads high with pride.

There were no slammed sticks, no angry glares, and no sullen silence lingering over the ice. Instead, there was a shared, undeniable realization of what they had accomplished together over eight relentless months. For the first time in nearly a decade, Ottawa had made the playoffs.

They hadn’t just qualified either—they had carved a relentless path straight to the conference finals. They had fought through injuries, silenced every critic in the national media who had picked them to finish bottom-five in the Atlantic Division, and turned a skeptical home crowd into a deafening roar that shook the building every single night.

The Admirals had gone on to lift the Stanley Cup after defeating Las Vegas Golden Knights, culminating in that historic moment when Scott Hunter became the first out gay player, after he pulled his boyfriend into a kiss right on national television.

Troy remembered watching that broadcast in his living room, sitting alone on his couch with a half-empty glass of water in his hand, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. The joy on Scott’s face as he held the Cup with one hand and drew his partner close had felt like a seismic shift through his television screen.

That moment sent shockwaves through the hockey world. Then, just yesterday, Centaurs veteran defenseman Ryan Price posted his own statement on Instagram, casually confirming his relationship with the pop singer Fabian Salah. The caption had been simple, almost offhand, accompanying a photo of the two of them laughing together on a sunlit balcony.

Hockey culture was shifting fast, tearing down walls Troy had spent his entire career assuming were permanent.

Growing up in the traditional, tight-lipped hockey system, Troy had learned early on that survival meant fitting into a specific mold. You kept your head down, you spoke in canned hockey cliches, and you never, ever gave anyone a reason to look at you twice off the ice.

In Toronto, that paranoia had consumed him entirely.

The constant scrutiny, the toxic rumors spun by a bitter front office, and the suffocating feeling that one wrong step would destroy his career had nearly made him walk away from the sport altogether. But standing here on the ice in Ottawa, feeling the cool air against his damp neck, he realized those old fears belonged to a world that was rapidly fading away.

Near the center circle, a chorus of stick-taps rattled off the ice as the guys crowded around Luca. The nineteen-year-old rookie was blushing furiously while Wyatt Hayes put him in a playful headlock. Luca had officially been named a finalist for the Calder Trophy, and everyone knew he was the favorite to win it. Hayes was practically shouting in the kid's ear, ruffle-dragging his helmetless hair.

The camaraderie wasn't forced like it had been with the Guardians; it was forged through months of hard-fought games and late-night bus rides across North America.

Troy smiled, coasting in a slow circle near the glass. His eyes drifted up toward the media box above the home bench, hunting for a familiar face.

His cheeks warmed as he spotted Harris standing by the railing.

Harris was wearing a bright yellow sweater, his iPad tucked casually under one arm, looking down at the team with that familiar, observant gaze he brought to every practice and game. Over the past few months, as the Centaurs tore through the regular season and charged into the playoffs, Harris had become his anchor. What started as conversations over playbook diagrams had turned into late-night phone calls, shared meals on road trips, and soft touches in parking lots.

It had built slowly, in the space between team meetings and media availability. Troy remembered the late-night flight back from Boston after a tough loss in March, when the rest of the plane was asleep and the cabin lights were dimmed to a soft amber glow. Harris had sat in the aisle seat beside him, going over video clips on his tablet, and when Troy’s exhaustion finally caught up to him, the other hadn't moved away when Troy laid his head against Harris’ shoulder. They had stayed like that for two hours in the dim light, the soft hum of the jet engines wrapping around them, saying nothing at all, but understanding everything.

Troy had fallen for him, fast and hard.

Watching Hunter kiss his boyfriend, and seeing Price live so openly, did something to Troy. He was done hiding. Once this final skate was over and the gear was packed away, he was going to walk straight up to Harris, look him in the eye, and ask him out on a real date. No more meeting up in low-lit hotel lobbies, no more lingering at the edges of group dinners, and no more pretending that the spark between them was just professional courtesy.

Troy wiped sweat from his forehead and noticed Harris wasn’t alone.

Standing on either side of the social media manager was a couple. To Harris’s left stood a striking Asian man in a tailored dark coat, holding a tablet and chatting calmly with him. To Harris’s right stood a handsome guy with bright blue eyes, untamed blonde hair, and a high-end leather jacket, looking down at the ice.

Harris was laughing with them, gesturing down toward Luca and Hayes.

Troy coasted over to the bench where Captain Zane Boodram was leaning against the boards, grabbing a drink. “Hey, Cap,” Troy called out, flicking his stick toward the box. “Who are those guys with Harris?”

Bood took a swig of water, wiped his beard with his glove, and looked up. “Those are the owners.”

Troy blinked. “The owners? They look like they’re our age.”

Bood chuckled, resting his elbows on the glass. “Money doesn’t care about age, man. The guy on the right—talking to Harris—that’s Shane Hollander. He’s a total finance guru. Built an empire in real estate and private investments before he turned twenty-three.”

Troy watched Shane reach out to gently adjust the collar of the blonde guy beside him. “And he bought an NHL team?”

“It was an anniversary present for his husband, Ilya,” Bood nodded toward the blonde guy. “Turns out they’re both hockey nuts. A couple of years ago, when the franchise was losing money and falling apart, Hollander bought out the primary stake. He restructured the business, dumped a fortune into the facilities, and brought in top management.”

Bood looked at Troy. “Everything that happened this season? Putting Hayes in the net, trading for Price, drafting Luca, signing Weibe as coach, and bringing you in for our top line? That was all them. Hollander hired a brilliant GM, gave Weibe total freedom, and told them to build a locker room based on talent and character.”

Bood paused, tapping his water bottle against the dasher board with a reflective look. "When I came here five years ago, this place was a ghost town. The gym equipment was outdated, the travel schedule was cheaped out on, and the front office was constantly looking for scapegoats every time we lost three in a row. Shane walked in on day one, fired the old corporate dinosaurs, upgraded our training staff, and told us his only expectation was that we show up, work hard, and treat each other with respect. He built a culture where guys actually want to play. You don't see that in this league often."

Troy listened, his gaze shifting back up to the owners' suite. In Toronto, the upper management had felt like distant, cold judges sitting in high towers, waiting to execute trades the moment a player stumbled in the press or showed the slightest vulnerability. Here, Shane Hollander looked less like a faceless corporate titan and more like a guy who genuinely loved the game and the people playing it.

Troy looked back up at the box with gratitude.

Shane was smiling down at the ice, resting his arm around his husband’s waist. Ilya was pointing at Luca, making a gesture like he was hoisting a trophy. And Harris turned to hand Ilya a coffee, his face lit up with a warm smile.

Troy felt his last bit of hesitation about joining the Centaurs evaporate. This wasn’t a toxic front office that protected predators and buried good men.

“Good guys to work for,” Troy murmured.

“The best,” Bood agreed, tapping Troy’s shin guard with his stick. “Now come on. Let’s finish this lap before Weibe lectures us.”

Troy laughed, digging his skates into the ice and taking off in a smooth stride. As he glided around the far turn, he looked up one last time. Harris caught his eye behind the glass and gave him a wave. Troy raised his stick in a salute, feeling hopeful.

A little while later, after the last skate was done and everyone had showered and dressed, the metal doors of the locker room swung open. Players were pulling on their jackets, tying their shoes, and zipping up garment bags, preparing for the long summer break ahead. There was an energetic, light rhythm to the room, a collective sigh of relief as the physical grind of the season officially came to a close.

When Harris walked through the doorway, flanked by Shane and Ilya, the room went quiet for a beat before Bood stepped forward to shake hands.

“Mr. Hollander,” Bood greeted warmly. “Glad you could make it down.”

“Zane, please—it’s Shane,” Shane replied, shaking the captain’s hand. “We wanted to come down and say it in person.” He looked around the room at the tired, proud faces. “You brought glory back to Ottawa this year. What you did for this franchise over the last eight months... Ilya and I couldn’t be prouder.”

Shane’s voice wasn't booming, but it carried an easy, unshakeable authority that had everyone in the room pausing what they were doing to listen. He didn't stand on a podium or give a canned corporate speech. He stood right in the center of the rubber matting, looking each player in the eye, acknowledging the sweat and sacrifice that had gone into making Ottawa a hockey town again.

“Next year we bring you the Stanley Cup,” Hayes called out from his stall with a confident grin, throwing a rolled-up roll of skate tape into his bag. “Guaranteed.”

Ilya let out an amused chuckle, leaning against the doorframe. “It is okay, Hayes. We know you are great. Do not stress yourself before the summer. You gave New York seven games of hell, and that is more than enough for your first run together.”

A few chuckles echoed through the room at Ilya's dry delivery. Hayes just grinned broader, crossing his arms over his chest, clearly thriving under the owner's praise.

While Shane talked with Coach Weibe and Bood about off-season upgrades—mentioning new recovery plunge pools and an expanded analytics staff for the fall—Ilya’s blue eyes scanned the room and landed straight on Luca. He sauntered over, stopping right in front of the young center.

“So,” Ilya said, hands in his jacket’s pockets. “You are the Calder Trophy finalist. Congrats!”

Luca flushed a light pink, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked up from his half-packed duffel. “Uh, yeah. Thanks. Just tried to do my job out there.”

“Your edge work is brilliant,” Ilya complimented. “I watched your shifts in Game Five. The way you open your hips to fake the drop-pass on the power play? Very smart.”

Luca’s eyes lit up, the initial shyness vanishing instantly as he realized he was talking to someone who understood the granular mechanics of the game at an elite level. “You noticed that? My junior coach used to tell me I was taking too much time on the half-wall with that move!”

“Your junior coach was an idiot,” Ilya stated flatly. “Keep doing it. Next season, I will personally bet Shane ten thousand dollars that you score thirty goals.”

Luca burst out laughing, instantly slipping into an easy back-and-forth as the two started breaking down power-play tactics on a whiteboard nearby. Ilya grabbed a dry-erase marker from the ledge, drawing out a quick zone-entry diagram while Luca leaned in, nodding intently and pointing out defender reads. It was a remarkable sight—a billionaire team owner and a rookie casually dissecting hockey strategy on a dry-erase board like two kids at a local rink.

On the other side of the room, Troy stood by his stall, watching Harris walk over. The bustle of teammates packing bags, Coach Weibe laughing with Shane, and Ilya debating tactical setups with Luca all seemed to recede into background noise as Harris stopped right in front of him.

“Hey,” Harris said softly.

“Hey,” Troy replied, his voice dropping into that low, warm register he reserved only for Harris. “Great speech from the owners.”

“They mean every word of it,” Harris smiled, stepping a fraction closer, out of the main walkway where Hayes was hauling a gear bag toward the door. “And for what it’s worth… you played out of your mind this post-season, Troy. I’m really proud of you.”

The words were simple, but coming from Harris, they had Troy’s heart swelling with joy. Through every tough road trip, every grueling back-to-back, and every moment where the pressure of his past had tried to creep back in, Harris had been there with a calm word, an encouraging smile, or a hot coffee handed over in the early hours of the morning.

Troy looked down at him, his eyes shining with an intensity that made Harris’s breath catch.

“Walk out with me?” Troy asked, gesturing toward the hallway leading to the player’s exit. “I want to talk to you before everyone heads to the team dinner.”

Harris nodded, his heart giving a sudden, joyful flutter. “Lead the way.”

They stepped out of the locker room together, leaving the chatter behind as they walked down the wide concrete tunnel. Their footsteps echoed rhythmically off the cinderblock walls, passing the athletic training rooms, the video analysis lounges, and the security desks. The cool air coming off the ice gave way to the crisp, fresh breeze flowing in from the loading bay doors at the end of the hall.

When they reached the shadow of the exit doors, away from the lingering arena staff and the rumble of cars idling outside, Troy stopped, turning fully to face Harris.

Without saying a word, Troy reached out, his hand coming up to gently cup the side of Harris’s face, his thumb brushing tenderly against his cheekbone. The touch was free of the hesitation that had held him back for months.

“I watched the Admirals’ game against the Golden Knights,” Troy murmured, his eyes locked onto Harris’s. “I saw Hunter’s bravery on the ice after they won, and I know how much it took for Price to make his post.”

Harris went still, holding his breath as he looked up at the forward. “Yeah?”

“I’m done hiding, Harris,” Troy told him. “I don’t care about the press, or this League’s homophobia. I want this. I want you. Let me take you on a real date.”

A bright, helpless smile broke across Harris’s face. He leaned into the touch of Troy’s hand, resting his palm over Troy’s wrist, feeling the steady, strong pulse beneath his skin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Troy let out a soft, relieved laugh, bending down to press a kiss to Harris’s temple—a promise of a brand-new day as they stepped out together into the evening.

Chapter 6: THE BOY WHO WALKED AWAY FROM McGILL

The Globe

THE BOY WHO WALKED AWAY FROM McGILL—and BUILT A PRIVATE-EMPIRE POWERHOUSE

How Shane Hollander turned a family real-estate fortune into one of Canada’s most closely watched private investment empires

By: Rebecca Mercer | Report on Business

There are few things in finance more difficult than convincing established capital markets that a kid barely out of his teens knows what to do with millions of dollars. Shane Hollander did it by ignoring them entirely—and building an empire from nothing.

When Hollander arrived at McGill University, the "Hollander" name carried no weight in Canadian financial circles. His parents, David and Yuna, were comfortable, middle-class professionals whose lives revolved around academic rigor and civil service, not private wealth. There was no inherited family real-estate portfolio, no generational trust fund, and no Rolodex of institutional lenders waiting to back him.

He lasted one semester at McGill.

Then he walked away.

At the time, the decision looked less like the beginning of a financial empire and more like an act of reckless youth. Hollander had no safety net, no family fortune to fall back on, and had walked away from one of Canada’s most prestigious universities without completing his first year. Everyone called him crazy. Friends, advisors, and onlookers assumed he was throwing his future away.

What happened next changed Canadian private capital—and put the Hollander name on the map permanently.

Rather than taking out massive bank loans he couldn't back, Hollander spent his first months out of school analyzing market mechanics that older investors overlooked. He approached real estate not as a property owner, but as a capital-allocation problem: identifying mispriced complexity, undervalued land, and assets where operational restructuring could unlock immediate liquidity.

Working eighteen-hour days from a cramped desk, his early deals were razor-thin, high-risk, and executed with mathematical precision. When his initial redevelopments produced staggering returns, the very institutions that had dismissed him took notice. Within a few years, Hollander had built a diversified private investment platform spanning high-end real estate, private equity, and private credit.

People who have worked with Hollander describe an investor obsessed with the mechanics beneath a transaction. He doesn't chase fashionable trends; he looks for cash flow, downside protection, and long-term expansion. He treats capital like an engine: cash flow creates flexibility, flexibility creates opportunities, and opportunities create compounding assets.

Today, Hollander controls a rapidly expanding private investment empire while remaining young enough to be dismissed by traditionalists as a prodigy. The decision to leave McGill has taken on an almost mythological status in business circles. He didn't leave because he rejected education; he left because he was learning faster from real transactions than from lecture halls.

The boy who walked away from university with nothing to his name proved every critic wrong. Shane Hollander didn't inherit an empire—he built one brick by brick, and in doing so, made the Hollander name synonymous with unshakeable financial authority.

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HELLO!Canada

THE WEDDING OF THE DECADE!

Inside Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov’s spectacular celebration of love, money, and unapologetic excess

SPECIAL WEDDING ISSUE | EXCLUSIVE PHOTOGRAPHS

There are weddings, and then there are weddings that make people wonder whether the couple accidentally purchased an entire city for the weekend. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov's celebration belonged firmly to the second category.

The Canadian private-equity powerhouse who built his own empire from the ground up and the Russian-born househusband did not embrace understated elegance. Instead, they created an event combining new-money luxury, Russian extravagance, and contemporary fashion, supported by enough flowers, champagne, custom tailoring, and security personnel to make even seasoned society photographers ask how much all of it cost.

While industry estimates place the visible total somewhere between $2 and $5 million, neither Hollander nor Rozanov has released an official figure, and judging by the visual evidence, they didn't need to.

[PHOTO: FULL-PAGE COVER]

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov standing beneath a large, bespoke floral installation following the ceremony. Hollander wears a classic black tuxedo, while Rozanov wears a custom suit with a wide velvet lapel.

The couple selected a private estate to ensure complete privacy from press and onlookers, turning a ceremony space dominated by white blooms and greenery into a reception layered with candlelight, custom linens, crystal, polished silver, and floral installations estimated in the high six figures. The guest list brought together family, professional athletes, and business associates under strict security measures and phone bans.

[PHOTO: THE CEREMONY]

An empty ceremony aisle illuminated by rows of floor candles, framed by two multi-tiered floral arches at the altar.

Hollander’s formalwear reflected the exact, immaculate precision he brings to his financial operations, whereas Rozanov’s wardrobe favored custom tailoring and high-impact accessories. This approach carried over to their bespoke wedding bands—estimated in the six-figure range—and a multi-tiered cake assembled on-site by a dedicated pastry team.

[PHOTO: THE RINGS]

Two custom platinum wedding bands featuring interior engravings, resting on a dark velvet cushion.

The dinner operated as a private restaurant takeover, offering customized multi-course menus alongside flowing champagne and vintage wines. As the evening progressed into the reception, the formal atmosphere shifted to dancing and late-night celebrations.

[PHOTO: THE RECEPTION]

Rozanov pulling Hollander toward the center of the dance floor, surrounded by guests. Hollander is caught mid-laugh with his arm around Rozanov's waist.

Ultimately, every category of expenditure was elevated beyond conventional luxury standards. Yet, despite the massive scale of the production, the final photograph of the magazine package remains the most significant moment captured.

[PHOTO: THE FINAL EXIT]

The newlyweds walking away from the main reception tent toward a side path, holding hands with their backs partially turned toward the camera.

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@SpreadsheetGoblin69

Nobody prepared me for the day Canada would produce the male version of a trophy wife.

Because apparently his name is Ilya Hollander and he is BEAUTIFUL!

Living in a lakeside mansion wearing clothes that cost more than my car.

Life is not fair 😭

 

@TaxEvasionFairy

People keep calling Ilya a gold digger like Shane isn't catastrophically, hopelessly in love with him.

I don't think Ilya needs Shane's money.

I think Shane needs Ilya in his immediate vicinity or he starts malfunctioning.

 

@VelvetPenaltyBox

Can we discuss the fact that Ilya spends his husband's money like a Victorian heiress who has never seen a price tag?

Custom clothes, designer jewelry, ridiculous vacations, private everything.

The man has NEVER encountered a purchase he couldn't justify with “but it's pretty.”

 

@HockeyWifeIndustrialComplex

Exhibit A: Shane Hollander, financial powerhouse, staring at Ilya like Ilya personally invented oxygen.

Exhibit B: Ilya looking back like “yes darling, I would like another coat.”

Case closed.

 

@CompoundInterestGoblin

If you're calling Shane stupid for marrying Ilya, you need to explain the part where a genius financial strategist reviewed the world's most important spreadsheet and concluded: “Beautiful Russian man, excellent investment.”

 

@BlueLineBanshee

THEY LOOK SO HAPPY.

Every photograph is the same: Shane is looking at Ilya, and Ilya is either laughing, touching him, or looking like he just remembered he married the hottest man in Canada.

Let them live 😤

 

@LuxuryBoxGoblin

If Shane Hollander were married to a random woman who stayed home, nobody would write think pieces about her “needing to contribute.”

But because Ilya is a man, suddenly it is an issue.

 

@CursedCapologist

Everyone talks about what Ilya gets from Shane.

But what about what Shane gets?

A husband who makes him happy, makes him laugh, and whom he obviously adores.

Apparently, that's worthless because it doesn't fit into an Excel spreadsheet.

 

@GoalieGlitterBomb

Why do people complain about Ilya spending Shane's money when Shane himself appears completely delighted every time he buys Ilya something?

The man looks like it's Christmas morning.

 

@MapleSyrupMenace

Gift-giving is a love language after all 🥰

 

@HockeyAndHedges

Most people forget it, or do not count it as one.

Which is a pity, because gift-giving bring pleasure to both parties not just the receiving one.

 

@NorthernLightsMenace

“Ilya Hollander” sounds like a fake name from a romance novel.

You cannot be this beautiful AND have that name.

Pick a struggle.

 

@PuckGremlinSupreme

The funniest part is that Ilya is completely unbothered.

People call him a trophy husband? “Yes ❤️.”

People call him spoiled? “Correct ❤️.”

Arm candy? He puts on another designer jacket.

This man cannot be shamed because he knows Shane loves him.

 

@CapSpaceCryptid

You can see the difference between someone showing off their spouse and someone genuinely obsessed with them.

Shane isn't showing Ilya off—he just cannot stop looking at him.

 

@SpreadsheetGoblin69

Final ruling:

Is Ilya Hollander a gold digger? No, he is a gold enjoyer.

Is Shane Hollander being financially exploited? Absolutely not.

Do these two look disgustingly happy? Yes.

---

@ottawacentaurs

[PHOTO]

The entire Ottawa Centaurs roster gathered on the ice after their Eastern Conference Final run. The players are still in their playoff jerseys, some with arms around teammates, others holding their helmets and sticks.

Caption:

What a run. 🐎🏒

Eastern Conference Finalists.

Thank you, Ottawa. But we’re not done yet.

Next year, we’re coming for the Cup. 🏆

#OttawaCentaurs #NHL #Playoffs #StanleyCup

Comments:

@BytownBanger

I CANNOT BELIEVE OTTAWA MADE IT TO THE EASTERN CONFERENCE FINAL 😭

 

@CentaursTillIDie

You know what? Next year I actually believe we can win the Stanley Cup.

 

@OttawaPuckGoblin

SHANE HOLLANDER IS THE BEST FUCKING THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO THIS TEAM.

 

@CapitalCityChaos

The man bought this team and suddenly we know what playoff hockey looks like.

I LOVE THIS TEAM!

 

@FrozenBytown

From “maybe we'll make the playoffs” to EASTERN CONFERENCE FINALISTS.

What the hell happened to my Centaurs???

 

@PuckGremlinSupreme

Shane Hollander changed this franchise.

I will die on this hill.

 

@RozzyDefenseLeague

And I don't give a FUCK if Ilya Hollander is a blonde bimbo, trophy husband, gold digger or whatever the internet is calling him this week.

I LOVE THESE TWO.

Leave them alone.

@HockeyWifeIndustrialComplex

Exactly.

The Centaurs just made the fucking Eastern Conference Final.

THEY ARE THE KINGS OF OTTAWA AND YOU CANNOT INSULT THEM WITHOUT FACING OUR WRATH!

 

@OttawaAfterDark

Ilya: married a billionaire
Shane: married Ilya
Centaurs: made the Eastern Conference Final

Everybody won actually.

@CentaursDad

I have supported this team for YEARS.

I never thought I'd see this.

Next year. 🏆

 

@BytownMenace

See you next season.

We're not asking for the playoffs anymore.

WE WANT THE CUP. 🐎🏆

Chapter 7: Yuna Hollander

The autumn sun streamed through the expansive glass windows of the lake house, casting a warm, golden hue across the immaculate quartz countertops. Yuna Hollander stood at the kitchen island, meticulously wiping down an already pristine surface. Outside, the lake was a flat mirror reflecting the fiery oranges and reds of the surrounding hills.

From the adjacent living room, the low, rhythmic click of wooden puzzle pieces provided a comforting background hum. Yuna didn’t need to look over to know what was happening: David and Ilya were hunched over the coffee table, locked in another silent, obsessive battle against a two-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle.

Yuna paused, resting her hands on the counter, her eyes drifting toward the tall, blond young man sitting on the rug in a gray cashmere sweater, a cocker spaniel resting her head across his ankles.

If someone had told Yuna five years ago that this boy would become the heart of her family, she would have called them out of their mind.

Yuna had never been an easy mother. She knew that about herself. Raised with uncompromising standards, she had applied a fierce, relentless discipline to Shane’s upbringing. Every grade, every extracurricular, every hour of study had been monitored with hawk-like precision. It wasn’t out of coldness; it was out of an overwhelming, fierce love. Yuna saw the almost terrifying brilliance in her son from the time he was a toddler, and she was determined to build him a runway long enough for him to reach the stars.

When Shane was accepted into McGill University—the Harvard of Canada—Yuna had felt a sense of victory. Her strictness and endless pushing had paid off. Her son was on the path to the legacy he deserved.

And then, Shane dropped out after a single semester.

David had handled the news with his usual patience, offering warm tea and suggesting they trust their son’s instincts. But Yuna had been devastated. The disappointment had cut through her like a blade. She had laid awake for nights, staring at the ceiling, convinced that Shane was throwing his life away, destroying his future for a reckless gamble in the private market.

Shane, of course, had proceeded to prove her wrong in the most spectacular fashion imaginable.

Within three years, his private equity and commercial real estate portfolio hadn’t just grown—it had exploded. Eight figures became nine. His capital strategies were being studied by the very McGill professors whose lectures he had walked out on.

Yet, as Shane’s wealth multiplied exponentially, Yuna’s maternal panic simply shifted shape. The fear of him failing was replaced by a new, terrifying prospect: that her deeply devoted, wealthy son would fall prey to a gold digger. She envisioned polished, opportunistic socialites circling Shane for his money, exploiting his gentle nature and vast accounts.

Then Shane brought home Ilya Rozanov.

When Yuna first met the towering, brilliant Russian with piercing blue eyes and a razor-sharp tongue, she had braced herself. Ilya looked like a walking red flag—a former prodigy who had casually walked away from academia, wore designer clothes her son bought him, and unashamedly declared himself Shane’s “arm candy.” He spent his days lounging on the sofa, feeding sourdough crusts to the dog, and openly telling Shane’s wealthy business associates that he didn’t care about numbers, he just liked expensive wine.

Yuna had prepared for war.

She had expected a manipulative parasite. Instead, over months of observation, Yuna witnessed something that dissolved her fierce, protective walls into dust.

She saw how Ilya, despite his lazy “arm candy” persona, possessed a mind so frighteningly fast that he could dismantle complex federal tax strategies over morning coffee just to amuse David. She realized that Ilya’s theatrical “trophy boyfriend” routine was nothing more than a brilliant, hilarious shield he used to protect her son from corporate parasites and keep the high-society vultures at bay.

Yuna never expected to love Ilya. Now, she considered him her second son.

She watched as Ilya reached across the puzzle board, expertly slotting a tiny piece of sky into place before casually stealing a piece of toast from David’s plate.

“Mama Yuna,” Ilya called out. “Your husband is trying to cheat. He is hiding a mountain piece under his napkin.”

“I am resting my wrist, you paranoid badger,” David grumbled fondly, though he sheepishly moved his napkin to reveal the piece.

Yuna chuckled, walking over to the living room and resting her hand on the back of Ilya’s head, lightly threading her fingers through his messy blond hair. Ilya leaned into the touch instantly, like a cat accepting affection, his bright blue eyes looking up at her with soft warmth.

“Don’t let him bully you, Ilya,” Yuna said softly, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. “He’s just sore because you solved the glacier section faster than him.”

“I am superior at ice,” Ilya smirked, taking a bite of the stolen toast. “It is my Russian heritage.”

Yuna smiled, looking over at the side table where the morning newspaper lay open to the sports section.

The front page featured a full-color spread of the Ottawa Centaurs. Below the bold headline, a photo showed nineteen-year-old Luca grinning ear-to-ear as he officially accepted the Calder Trophy as the NHL’s Rookie of the Year.

It was still mind-boggling to Yuna. When Shane and Ilya had casually mentioned a year ago that they were buying a controlling stake in the struggling Ottawa Centaurs franchise, Yuna had braced for another financial headache. Instead, the two of them had orchestrated an absolute miracle.

Shane had brought his analytical genius to the business restructuring and executive hiring, while Ilya had brought his instinctual social brilliantness to evaluating roster chemistry and player culture. Together, they had hired Coach Weibe, empowered Captain Zane Boodram, backed top-line forward Troy, and created a team that had carved a historic path all the way to the Eastern Conference Finals—a feat the franchise had literally never accomplished in its entire history.

“Shane called a few minutes ago,” Yuna said, setting a fresh cup of green tea beside Ilya’s elbow. “He’s leaving the Ottawa office now. He should be home in an hour.”

Ilya’s entire posture softened at the mention of Shane’s name, a bright spark lighting up his blue eyes. “Good. He promised to bring the almond croissants from the city.”

“He’ll bring them,” Yuna assured him, smoothing the shoulders of Ilya’s sweater.

She looked at her husband, then at her second son, and finally out at the peaceful lake. Her son hadn’t taken the path she had mapped out for him. He had dropped out of the ‘Harvard of Canada,’ married a boy who claimed to be a professional trophy husband, and bought a hockey team on a whim.

And by doing so Shane hadn’t just reached the stars—he had brought the whole universe right to their front door.

The soft gravel driveway outside crunched under the car tires, breaking the afternoon stillness of the lake house. Before the engine had even fully cut out, Anya was already on her feet, tail thumping a frantic rhythm against the hardwood floor as she trotted toward the front door.

Ilya immediately abandoned his puzzle piece, sliding off the rug with effortless grace.

When Shane stepped through the door, his tie slightly loosened and a brown paper bakery bag held carefully in one hand, Ilya met him right in the foyer. Without a word, Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane’s shoulders and pulled him down into a deep, lingering kiss. Shane’s body melted against Ilya’s as he let out a contented sigh, all the lingering stress of his Ottawa board meetings evaporating in a single kiss.

“I brought the almond croissants,” Shane murmured against Ilya’s lips, a fond, soft smile touching his face.

“Good boy,” Ilya purred, taking the bag from his hand with a soft nip to Shane’s lower lip. “Go sit down. I will make the tea.”

Yuna watched the scene with amusement. For all of Ilya’s dramatic declarations about being a helpless, pampered trophy husband who couldn’t possibly be bothered with domestic labor, the reality was entirely different. Ilya loved being spoiled by Shane, but he cared for her son just as much. Whenever Shane came home tired, Ilya was the first to shed his lazy persona—brewing his favorite herbal tea, rubbing the tension from Shane’s shoulders, and ensuring his husband didn’t have to lift a single finger.

A few minutes later, Ilya padded back into the living room carrying a ceramic tray with a steaming pot of Earl Grey, four porcelain cups, and the fresh, flaky pastries set out on a wooden plate.

Shane had already sank into the sofa, resting his head back against the cushion, while David remained contentedly focused on the puzzle. Ilya set the tray on the coffee table, handed Shane his cup with a quick, tender kiss to his temple, and then sat down right beside Yuna.

“So, Mama Yuna,” Ilya began smoothly, leaning back against the cushions and stirring a small spoonful of jam into his teacup. “How was your day? Did you survive the grocery store?”

Yuna took a slow sip of her tea, a conspiratorial smirk spreading across her face. “It was quite eventful, actually. I ran into Mrs. Miller while I was picking up produce.”

Shane opened his eyes, looking over at his mother with a raised eyebrow. “Mrs. Miller? As in… Jessica’s mom?”

“The very same,” Yuna nodded, her eyes twinkling with suppressed amusement.

Shane chuckled, shaking his head. “Wow. Jessica’s mom… that’s a blast from the past. How is Jessica doing? I haven’t heard her name since junior year before I finally admitted to myself I was gay.”

“To be completely honest, Shane, I have no idea how Jessica is doing,” Yuna admitted, resting her cup on her saucer with a delicate clink. “I didn’t even get a chance to ask.”

Ilya tilted his head, his sharpening with curiosity. “Why not?”

“Because I was spending every ounce of my willpower trying not to laugh directly in her face,” Yuna answered, her signature strict composure cracking into a bright laugh. “The woman was practically vibrating with bitter resentment. She spent the entire fifteen minutes in the organic aisle making snide, passive-aggressive comments about how ‘unfortunate’ it was that Jessica and Shane drifted apart before college.”

Shane groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, God. She’s still bitter about high school?”

“Extremely,” Yuna continued, leaning toward Ilya with a wicked glint in her eyes. “She kept talking about your real estate portfolio, Shane, and how ‘shocked’ everyone in town was when you bought the Centaurs. But the best part—the absolute crown jewel of the conversation—was when she leaned in close over the organic apples, dropped her voice, and asked if you had the good sense to sign a bulletproof prenuptial agreement with ‘that blonde Russian bimbo you married.’”

Shane snapped his head up, his brown eyes flashing with indignation. “Are you serious? God, that’s so insensitive. If I didn’t know how much Ilya thrives on that exact kind of ridiculous gossip, I’d be furious. Ilya deserves so much more respect than people assuming he’s just some gold-digging trophy—”

“Shanya, darling,” Ilya interrupted smoothly, a delighted grin spreading across his face. His blue eyes were practically sparkling with joy. “Let your mother speak. This is the best thing I have heard all week. Did she really call me a blonde bimbo?”

“Word for word,” Yuna confirmed, taking another triumphant sip of tea. “She looked so deeply concerned for Shane’s finances. She asked if you even knew how stocks worked, or if you were just spending Shane’s money on velvet capes and champagne.”

Ilya let out a loud, melodic laugh that echoed through the lake house, throwing his head back against the sofa. “A blonde bimbo! Oh, I am framing that! Shanya, you must buy me a yacht immediately so I can live up to Mrs. Miller’s expectations.”

Shane looked between his mother and his husband, his defensive anger melting into a reluctant, fond smile. “You two are terrible. You’re enabling each other.”

“I couldn’t help it, Shane,” Yuna smiled, her eyes soft as she looked at her son-in-law. “I just stood there nodding along, looking terribly serious, while internally I was dying of laughter. The woman genuinely thinks she was giving me wise motherly advice, completely ignorant of the fact that ‘that Russian bimbo’ can calculate complex corporate tax yields in his head while feeding sourdough to the dog.”

“It is my favorite identity,” Ilya purred, reaching over to take a bite of an almond croissant. “Let the small-town mothers think I am a gold-digger. It makes it so much more satisfying when we buy their local hockey team.”

David looked up from the puzzle, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Just don’t let her see you solve the glacier puzzle, Ilya. It will ruin your bimbo reputation forever.”

The entire room erupted in laughter.

Chapter 8: Sergei Vetrov

Moscow in late autumn was gray and cold, the kind of weather that soaked into a man’s bones and stayed there. Sergei sat in the small, warm kitchen of his apartment, a mug of strong black tea between his hands, looking out at the endless concrete apartment blocks stretching toward the horizon.

His daughter, Svetlana, was out, and the apartment was blessedly quiet. But Sergei’s mind was thousands of miles away, across the Atlantic Ocean, in the pine-scented wilderness of Ottawa.

To say that the last few years had been strange would be the understatement of the century.

Sergei had known Ilya Rozanov since the boy was an intense child with guarded blue eyes and skittering nerves. Growing up in Moscow under the roof of Grigori Rozanov, Ilya had never known peace. Grigori was not a father; he was a storm system of cruelty and violent volatility, a man who viewed his sons not as children to nurture, but as possessions to break. While Alexei, Ilya’s older brother, had coped by turning inward, bitter, and eventually diving headfirst into every vice Moscow had to offer, Ilya had taken a different path.

Ilya had worked. He had worked until he bled.

Sergei remembered watching young Ilya push himself to physical and mental exhaustion, whether it was on the ice, in school, or trying to shield himself from his father’s erratic temper. It was a terrifying, desperate kind of work ethic born strictly out of survival. Sergei used to watch the boy worrying that Ilya was going to burn himself out before he even reached his twenties.

And, in a way, that was exactly what had happened.

When Ilya had walked away from everything—from his athletic scholarship, from the university tracks, from Moscow itself—and vanished into Canada, Sergei hadn’t been as shocked as everyone else. A candle burning that bright, fueled by that much trauma, was bound to melt down to the wick eventually. Ilya had simply reached his limit, said fuck it, and severed his ties with a world that had demanded everything from him and given him nothing in return.

Now, Ilya Rozanov lived like a ghost.

The only time anyone in Moscow ever saw proof that Ilya was still breathing was when his picture popped up in high-society news outlets or fashion columns. He’d be pictured at charity galas in Toronto, high-end real estate openings in Montreal, or art gallery openings, wearing tailored suits that cost more than most people’s rent, looking bored, breathtaking, and untouchable.

Otherwise, Ilya had happily retreated into blissful seclusion. From what Svetlana showed Sergei on her phone, Ilya spent his life wrapped in ridiculously expensive cashmere at his lakefront cottage in the Ottawa wilderness, or lounging on the sun-drenched terrace of his villa in Italy, occasionally posting a picture of a wine glass, a dog, or a plate of sourdough to Instagram just to prove he was still alive. He had built a fortress of privacy around himself, unconcerned with the rest of the world.

Meanwhile, back in Moscow, the Rozanov family was spiraling into ruin.

The household was a toxic, bitter swamp, and Alexei made sure every single person in their circle knew about his endless, explosive frustration with his younger brother. Alexei spent his days ranting to anyone who would listen about what a disappointment Ilya had become.

“A college dropout!” Alexei would sneer, slurring his words over vodka in local bars. “A disgraced prodigy who gave up his pride to be an arm candy for some rich Canadian jappy!”

Alexei was furious that Ilya lived in luxury while he struggled. But what enraged Alexei more than anything—what drove him to screaming matches that echoed down the apartment halls—was the fact that Ilya had not sent a single ruble, euro, or Canadian dollar back home since the day he got married.

Sergei always listened to these rants with a stony, silent face, never offering a word of sympathy.

Why on earth would Ilya send you money? Sergei would think to himself, taking a sip of his tea. So, you can snort it up your nose?

It was no secret to Sergei, or anyone else paying attention, what Alexei and his wife, Oksana, were doing. Oksana was just as bad as Alexei—a self-absorbed, status-obsessed woman who spent what little money they had on nights out, designer knockoffs, and drugs. If Ilya sent a single dime from Shane Hollander’s vast fortune to Moscow, it wouldn’t go toward rent, or food, or medical bills. It would be snorted off a glass table within twenty-four hours.

And then, of course, there was Grigori.

The old man was still alive, aging bitterly in his armchair, complaining that his youngest son was a traitor who owed him for bringing him into the world. Grigori truly believed he was owed a commission on Ilya’s life, as if years of physical and emotional abuse entitled him to a pension from Shane Hollander’s bank account.

Sergei was satisfied knowing that Ilya hadn’t sent them a cent. Ilya had built a wall of steel and concrete between himself and the monsters who had raised him, and he was letting them rot in the mess they had made for themselves.

Svetlana walked into the kitchen, dropping her keys on the counter and pulling off her scarf. She looked at her father, noticing the far-off, contemplative look in his eyes.

“Thinking about Ilya again?” she asked softly, pouring herself a glass of water.

“Just remembering how hard he used to work,” Sergei said, his voice low and raspy. “He never rested, Lana. Not for a second. Every breath he took in this city was a struggle.”

Svetlana’s expression softened, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen a few times, and slid it across the table to her father.

“Look,” she said. “He posted this an hour ago.”

Sergei picked up the phone, adjusting his reading glasses. On the screen was a high-resolution photo taken on a wooden dock somewhere in Quebec. The autumn sun was setting over a vast, still lake, turning the sky into shades of deep violet and orange.

In the foreground, sitting on the edge of the dock with his long legs dangling over the water, was Ilya. He was wearing an oversized cable-knit sweater, his blond hair windblown, leaning his head comfortably against the shoulder of a dark-haired man sitting beside him. Shane Hollander had his arm wrapped securely around Ilya’s waist, holding him close against the evening chill, while a large cocker spaniel slept peacefully at their feet.

Ilya wasn’t looking at the camera. He was looking at his husband, his usually guarded face softened by devotion.

Below the photo, Ilya had written a single, lazy caption: Arm candy duties are exhausting.

Sergei handed the phone back to his daughter, a rare, genuine smile warming his weathered face. His relief did not last long, as the harsh, jarring electronic chime of Sergei’s phone cut through the contented silence of the kitchen.

Sergei reached for the device with a sigh, expecting a mundane call from a former colleague from his playing days or a bureaucratic inquiry from his former post. But the moment he pressed the receiver to his ear and heard the rigid tone of the police detective on the line, the color drained from his face.

Sergei was on his feet before the officer even finished his sentence, his chair scraping violently against the floor.

“What the fuck is going on, Papa?” Svetlana demanded, her glass of water dropping onto the counter with a loud splash as she scrambled up to follow him down the narrow hallway. “Who was that? Why are you grabbing your coat?”

“Alexei,” Sergei growled, as he shoved his arms through his jacket. “Alexei got arrested.”

“Arrested? For what? What did he do now—”

“He killed her, Lana,” Sergei interrupted, turning around, his hand trembling slightly against the doorframe. “He killed Oksana. They had a fight. They were both high and drunk off their asses… the police said it turned violent. She’s dead, Lana. And Alexei is in a cell.”

Svetlana froze, her jaw dropping as her mind struggled to process everything. But Sergei was already moving, his instinctual composure as a former elite athlete kicking in through the shock.

Because the tragedy didn’t stop with the dead and the guilty.

In the back bedroom of Alexei and Oksana’s chaotic, debt-ridden apartment sat a three-year-old girl named Sofia. When Sergei and Svetlana arrived at the scene, navigating past the flashing red police lights and the cold autumn rain, they found the little girl sitting on a faded sofa, clutching a torn stuffed animal while investigators combed through the apartment.

The moment Sergei saw her, his heart broke into a thousand pieces.

Sofia looked nothing like her parents. She was, quite literally, a miniature Ilya. She had the exact same wild halo of golden-blonde curls and, most hauntingly, the exact same piercing, ice-blue eyes that Sergei remembered seeing on a terrified, brilliant nine-year-old boy decades ago. She was a silent, beautiful echo of the uncle she had never met.

The next forty-eight hours dissolved into a blur of paperwork, and brutal family decisions.

There was no debate about Alexei. When the public defender called asking about bail, Sergei’s answer was a short and cold, no. Alexei had chosen his path, fueled by resentment, addiction, and violence. He would face the Russian justice system alone.

As for Grigori, the old man’s mind had deteriorated so severely from advanced dementia that he barely understood where he was. He spent his days arguing with ghosts in his room, calling out for a wife long gone and sons he had driven away. Sergei worked swiftly with local medical authorities, placing Grigori into a private, specialized care facility where he could be monitored and kept safe, closing the door on the man’s toxic legacy once and for all.

That left Sofia. Sergei and Svetlana officially took temporary custody, but both of them knew the truth: her only real chance at a peaceful and safe life lay thousands of miles away, across the Atlantic.

Svetlana managed to contact Shane Hollander’s legal team through a secure channel. The response was immediate. Within twelve hours, Shane’s private corporate lawyers had taken over the international guardianship paperwork, expediting visas, passports, and diplomatic clearances with frightening, seamless efficiency.

Before Sergei or Svetlana truly had time to catch their breath, they were stepped off a private charter jet at an airport in Ontario, ushered into a sleek black SUV, and driven out into the rolling, maple-draped hills of Quebec.

The rain had stopped, giving way to a crisp, glowing autumn afternoon. The SUV wound its way down a long, private cobblestone drive bordered by towering pines and dark, tranquil water.

When the vehicle finally came to a smooth halt, Sergei stepped out onto the gravel, staring up at the structure before him.

Sergei was no stranger to wealth and prestige. In his youth, he had been a legendary goaltender for the Boston Raiders, earning millions in the NHL before returning to Russia to serve as a high-ranking government minister. He knew what power and high society looked like. But what stood in front of him wasn’t just a house—it was a fortress of absolute, unyielding luxury.

Calling it a “cottage” was a hilarious understatement. The timber-and-glass mansion rose out of the lakeside rocks like a modern architectural masterpiece, surrounded by private woods, immaculate stone terraces, and a glass-walled boathouse floating over the mirror-like water. It oozed subtle, infinite money—the kind of wealth that bought total privacy and security from the rest of the world.

Svetlana stepped out beside him, holding small Sofia securely in her arms. The little girl’s bright blue eyes were wide with wonder, her blonde curls bouncing in the cool lake breeze as she stared at the vast estate.

Sofia pointed a tiny, chubby finger toward the grand front entrance. “Papa Sergei,” she whispered in her soft Russian, “am I going to live here?”

Sergei looked down at the little girl, a gentle, bittersweet smile touching his weathered face. “Hopefully, little one,” Sergei replied softly, adjusting his coat. “Hopefully.”

Before Sergei could even knock, the door swung open.

Standing in the entryway was Shane Hollander. He wasn’t dressed in the bespoke corporate suits that usually graced financial magazines; instead, he wore a soft, navy-blue cashmere sweater, dark jeans, and warm wool socks. His face, usually set in a calm expression, instantly softened the moment his brown eyes landed on the small child.

“Sergei, Svetlana,” Shane greeted them warmly. “Welcome. Please, come in out of the cold.”

Without a moment’s hesitation or formality, Shane stepped forward. He didn’t offer a stiff handshake or wait for an introduction; he reached out his arms toward the little girl. Sofia, who was usually notoriously shy around strangers, looked into Shane’s gentle face for barely a second before melting into his arms, resting her small head against his shoulder with a soft, contented sigh. Shane supported her securely, resting a large, gentle hand over her back.

Sergei and Svetlana exchanged a quick, knowing look.

Svetlana gave her father a small, wry smile, leaning in slightly. “Yeah,” she murmured under her breath in Russian. “He’s just like that. You are welcomed into his home, and you just melt into his care. You can’t even fight it.”

Sergei nodded slowly, feeling a strange, tight knot in his chest loosen just a bit. He had spent decades navigating the cold, ruthless worlds of professional athletics and high-level Russian politics, where every gesture was calculated and every kindness had a price. But Shane Hollander exuded an effortless, unyielding goodness that you could physically feel the moment you stood near him. It was no wonder Ilya had built his life around this man.

“Thank you both so much,” Shane said, his eyes filled with sincerity as he looked between Sergei and Svetlana. “I know the last forty-eight hours have been hell. The legal teams told us how fast you moved, how much you shielded her from… everything. We can never thank you enough for bringing her safely to us.”

“She is family,” Sergei said simply, his English raspy from unuse. “It was the only thing to do.”

“Come inside, please,” Shane gestured toward the wide, heated stone foyer. “Shoes off at the door, please.”

Sergei and Svetlana quickly unlaced their shoes, stepping onto the radiant, warm stone floor. The interior of the house was blindingly beautiful—vast floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water, warm wood finishes, and the rich, comforting scent of brewing tea and cedarwood.

Before Sergei could even set his coat on the bench, a flurry of motion came from the living room.

Ilya emerged around the corner, his tall frame clad in a cream sweater. The moment his eyes locked onto the little girl in Shane’s arms, he breathed out softly: “Sofia.”

Shane stepped forward, carefully transferring the little girl into Ilya’s waiting arms. The moment Ilya held her, he let out a shuddering breath, pulling her close and spinning her around. Sofia burst into a bright, pealing laugh, her tiny hands clutching at Ilya’s collar. Her golden-blonde curls bounced against his cheek, making the striking, almost eerie resemblance between uncle and niece painfully obvious. She was, in every sense, a miniature Ilya.

A giant cocker spaniel came trotting over, her tail thumping a frantic rhythm against the hardwood floor.

“Look, Sofia,” Shane said in, much to Sergei’s surprise, Russian, kneeling down on the rug beside them and gently patting the dog’s flank. “This is Anya. She’s very soft, see?”

Sofia’s blue eyes lit up with instant delight. Ilya set her down carefully on the thick wool rug, and within seconds, Shane was down on the floor right beside her, showing her how to gently stroke the dog's fur while Anya happily offered a paw.

As Shane kept the little girl completely captivated and safe on the floor, Ilya stepped away, approaching Sergei and Svetlana. The lazy, theatrical “arm candy” persona that Ilya wore for the media was nowhere to be found.

“Sergei. Svetlana,” Ilya began, in his native Russian. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You don’t need to thank us, Ilya,” Svetlana replied, reaching out to squeeze his forearm. “We did what anyone would do.”

“No,” Ilya corrected firmly. “You took her out of that house. You dealt with the police, the courts, and the bureaucrats while I was stuck across the ocean waiting for clearance. You protected her.”

Ilya looked at Sergei, his expression unreadable for a moment before he continued. “I have already instructed Shane’s legal team. Every single ruble you spent—the specialized medical facility for Grigori, the private care arrangements, the travel expenses, all of it—will be wired to your accounts by tomorrow morning. Going forward, Shane and I will cover the expense for Grigori’s care. He will stay in that private facility in Moscow, fully taken care of, until the end.”

Sergei noted the phrasing instantly. Ilya no longer called Grigori Papa, or Father. The old man was no longer a parent in Ilya’s mind; he was merely a tragic responsibility to be managed financially from a distance.

“Ilya, you do not need to pay for Grigori,” Sergei offered.

“No,” Ilya interrupted, leaving no room for argument. “It is done. He will be taken care of, but his shadow will never touch this child again. Neither will Alexei’s.”

Sergei looked down at his shoes for a moment, a wave of mixed emotions washing over him. When Ilya and Shane had gotten married, Sergei had not been invited to the private ceremony in Italy. At the time, Sergei had felt a sharp pang of rejection. He had known Ilya since he was a child, had worried for him, had watched him suffer under Grigori’s hand. He had wondered if Ilya had simply forgotten him or grouped him in with the rest of the toxic Moscow past he was cutting away.

But as Sergei looked at Ilya now the truth hit him with breathtaking clarity.

If Sergei had attended a highly publicized, international gay wedding, the political fallout in Moscow would have destroyed Sergei’s standing, stripped his position, and invited endless state scrutiny into his life. Ilya hadn’t excluded Sergei out of spite or indifference. He had excluded him to protect him.

Sergei swallowed the lump in his throat, placing a weathered hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “I understand,” Sergei whispered softly. “I understand, Ilya.”

Ilya looked at Sergei’s hand, and gave a single, tight nod of understanding between two men who knew too much about the harsh realities of their homeland.

“I must ask you, Ilya,” Sergei said, turning his gaze back toward the living room where Shane was teaching Sofia how to stack soft wooden blocks with Anya watching intently. “About Sofia. What is the plan for her care? She has lost her mother, and her father is in a prison cell. So much has changed in her life.”

“I hate Alexei,” Ilya confessed, turning to look at the little girl. “And I hate Grigori. I hated the house, the city, the noise, the toxicity. When I left Moscow, I swore I would never look back. But Sofia…” Ilya paused, his chest heaving with a breath. “…Sofia was the only thing I regretted leaving behind in that country. Every time Svetlana showed me a photo of her, my heart broke a little more, knowing she was growing up without me in her life.”

Ilya looked over at Shane, who looked up from the floor at that exact moment, offering Ilya a reassuring smile across the room.

“What happened to Oksana is a tragedy,” Ilya continued softly, turning back to Sergei. “Alexei is a monster who deserves to rot in his cell. But out of all that dark, terrible ruin… I got my niece back.”

Ilya reached into his pocket, his fingers tracing a small wooden puzzle piece he had absentmindedly carried from the living room.

“Shane and I have already started filling out the paperwork for the adoption,” Ilya explained. “She is staying here. She will never know what it feels like to be afraid in her own home. She will have the life I never had.” Ilya looked at Sergei. “She came here as my niece, Sergei. But one day, very soon… she will be our daughter.”

Sergei looked from Ilya to Shane, and finally to little Sofia, who was currently laughing as Shane let her place a tiny toy crown on his head. Sergei patted Ilya’s shoulder one last time. Sofia was in the right place.

She was finally in the right place.

Chapter 9: Sofia Rozanova

When Sofia Rozanova was three years old, her world was bounded by peeling floral wallpaper, the stench of sour tobacco and stale vodka, and the cold, gray gloom of a tiny Moscow apartment.

In Moscow, everything was small, loud, and dirty. Her parents, Alexei and Oksana, were constantly shouting—screaming matches that started over missing money and ended with slammed doors and shattered glass. Sofia remembered squeezing herself into the narrow gap between the sagging sofa and the wall, clutching her faded, stuffing-leached teddy bear, trying to make herself as tiny as a dust mote.

Her mother, Oksana, used to drag Sofia past the high-end boutiques, looking through the polished glass windows with burning, bitter envy at the velvet coats and designer dresses she could never afford. Then she would drag Sofia home, snapping at her for dragging her feet, back to the cluttered kitchen where empty bottles lined the counters.

And then, in a single night of sirens, red flashing lights, and harsh voices, that world changed.

Ottawa was not a place Sofia understood at first. To a three-year-old girl who had known only cramped rooms and cold concrete, the lake house in Quebec felt like an endless fairy-tale kingdom.

Calling it a cottage, as Dyadya Shane always did with a gentle smile, was silly. It was a sunlit fortress of glass and timber rising straight out of the pine trees. Instead of shouting, there was only the soft rustle of wind through the trees and the rhythmic lapping of the lake against the wooden dock.

For her first two years in Canada, Sofia’s world was the lake house. Because her English was non-existent and she was still processing the trauma of losing her parents, she didn’t go to preschool. Instead, her Dyadyas hired Miss Clara, a patient, warm-hearted private tutor who came to the cottage three mornings a week. They sat at the oak table overlooking the water, using brightly colored picture books and wooden alphabet blocks to teach Sofia English.

During those early years, Dyadya Ilya and Dyadya Shane were home almost all the time.

In Moscow, parents disappeared into the city or locked themselves in bedrooms, emerging only to fight. But in Ottawa, her Dyadyas were a constant, soothing presence. They pampered her endlessly, but more than that, they pampered each other.

It was the thing that confused Sofia the most when she was little. Her mother and father had treated each other like enemies sharing a battleground. But Dyadya Ilya and Dyadya Shane moved around each other like water. Shane would walk into the kitchen, and Ilya would automatically lean back into his chest, letting Shane rest his chin on his shoulder while stirring tea. Shane would bring Ilya a sweater when the evening air turned cool without Ilya even asking. They touched gently—a hand on a lower back, a kiss pressed to a temple, a shared look across a room that carried a whole secret language of affection.

Watching them, Sofia learned for the first time in her life what love was supposed to look like.

When it came time for Sofia to start school, her Dyadyas decided it was time to move closer to the city for her education. They bought a new home in Ottawa—a grand, three-story house in an elegant neighborhood lined with ancient oak trees.

If the lake cottage was a secluded sanctuary, the city house was a palace built specifically for a growing girl. It had five bedrooms, a wide, sweeping staircase, and a backyard so big it felt like a private park, complete with a sparkling, heated swimming pool.

Her bedroom had high ceilings, soft cream carpet, and windows that looked out over the tree-lined avenue. Connected to it was her own private en-suite bathroom with a deep soaking tub, and a walk-in closet larger than her old bedroom in Moscow.

The first time Dyadya Ilya walked her into that closet after they moved, Sofia had stood frozen in the doorway.

The racks were filled with neat rows of clothes—soft cashmere sweaters, velvet party dresses, crisp leather boots, and tailored winter coats. Every single label inside those garments bore the names of the luxury fashion houses her mother had gazed at through shop windows with bitter envy. But here they were, hanging in Sofia’s closet.

Sofia remembered reaching out to touch a dusty-rose wool coat, half-expecting someone to slap her hand away and tell her she didn’t belong here. Instead, Dyadya Ilya had knelt down beside her, gently pulling the coat off the hanger and slipping her small arms into the sleeves.

“Fits perfectly,” Ilya had murmured, brushing a golden curl behind her ear. “Do you like it, little bird?”

“It’s… it’s like the stores in Moscow,” Sofia had whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “The ones Mama couldn’t go inside.”

Ilya’s face had hardened for a split second—a shadow of the cold, painful past passing over his features—before it softened into tenderness. He pulled her into his arms, kissing the crown of her head. “You never have to look through a glass window again, Sofia. Everything in this house is yours. You are safe here.”

Along with her Dyadyas, Sofia’s new life brought her something she had never imagined having back in Russia: grandparents.

David and Yuna Hollander didn’t treat her like an adopted orphan or a burden inherited from a ruined family. From the moment Shane brought her to their home, they accepted her into the family without hesitation. Dedushka David took it upon himself to teach her how to do jigsaw puzzles on the coffee table, patiently helping her search for missing sky pieces, while Babushka Yuna baked sweet lemon tarts and taught Sofia how to knit small, lumpy scarves for Anya.

For the first time, Sofia had family gatherings where people laughed around a dinner table, where holidays meant mountains of wrapped gifts and warm hugs, and where adults listened when she spoke.

The small, terrified girl who used to hide behind a sofa in a dark, dirty Moscow apartment felt like a character in a bad dream—someone she had read about in a book a long time ago. Moscow was a memory made of shadows and shouting.

Ottawa was light. It was the warmth of heated floors beneath her bare feet, the soft smell of cedar and rain, the luxury of her own beautiful room, and the unwavering certainty that she was cherished.

Today was a special outing: a trip to the high-end shopping district in downtown Ottawa, followed by lunch at the tearoom Babushka Yuna loved. The morning sun had a crisp, golden clarity to it as Sofia skipped down the street, holding tightly to her Babushka’s hand.

Dyadya Ilya followed a few paces behind them, looking stylish in a tailored camel-hair coat with a soft grey cashmere scarf tucked around his neck. Walking right beside Ilya, his tall frame looming like an immovable brick wall, was Nikolai. Nikolai didn’t talk much, but Sofia liked him. He always smelled faintly of peppermint mints and leather, and he carried her school bag whenever her arms got tired.

They had just stepped out of a boutique—where Babushka Yuna had picked out two handcrafted wool dresses for Sofia and Dyadya Ilya had casually added three cashmere sweaters to the box—when Sofia noticed something strange.

Across the street, near a row of parked cars, two men in jackets were standing near a lamppost. One of them held up a long, dark camera lens, pointing it directly at Sofia and Dyadya Ilya. The sharp, mechanical click-click-click of the shutter echoed faintly over the traffic.

Sofia froze, her small hand tightening around her Babushka’s fingers.

Before she could even pull back, Nikolai moved. He stepped directly into the camera’s line of sight, his broad-shouldered silhouette blocking Sofia and Ilya from view. Nikolai walked across the street with a measured stride, his hands resting casually in his coat pockets, but his eyes fixed on the photographers with a terrifying intensity.

Sofia peeked out from behind Yuna’s coat, watching through the gap in Nikolai’s arm.

Nikolai stopped right in front of the two men. He leaned down slightly, saying only a few words. Sofia couldn’t hear what he said, but the effect was instant: the photographer lowered his camera, his face turning pale, and both men rapidly nodded, backing away toward their car before driving off without another word.

Nikolai turned back, offering Sofia a tiny, gentle smile.

“Is Nikolai mad at them?” Sofia whispered, looking up at her grandmother.

“No, darling,” Babushka Yuna said smoothly, patting Sofia’s hand as they continued down the sidewalk. “Nikolai is just doing his job. People in the media like to take pictures of your Dyadya Ilya because people are curious about your Dyadya Shane. But Nikolai makes sure they keep a polite distance.”

Sofia tilted her head, trying to process it. She knew her family was famous, but to a little girl, the idea of people wanting to take pictures of her Dyadya while he was buying sweaters felt weird.

She remembered back in Moscow—in that small, loud apartment—her father, Alexei, used to sit at the kitchen table with a bottle of vodka, yelling at the television screen whenever Shane or Ilya appeared on the news. Alexei would slam his glass down and snarl to anyone who would listen about how Ilya was a useless, lazy dropout who spent all of Shane’s money on “unimportant things”—on expensive art, luxury trips, and gold watches.

For a long time after arriving in Canada, Sofia had been secretly worried. She used to watch Dyadya Ilya buy fancy cakes, order expensive tea, or bring home giant velvet armchairs, and her heart would flutter with fear. She had been afraid that one day the money would run out, Dyadya Shane would get mad just like her father used to, and they would all be sent back to the dark apartment in Russia.

She had finally brought up that fear to Dyadya Shane a year ago, one afternoon at the lake house while they were sitting on the dock feeding the loons. Shane had listened, taking her seriously, before setting his coffee cup aside and gathering her into a warm hug.

“Sofia, look at me,” Shane had said, his voice softer than a blanket. “Your Dyadya Ilya isn’t wasting anything. Everything he buys, every trip we take, and every nice thing in this house is something we built together. And you never, ever have to worry about money. Do you know why?”

Sofia had shaken her head, her lower lip trembling.

“Because making money is just a game I play,” Shane had smiled, resting his chin on her golden curls. “And I am very, very good at it. Whenever we spend money, I just go back to my office and make more. Each year, our investments grow bigger, our properties grow larger, and our family gets safer. My only job in this world is to take care of you and your Dyadya Ilya, and nothing is ever going to change that.”

Standing on the sunny Ottawa street now, Sofia watched Dyadya Ilya pop a piece of gourmet peppermint chocolate into his mouth, completely unbothered by the photographers who had just been chased away.

“Ilya,” Grandma Yuna said with an affectionate sigh as they reached the entrance of the tearoom. “You are encouraging her to eat sweets before lunch.”

“I am a blonde bimbo, Yuna,” Ilya replied with a lazy, theatrical smirk, holding the door open for them with a dramatic flourish. “It is my solemn duty to spoil my niece with sugar while Nikolai handles the paparazzi.”

Sofia giggled, her lingering fears melting completely away into the warm, herbal-scented air of the tearoom. Her father back in Moscow had been wrong about everything. Dyadya Ilya wasn’t wasting anything, Nikolai was always there to protect them, and Dyadya Shane would keep them safe forever.

She slid into the plush velvet booth beside Grandma Yuna, reached for her small porcelain cup, and smiled as Dyadya Ilya handed her the biggest strawberry tart on the tray. Sofia took a sip of her chamomile tea, letting the sweet honey warm her throat as the soft clinking of china filled the private room of the tearoom.

“Babushka,” Sofia asked softly, leaning her elbows against the white linen tablecloth, “does Dyadya Shane really make money just by sitting at his big desk in the city?”

Babushka Yuna turned to her with a knowing smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Well, darling, he does a bit more than just sit there. He talks on the phone a lot, reads thick stack of papers, and makes very smart choices about which companies to buy and which houses to build.”

“Alexei said it was fake,” Sofia murmured, her voice dropping into the shadow of her old Russian past. “Back in Moscow, he said Dyadya Shane just had numbers on a computer screen, and that one day the screen would turn off and we would have nothing.”

“Alexei was an idiot, Sofia,” Dyadya Ilya said dryly. He didn’t look angry at her, he never looked angry at her, but the memory of his brother clearly irritated him. “Alexei didn’t understand how the world works because he spent his whole life waiting for someone else to give him a handout while he ruined everything he touched.”

“Ilya,” Yuna warned softly, though her tone lacked any real scolding.

“It is true, Yuna,” Ilya insisted smoothly, leaning forward and resting his chin on his steepled fingers, looking directly at his niece. “Shanya doesn’t have ‘numbers on a screen,’ little bird. Shanya owns pieces of real estate all over North America and Europe. He owns residential towers in Toronto, commercial centers in Montreal, and tech portfolios in New York. If every computer screen in the world turned off tomorrow, your Dyadya Shane would still own physical land, concrete buildings, and real assets that generate wealth every single hour of the day.”

Ilya reached across the table, gently tapping the tip of Sofia’s nose with his index finger.

“And do you know who all of that belongs to eventually?” Ilya asked softly.

Sofia blinked her big blue eyes. “Dyadya Shane?”

“To our family,” Ilya corrected gently. “To you. Shanya works hard so that our fortress can never be broken. Alexei was jealous because he couldn’t build a life for himself, so he wanted to believe everyone else was failing too.”

Sofia absorbed the words, the ghost of her father’s bitter rants seemed smaller now, evaporating like steam off her teacup in the presence of Ilya’s calm certainty. Just then, the doors of the tearoom opened, and Nikolai stepped inside. The bodyguard scanned the room with a quick, practiced sweep of his eyes before stepping aside.

Behind him walked Shane.

He had clearly come straight from his financial office downtown. He was wearing a sharp, dark navy suit with a tailored coat draped over his arm, his dark hair slightly windblown from the air outside. The moment his brown eyes found Sofia and Ilya, the tired, serious expression of a high-powered CEO instantly vanished, replaced by that familiar, radiant warmth that always made Sofia feel safe.

“Sorry I’m late,” Shane said, stepping over to the table. He leaned down, pressing a quick, fond kiss to the top of Ilya’s head before turning to Sofia and kissing her forehead. “The meeting in Vancouver ran over on Zoom.”

“Did you make more money, Dyadya Shane?” Sofia asked innocently, looking up at him with wide, serious eyes.

Shane paused, caught off guard for half a second, before letting out a rich, booming laugh that made the tearoom feel instantly warmer. He sat down and draped an arm comfortably around the back of Ilya’s shoulders.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Shane smiled, winking at her as he reached for a warm scone from the basket. “We finalized a deal on a new green-energy park in Vancouver. Why? Are you planning a shopping spree with your grandmother?”

“No,” Sofia smiled, her small shoulders lifting in a relief.

Sofia looked around the table—at Babushka Yuna, who was watching her with love; at Nikolai, standing guard at the door like a loyal knight; at Dyadya Ilya, who was currently stealing a piece of Shane’s scone with a mischievous smirk; and at Dyadya Shane, whose presence felt as sturdy as the giant pine trees surrounding their lake house.

She took another sweet bite of her strawberry tart, listening to the soft, happy banter of the people who had saved her, knowing with unwavering certainty that she was finally, truly safe.

Chapter 10: Shane Hollander

Moving back to the city had been a strategic necessity. Shane’s portfolio had expanded past the point of solo management, growing into a multi-layered financial enterprise that required a dedicated team of analysts, legal advisors, and portfolio managers working on the floor below him.

Shane sat in his leather executive chair, his gaze fixed on the dual monitors arrayed across his desk. On the primary screen, a custom-built Excel workbook was open, its grids illuminated in a precise color-coded system. Soft blue cells denoted international real estate assets, sage green tracked green-energy equities, and deep amber flagged active venture capital allocations.

To Shane, color-coded spreadsheets were not merely administrative files; they were the ultimate instrument of order, clarity, and control. When data was categorized, color-tracked, and systematically structured, ambiguity vanished. Once a person was organized and methodical, success ceased to be a matter of luck or timing—it became an inevitable mathematical outcome.

And succeed in life, Shane had done.

Unlike many of his peers in private equity and stock markets, Shane was never driven by the erratic adrenaline rush of trading floors or the chaotic thrill of market gambles. There’s nothing he hated more than speculation. What drew him to investments was the immutable beauty of mathematics. Numbers did not lie. Financial models, compound yields, and risk-mitigation algorithms were logical puzzles waiting to be solved by disciplined thought.

Alongside the markets stood his genuine passion for real estate. Shane had loved architecture since his teenage years—the way structural engineering met aesthetic form, turning materials like concrete, steel, and stone into enduring physical landmarks. Owning commercial towers in Toronto, residential complexes in Montreal, and historic renovations in Europe gave him a tangible connection to the world that numerical yield could never fully replicate.

Yet, as impressive as the numbers were, the true value of his wealth lay in its application. For Shane, the ultimate purpose of building an empire was the ability to pamper the people he loved, wrapping them in comfort and joy.

He smiled, clicking on a tab labeled Personal Expenses & Family Allocation.

Just last month, he had finalized first-class flight arrangements and premium box accommodations for his parents, sending them to London for two weeks to enjoy the Wimbledon tournament in luxury. His mother had tried to argue about the extravagance, but Shane had simply handed her the confirmed itinerary with a kiss on the cheek. Seeing his father’s eyes light up at the prospect of center-court seats had been worth every fraction of a cent.

Then there was Sofia. Preparing for their upcoming trip to Orlando had become his favorite evening activity. He had booked an entire private villa at the resort, complete with VIP access passes to every park in Disney World, ensuring his niece could meet every princess and experience the magical childhood she had been denied in her early years. Watching her eyes widen as they browsed the trip itinerary on his iPad was a reward far greater than any quarterly profit report.

And, of course, there was Ilya.

Shane glanced toward the framed photograph resting on the edge of his desk—a sun-drenched shot taken on the stone terrace of the Italian villa he had purchased for Ilya as a wedding gift. The estate, with its olive groves, private vineyard, and private pool overlooking the rolling hills, was Ilya’s sanctuary. Shane remembered the look on his husband’s face when he had handed over the keys—the genuine spark of delight in those bright blue eyes. Ilya loved to play the theatrical, spoiled trophy husband, demanding luxury cars and expensive designer clothes, but Shane took immense pleasure in giving him far more than he ever asked for.

A soft knock at the frosted glass door broke his train of thought.

His lead financial analyst, Janine, stepped inside holding a leather folder. “Mr. Hollander, the Q3 performance reports for the Centaurs franchise and the new Vancouver commercial expansion are ready for your review.”

“Thank you, Janine. Leave them on the desk,” Shane told her. “Have the legal team double-check the tax structures on the West Coast property before we execute the closing papers at two o’clock.”

“Right away, sir.”

As the door closed behind her, Shane leaned back in his chair and returned to his work. He pulled the leather folder toward him, opening the Q3 performance reports for the Ottawa Centaurs. As his eyes scanned the analytical breakdowns, he felt deeply satisfied. The financial metrics and athletic trajectory of the franchise over the past four years represented one of the most successful turnarounds in modern sports history.

When Shane had originally acquired his controlling stake in the Centaurs, the franchise was a disaster. They were drowning in debt, burdened by outdated arena facilities, and stuck in a decade-long playoff drought. The fan base was demoralized, and the media regularly treated the team as a league punchline.

Four years later, the picture was completely unrecognizable.

Under Shane’s strategic direction, the Centaurs had transformed into a juggernaut. They had consistently made it to the playoffs for three consecutive seasons, establishing themselves as the undisputed top Canadian team in the Atlantic Division. Their brand value had skyrocketed, and merchandise sales were officially off the charts. Centaurs jerseys, hats, and gear were trending globally, driven in no small part by the electric popularity of their young roster, Luca’s Calder Trophy win, and the compelling narrative of a team rebuilt on character, discipline, and talent.

Then came the ultimate milestone.

Just three months ago, the Centaurs had achieved the impossible: lifting the Stanley Cup for the very first time in franchise history.

The memory still brought a bright, fierce smile to Shane’s face. Watching Captain Zane Boodram hoist the gleaming silver trophy above his head, surrounded by roaring fans and a victorious locker room, had been an unforgettable moment. Troy had played the postseason of his life, Hayes had been a brick wall in net, and the entire city of Ottawa had erupted into a week-long celebration.

The fact that this historic championship had happened under Shane’s leadership was the cherry on top.

Unlike his mother, Yuna, who was a die-hard Montreal Voyagers fan and refused to relinquish her red-and-blue loyalty, Shane had been a loyal Centaurs fan since childhood. As a young boy growing up in Ottawa, he had stayed up late watching them lose game after game, tracking their statistics in small notebooks even when they were statistically the worst team in the entire league. His friends had mocked his loyalty, but Shane had seen the underlying potential of the franchise even then.

Buying the team hadn’t just been an investment or an anniversary present as most people thought; it had been the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. He had taken a failing childhood favorite, completely restructured its corporate back-end, hired brilliant hockey minds like Coach Weibe, empowered the locker room, and turned them into champions.

Shane flipped to the final page of the report, looking at the ticket pre-orders and sponsorship renewals for the upcoming season. The numbers were staggering. Demand was higher than it had ever been, and the atmosphere around the team was charged with excitement.

He capped his pen, resting his hands on the mahogany desk as he looked out over the bright Ottawa skyline. He had achieved his dream of bringing a championship to his hometown, but Shane Hollander was never a man to rest on past achievements. In business and in sports, success was about momentum.

He opened a fresh spreadsheet tab, titling it Centaurs Roster Optimization & Multi-Year Cap Projections.

The first Stanley Cup was secured, the parade was over, and the franchise was thriving. Now, it was time to push for more. Shane smiled, his mind already running the numbers and calculating the odds. A two-peat for the Ottawa Centaurs was officially on the horizon, and he intended to deliver it.

One hour later found Shane checking the final row of numbers on his multi-year cap projection sheet, hitting save, and closing the laptop lid with a crisp snap. He stood up, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored charcoal suit jacket, and took his coat from the wooden valet stand near the window. The afternoon sun had lowered, casting a bright, golden glow across the polished hardwood floors of the executive suite.

Stepping out of his office, Shane walked down the corridor toward the main floor. The open-plan workspace was buzzing with activity as analysts and department heads finished up their end-of-day reports.

“Great work on the Vancouver property filings today, Janine,” Shane said as he passed the lead analyst’s desk, offering a warm smile. “Make sure the team takes off early tomorrow ahead of the weekend.”

“Will do, Mr. Hollander. Have a great evening!” Janine called back, her face lighting up.

Shane nodded to the front desk security team and stepped out through the main doors of the building into the crisp Ottawa air. Nikolai was already waiting at the curb beside the sleek black Audi, holding the passenger door open.

“Evening, Mr. Hollander,” Nikolai said, his deep voice smooth as ever. “Traffic is light along the drive.”

“Thanks, Nikolai,” Shane replied, sliding into the leather interior as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb and joined the flow of city traffic.

The drive out of downtown and into their residential neighborhood was swift and smooth. The grand three-story brick house came into view, its tall windows glowing with warm, welcoming light against the dusk sky.

The moment Shane stepped through the front entrance, unbuttoning his coat, the sound of small, hurried footsteps echoed down the main hallway. Sofia came sprinting around the corner, her golden-blonde curls bouncing wildly around her face.

“Dyadya Shane!” she squealed, leaping right off the bottom step.

Shane caught her mid-air with ease, lifting her up into a big hug and swinging her in a joyful circle before settling her against his hip. “Hey there, little bird! How was school today?”

“I got an A on my spelling test!” Sofia beamed, holding up three fingers. “And Babushka Yuna brought us lemon shortbread cookies!”

“That’s amazing,” Shane laughed, pressing a kiss to her cheek before setting her feet back down on the rug.

From the adjacent living room, Ilya sauntered into the entryway. He looked relaxed and comfortable. His pale blue eyes sparkled with affection as he stepped up to Shane, wrapping his long arms around his husband’s neck and pulling him into a kiss.

“Welcome home, hard worker,” Ilya purred against his lips.

“Good to be home, baby,” Shane murmured, resting his hands securely against Ilya’s waist.

Early on in their relationship there had been moments when Shane had privately worried about Ilya’s lifestyle. Critics in the press and internet commentators often gossiped that Ilya’s insistence on rarely leaving the house and embracing a life of pampered, lazy comfort was some kind of red flag. Shane had even wrestled with guilt, wondering if he was somehow isolating his brilliant husband from the rest of the world.

Standing in the warm hallway now, watching Ilya gently ruffle Sofia’s hair while Anya trotted over to rest her snout against his knee, Shane saw the truth clearly.

Ilya didn’t stay home because he was isolated, constrained, or feared abuse. He stayed home because he was contently satisfied. Ilya didn’t leave the house because everything he could ever want—security, endless love, total freedom, and a family that adored him—was already inside these walls.

He was in need of nothing.

“Come on,” Ilya smiled, taking Shane’s hand and pulling him toward the kitchen. “Dinner is ready, and Sofia is threatening to eat all the cookies if you don’t hurry.”

Shane laughed, lacing his fingers through Ilya’s as they walked into the heart of their home together.

Chapter 11: Ilya Hollander

Ilya stretched out across the king-sized bed, burying his face into the soft down pillow. Beside him, the space was already warm and empty; Shane had left an hour ago for an early breakfast meeting with the Centaurs’ front office, leaving a small handwritten note on the nightstand alongside a fresh cup of espresso.

Ilya picked up the note, a faint smirk touching his lips as he read Shane’s neat cursive: Love you.

Twenty minutes later, he was downstairs in the kitchen, impeccably styled in a pair of tailored ivory trousers and an oversized baby-blue silk button-down shirt. Sofia was sitting at the island, wearing her dark navy school uniform with a crisp white collar, her golden curls bouncing as she carefully spread jam over a slice of brioche.

“Dyadya Ilya!” she chirped, looking up with bright eyes. “Are we taking the sports car today?”

“Of course we are taking the sports car,” Ilya said, walking over to ruffle her hair before pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “We are stylish people, Sofia. We do not arrive at school in a minivan.”

After checking her backpack to ensure her lunchbox and reading folders were packed, Ilya led her out to the sprawling six-car garage. He unlocked the sleek, electric-blue Porsche Taycan, its engine humming to life with a futuristic purr. Nikolai was already standing near the driveway in his black SUV, ready to trail them at a discreet distance as always.

The drive to the private academy was swift and pleasant. Music drifted softly from the Porsche’s sound system as the morning city landscape flew past. When they pulled into the school’s circular driveway, several parents in high-end SUVs turned to look at the custom sports car.

Ilya stepped out, opening the door for Sofia with a grand, sweeping bow that made her giggle. He hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders and adjusted her navy coat.

“Have a wonderful day, little bird,” Ilya said in Russian, kneeling to hug her tightly. “Listen to your teachers, eat your lunch, and do not let the boys pull your curls.”

“I won’t!” Sofia laughed, planting a kiss on his cheek before skipping toward the stone archway of the school building, waving back at him once before disappearing inside.

With Sofia safely delivered, Ilya slid back into the driver’s seat and navigated the Porsche toward downtown Ottawa, pulling up outside Le Petit Miroir, an exclusive, sunlit bistro known for its artisanal pastries and high-end French breakfast.

The maitre d’ recognized him instantly, bowing his head with a wide smile. “Good morning, Mr. Hollander. Your usual table on the patio?”

“Yes, please,” Ilya replied in his smooth, accented English.

He sat at the sun-drenched marble table overlooking the manicured park, draping his designer sunglasses over the collar of his shirt. Within minutes, the waiter laid out a spread fit for royalty: fresh sourdough bread, sweet churned butter, smoked salmon, poached eggs topped with caviar, a pot of Earl Grey tea, and a delicate dish of raspberry macarons.

Ilya took his time, savoring every single bite while lazily scrolling through his phone. He read a few hockey columns praising the Centaurs’ off-season roster moves, checked the weather forecast for their upcoming trip to Tuscany, and sent Shane a selfie holding a macaron with the caption: Your credit card is suffering.

Shane’s reply came back ten seconds later: Buy two more boxes of macarons, baby.

Ilya grinned, tossing a berry into his mouth.

By ten-thirty, he was back at the house. The residence was vibrant and immaculate. Anya bounded down the front hallway to greet him, her tail thumping happily against the doorframe. Ilya gave her a thorough belly rub before heading up the staircase to his private study.

While Ilya loved his self-appointed role as the lazy, pampered trophy husband, his brilliant mind still craved intellectual exercise from time to time. He didn’t work because he had to, nor because anyone expected it of him. He worked because he found it amusing, satisfying, and completely on his own terms.

He sat down at his sleek white desk, opening a custom high-powered laptop. On the screen were the tactical analytics and video feeds for the Ottawa Centaurs’ upcoming opposition teams for the new season.

Coach Weibe and Zane Boodram both knew that while Ilya refused to hold an official title on the franchise’s payroll, his hockey IQ was unmatched. Over the next two hours, Ilya methodically analyzed penalty-kill formations, breakdown coverage, and power-play entry schemes. He wrote down short, brilliant notes, highlighting tiny structural flaws in opposing defenses that only a prodigy could spot.

He compiled his notes into an elegant, three-page PDF and emailed it directly to Coach Weibe with the subject line: Free advice from the owner’s husband. You owe me lunch.

Closing the laptop, Ilya leaned back in his leather chair, stretching his arms over his head as the late morning sun filled the room. It was time to pick up his niece. He stood up, grabbed a quick bite, and then drove for the second time in the day to school.

Ilya carefully parked his Porche along the curb near the private academy’s wrought-iron gates. He didn’t pull into the standard pickup lane with the rest of the parents; instead, he casually took up a prime spot right near the main archway, stepping out of the vehicle with effortless grace.

Nikolai’s black SUV glided into the space behind him, the tall bodyguard stepping out to stand discreetly near the rear bumper, his sharp eyes scanning the street. Meanwhile, Ilya leaned back against the hood of the Porsche, crossing his long legs at the ankle. His golden-blonde hair caught the sunlight, gleaming like something out of a high-fashion magazine campaign.

Around him, the courtyard was filled with the usual afternoon crowd of PTA mothers. They stood in small clusters, clutching expensive designer handbags and whispering amongst themselves as they waited for the dismissal bell.

Ilya knew these women. Or, more accurately, he knew the type.

Back in Moscow, high-society women had oozed the same calculated elegance, but these Ottawa suburban mothers had a very specific, passive-aggressive energy. They had been eyeing Ilya for months—ever since word got out that the stunning, ridiculously wealthy Russian trophy husband who lived in the three-story brick mansion downtown was picking up little Sofia Hollander every afternoon.

As Ilya lazily checked a text from Shane on his phone, three of the mothers slowly gravitated toward his side of the courtyard, pretending to admire the flower beds near the Porsche.

Leading the group was Victoria, a sharp-featured woman in an oversized pale-rose sweater who was married to a local real estate developer. Standing beside her were two of her constant companions, both wearing matching athletic-leisure outfits and holding iced lattes.

“Good afternoon, Ilya,” Victoria purred, stepping closer with a tight, practiced smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Lovely day for pickup, isn’t it?”

Ilya lowered his phone, tilting his head slightly as he looked at her over the top of his sunglasses. “Good afternoon, Victoria.”

“We were just noticing the Taycan,” one of the other mothers offered, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Shane must be so generous to let you drive it. I tell my husband all the time that he needs to take a page out of Shane’s book when it comes to funding my hobbies.”

Ilya let out an amused hum, resting his hands casually in the pockets of his coat. He could read right through the comment. They loved to drop subtle hints that Ilya was just a living accessory—a spoiled trophy husband spending someone else’s hard-earned money.

“Shane does not ‘let’ me drive it,” Ilya replied in his smooth, accented voice, his tone cool and entirely unbothered. “He bought it for me in custom blue because it matches my eyes. But I agree—generosity is a very attractive trait in a husband. It is a pity more men do not possess it.”

Victoria’s smile twitched slightly. She cleared her throat, adjusting the strap of her handbag. “Well, of course. Though I suppose when you don’t have a corporate office to run or children to manage all day, it’s easy to enjoy the finer things. My Richard is just so tied up with his firm. He’s barely home before eight o’clock these days. Late client dinners, you know how it is.”

Ilya almost laughed out loud.

Late client dinners. He had seen Richard three nights ago at a high-end steakhouse downtown, sitting in a back booth with a blonde junior associate who was definitely not Victoria. The entire city’s high-society gossip circle knew that Richard had been stepping out on his wife for two years, using ‘late office hours’ as his cover while Victoria spent her days buying expensive sweaters to pretend her marriage wasn’t falling apart.

In fact, looking at the three women standing before him, Ilya felt a spike of amused satisfaction.

These women spent their lives maintaining a fragile, exhausting illusion of perfection. They judged Ilya for being a shameless, self-proclaimed “gold digger” and a “blonde bimbo,” yet they were stuck in bitter, cold marriages with middle-aged men who cheated on them, ignored them, and controlled their credit cards.

Meanwhile, Ilya was adored, fiercely protected, and pampered beyond measure by a brilliant billionaire who came home every single night at five o’clock just to kiss him. Ilya was twice as pretty, ten times as rich, and infinitely happier than any of them could ever hope to be.

“Ah, late client dinners,” Ilya said softly, a knowing glint flashing in his blue eyes as he looked directly at Victoria. “How tragic for you. Shane never stays late at the office. He says business is easy when you are actually good at it. He prefers to come home to me.”

Victoria went still, the fake smile dropping from her face as the sting of Ilya’s words landed with surgical precision. The other two mothers shifted uncomfortably, taking sudden, deep sips of their iced lattes.

Before Victoria could craft a bitter response, the loud, clear ring of the school bell echoed across the courtyard.

The double doors of the academy swung open, and a sea of children in dark navy uniforms flooded out onto the stone steps. Within seconds, Sofia’s bright golden curls spotted the crowd. The moment she saw Ilya standing by the bright blue Porsche, her face lit up with joy.

“Dyadya Ilya!” she shouted, ignoring the proper walking rules and sprinting straight across the courtyard.

Ilya’s sharp, dangerous edge vanished instantly. He crouched down, opening his arms wide as Sofia launched herself right into his chest. He caught her with a smooth, effortless lift, swinging her up onto his hip while she wrapped her small arms around his neck.

“Hey there, little bird,” Ilya murmured in Russian, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yes! We drew maps in geography!” Sofia beamed, before turning her head to notice the group of mothers standing nearby. She gave them a polite, sweet little wave. “Hello, Mrs. Carlton.”

Victoria forced a stiff nod. “Hello, Sofia.”

Ilya adjusted Sofia’s backpack on his shoulder, giving the three women a lazy, victorious smirk as he turned back toward the sports car. “Have a wonderful evening, ladies. Do not let your husbands stay out too late.”

Without waiting for an answer, Ilya opened the passenger door for Sofia, carefully helping her into her booster seat and buckling her belt. Nikolai opened the driver’s door for Ilya, offering a subtle, approving twitch of his mouth that showed he had heard every single word of the interaction.

As Ilya pulled the Porsche out of the school drive, leaving the cluster of envious mothers behind in a cloud of exhaust, Sofia looked over at him from her seat.

“Are we going to get Babushka Yuna now?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes, little bird,” Ilya smiled, tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of the jazz music playing on the radio. “Babushka Yuna is waiting for us at the house, and she has the lemon tarts.”

Ten minutes later, the Porsche glided smoothly into the circular driveway of David and Yuna’s elegant suburban home. The residence was classic and pristine, surrounded by manicured rose bushes and tall maple trees.

The front door opened before Ilya even turned off the engine, and Yuna Hollander stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing a soft red knit sweater and tailored trousers, holding a woven bakery basket covered with a blue-and-white checkered cloth.

Sofia unbuckled her seatbelt and scrambled out of the car the moment Ilya opened her door, running up the walkway with her arms outstretched. “Babushka Yuna!”

Yuna’s elegant expression broke into a radiant, affectionate smile as she caught her granddaughter, pulling her into a warm, lingering hug. “Hello, my sweet girl! Look at you, all grown up in your uniform.”

Ilya walked up the stone steps, leaning down to press a respectful kiss to Yuna’s cheek. “Good afternoon, Mama Yuna. You look very regal today.”

“And you look like you just spent forty minutes terrorizing the school parking lot,” Yuna replied smoothly, her sharp brown eyes twinkling with amusement as she looked at Ilya’s designer clothes and sunglasses.

“I did no such thing,” Ilya protested with dramatic innocence, taking the bakery basket from her hands. “I was a model parent. I simply reminded the local mothers that my husband loves me more than theirs love them.”

Yuna laughed, shaking her head as she smoothed the collar of Sofia’s coat. “You are incorrigible, Ilya. Absolutely incorrigible. Come inside for five minutes, David just finished brewing a fresh pot of Earl Grey.”

“Only if I get the biggest lemon tart,” Ilya demanded loftily, turning to lead the way into the house.

“You will get the exact same size as Sofia, you spoiled giant,” Yuna smiled, squeezing his arm fondly as they walked through the front door together.

Inside the sunlit kitchen, David was already sitting at the breakfast table with the newspaper open, a warm pot of tea steaming between two porcelain cups. The house smelled rich with vanilla, lemon zest, and fresh baking. Ilya set the basket on the island, pulled out a chair for Yuna, and settled down beside his family, completely wrapped in the warmth, luxury, and devotion of the life he had chosen.

A few minutes later, the door clicked open, and Shane walked in, pulling off his suit jacket. Seeing Ilya, he crossed the room without a word, sliding his hands over Ilya's shoulders and pressing a kiss into his blond hair.

Ilya grinned, leaning in to press his own kiss to Shane’s lips as Sofia giggled between them. The PTA mothers and the press can say all they wanted. Ilya was pampered, adored, and loved beyond measure—and he wouldn’t trade his golden life for anything in the world.

Chapter 12: How a Culture of Silence Broke Open

The Athletic

How a Culture of Silence Broke Open: Inside the Unprecedented Reckoning Reshaping Professional Hockey

For decades, the standard response inside NHL locker rooms to inconvenient truths was simple: protect the shield, bury the noise, and keep moving. If a star player exhibited questionable behavior off the ice, toxic narratives were spun to insulate the asset. If a player was quietly struggling with their identity in a hyper-masculine environment, the unwritten rule was to keep your head down and stay silent.

That machinery, long thought to be indestructible, has completely collapsed.

The rupture began in early 2021 with the arrest of former Toronto star Dallas Kent following multiple horrific allegations of sexual assault and rape. For years, Kent had benefited from the protection of traditional hockey structures that prioritized talent and marketability over basic human safety. When his victims came together to press charges, forcing the league and public eye to confront the reality of his actions, it shattered the illusion that elite hockey players operated in a space beyond accountability.

What followed was an unprecedented chain reaction. Troy Barrett—Kent’s former linemate in Toronto—refused to remain complicit. Barrett cut ties with Kent, explicitly publicly supported the survivors, and took a trade to the Ottawa Centaurs.

In Ottawa, under the new ownership of private-equity investor Shane Hollander and his husband, Ilya Hollander, the traditional front-office script was thrown in the trash. Rather than insulating players in toxicity, the Centaurs established a locker room built entirely around character, mental health, and operational excellence.

Shortly thereafter, Scott Hunter made history by becoming the first out active player to win the Stanley Cup, celebrating on national television with his boyfriend. Ryan Price casually confirmed his relationship with pop star Fabian Salah on social media. Troy Barrett himself came out publicly while establishing himself as the premier top-line forward in Ottawa, followed by rookie phenom Luca Haas standing openly in his truth during his Calder Trophy-winning speech.

In less than five years, professional hockey transformed from a sport defined by suffocating conformity to an era where active athletes live openly and proudly without sacrificing their careers.

"The difference now is that we aren't pretending anymore," one veteran NHL agent told The Athletic. "Five years ago, a player coming out was treated by front offices like a PR liability to be managed. Now, you have teams winning Stanley Cups with openly gay stars and owners who couldn't care less about old-school bigotry. The old guard lost, and the game is infinitely better for it."

Comments:

@BlueLinePuckhead

Honestly, I’m sick of reading about politics and personal lives in sports articles.

Hockey used to be about what happens on the ice.

Can we just stick to the game instead of all these lifestyle profiles?

 

@SensFanInOttawa

Repressing systemic sexual assault allegations and forcing players into the closet wasn't "just sticking to the game," it was protecting abusers.

Cleaning out toxic culture makes the game better for everyone.

If you can't handle players living human lives, don't read the article.

 

@PuckGoblin420

"Stick to sports" guys when a player commits a crime: silence.

"Stick to sports" guys when a player has a boyfriend: I AM SO TIRED OF POLITICS.

Cry harder, man.

 

@OldTimeHockey_77

Dallas Kent was a bad apple, sure, but painting the whole hockey culture as toxic is ridiculous.

Most guys in the room just want to win games, not make social statements.

All this stuff with Price and Barrett feels forced by media management.

 

@CapitalCitySkater

Calling a serial rapist who got protected by front-office enablers for years a "bad apple" is wild.

It wasn’t just one guy, it was a whole system that allowed it.

Troy Barrett literally had fake stories leaked about his character in Toronto just because he stood up to Kent.

Thank God Ottawa gave him a clean slate.

 

@SpreadsheetGoblin69

Imagine looking at Troy Barrett scoring 30+ goals and holding hands with his boyfriend in the parade and thinking "ah yes, forced by media management."

Let the man live!

 

@RinkRat_Dan

I was skeptical when Shane Hollander bought Ottawa, but he completely changed how an NHL team operates.

Getting rid of the old corporate dinosaurs, bringing in Weibe, and creating a locker room where guys like Troy, Ryan, and Luca could actually thrive without paranoia was the best business move in NHL history.

 

@GoalieGlitterBomb

Exactly.

Shane and Ilya proved that treating your players like human beings and building a safe, supportive environment doesn't weaken a team—it turns them into back-to-back champions.

 

@CapSpaceCryptid

Scott Hunter kissing his boyfriend on the ice after Game 7, Ryan Price dropping a selfie with Fabian Salah like it was nothing, Troy Barrett walking out of the arena hand-in-hand with Harris... we literally witnessed hockey culture change in real-time.

The toxic old era is dead and buried.

---

@ottawacentaurs

[PHOTO]

Captain Zane Boodram holding the Stanley Cup high above his head on home ice at the Canadian Tire Centre, flanked by Wyatt Hayes and Luca Haas, while Troy Barrett and Ryan Price stand near the glass behind them, beaming in a shower of red and silver confetti.

Caption: FOUR YEARS AGO, EVERYTHING CHANGED. TODAY, IT’S OURS. YOUR OTTAWA CENTAURS ARE THE STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS! 🏆🔴🖤 🐎

#CentaursNation #NHL #StanleyCup #OttawaCentaurs #HistoryMade

Comments:

@SensArmy_Forever

I AM LITERALLY CRYING IN MY LIVING ROOM.

I HAVE WAITED FOR THIS CITY TO RAISE THE CUP FOR SO LONG.

I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS REAL LIFE 😭😭😭

 

@BywardMarketBench

Somebody wake me up.

I’m convinced I’m dreaming.

Is the Stanley Cup ACTUALLY coming down Elgin Street?!

 

@PuckGoblin420

Remember four years ago when the team was hemorrhaging money, bottom of the division, and getting relocated rumors every week?

And then Shane Hollander bought the franchise and said, "we're going to build a championship culture" AND HE ACTUALLY DID IT IN FOUR YEARS???

 

@CapitalPuckhead

FOUR YEARS.

IT ONLY TOOK SHANE AND ILYA FOUR YEARS TO TURN A DYING FRANCHISE INTO STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS.

BEST OWNERS IN PROFESSIONAL SPORTS HANDS DOWN.

 

@RedLineRambler

I’m 62 years old.

My dad took me to my first game, he passed away ten years ago before he could see this.

Sitting here with his jersey on my lap bawling my eyes out.

Thank you @ottawacentaurs.

Thank you Shane and Ilya.

 

@613HockeyFan

LUCA IS 23 YEARS OLD WITH A CALDER TROPHY AND A STANLEY CUP RING.

WHAT IS THIS TIMELINE?!!!

 

@CentaurSZN

I’m in the parking lot at Canadian Tire Centre and thousands of people are hugging strangers, honking car horns, and screaming into the night.

The whole city is alive right now.

 

@VelvetPenaltyBox

The way Shane bought an entire NHL team just so he could watch them win a Stanley Cup with his husband... the ultimate flex.

History made.

 

@OttawaLocal_99

From bankrupt and broken to STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS in 48 months flat.

Shane Hollander is not human.

He is a wizard.

 

@GoalieGlitterBomb

WYATT HAYES POST-GAME INTERVIEW: "I promised the owners a Cup. I like keeping my promises."

I AM SCREAMING! 👑🏆

 

@NorthCap_Hockey

I’ve been a season ticket holder since the arena opened.

I’ve lived through every rebuild, every bad contract, and every heart-wrenching game 7 loss.

Seeing Boodram lift that trophy tonight... I have no words.

Pure magic.

 

@CapSpaceCryptid

Ottawa Centaurs: Stanley Cup Champions.

Say it out loud until it sinks in.

WE DID IT! 🏆🔴🖤 🐎

---

@LuluLives

Title: I GOT INTO MCGILL UNIVERSITY TO STUDY BUSINESS AND FINANCE AND NOW MY PROFESSOR IS TEACHING ME ABOUT A MAN WHO DROPPED OUT AFTER ONE SEMESTER AND BECAME ONE OF THE RICHEST PEOPLE IN CANADA. ALSO HE'S GAY AND MARRIED TO THE HOTTEST RUSSIAN MAN ALIVE. I HAVE QUESTIONS.

Okay, I need everyone to understand that getting accepted into McGill University was genuinely one of the proudest moments of my entire life. I worked so hard for this. I stressed over applications, worried about grades, convinced myself approximately seventeen times that I wasn't going to get in, and when that acceptance letter finally came, I genuinely thought I was about to begin the most intellectually enriching experience of my life.

I was going to learn from brilliant professors, study business and finance, understand how successful people build companies, and eventually become a functioning adult who knows what she's doing with money. Imagine my surprise when I walked into class and discovered that one of our major case studies was SHANE HOLLANDER, A MAN WHO ATTENDED THIS VERY UNIVERSITY FOR ONE SEMESTER AND THEN DROPPED OUT.

Do you understand how insane this is?

I am sitting in a lecture hall, taking notes, paying tuition, trying to memorize concepts that I will probably need to explain in an exam while having a minor existential crisis over the cost of textbooks, and my professor is standing at the front of the room explaining how Shane Hollander left McGill and proceeded to build an absolutely enormous financial empire through real estate, private equity, and private investments.

Apparently, this man identified opportunities, made strategic investments, expanded his portfolio, and became one of the wealthiest people in Canada in the space of a few years. He eventually bought an entire NHL franchise, the Ottawa Centaurs, and started restructuring the organization like it was another underperforming asset in his portfolio. And I'm supposed to sit there and learn a lesson about the importance of education from THIS MAN? From the guy who apparently looked at the university experience, attended for a semester, and said, "Actually, I have other plans"?

And before anyone comes into the comments to tell me that Shane Hollander is an exceptional case and that dropping out is not a reliable business strategy, YES, THANK YOU, I KNOW. I AM NOT ABOUT TO WALK INTO MY PROFESSOR'S OFFICE TOMORROW AND ANNOUNCE THAT I'M LEAVING UNIVERSITY TO BUY A SKYSCRAPER. I understand that he's extraordinarily intelligent, and that building a business empire requires skills that can absolutely be learned in a university classroom.

That's actually part of why this is driving me insane!

My professor is using Shane as an example of financial strategy, organizational restructuring, risk assessment, and long-term investment planning, and every time I look at his photograph on the lecture slides, I have to remind myself that this man was technically sitting in the same classroom I'm currently struggling in. Somewhere in the McGill archives, there might be a record of him being a student, and now I'm learning about how he became rich enough to buy a professional hockey team.

I WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK TO WHOEVER IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE UNIVERSE'S SENSE OF HUMOUR.

But then, because apparently the universe wasn't finished humiliating me personally, I started researching Shane Hollander outside of class. I wanted to understand his career, his investment philosophy, how he made his first major moves, and what made his approach different from that of other wealthy investors. You know, normal academic research.

Completely respectable.

Definitely not procrastination disguised as professional development. And somewhere along the way, I discovered that HE IS GAY. AND MARRIED. AND HIS HUSBAND IS FUCKING GORGEOUS.

I need a moment because how am I supposed to concentrate on my degree when the universe keeps handing me information like this? Ilya is Russian, he went to college in Boston before also dropping out and now is living in luxury. He is ridiculously handsome in a way that honestly feels unfair to the rest of the population. This man has the face of someone who should be standing in a black-and-white perfume advertisement while a narrator whispers something pretentious in French.

And the thing is, I'm not even mad about it. I'm impressed. I'm confused on a spiritual level but happy for them.

But also… imagine being an ordinary person in Canada and telling your friends, "Oh, my boyfriend is Russian and he lives in Boston." Meanwhile, in Boston, Ilya is telling his friends, "I have a boyfriend who lives in Canada."

Do you understand how funny this is to me?

I can only imagine the number of jokes that happened behind their backs.

And now I have reached the part of this confession that will probably get me expelled from every respectable corner of the internet: I have been converted to Hollanov.

I KNOW. I KNOW. I have spent YEARS shipping fictional couples, actors, singers, athletes, people who have looked at each other for approximately 0.7 seconds during an interview, and celebrities who once stood next to each other in a photograph. I have defended ships with the conviction of a Supreme Court justice. I have analyzed body language in press conferences. I have zoomed in on background details. I have written entire essays about the significance of a person liking another person's Instagram post. I am not new to this. I have experience and credentials. I also have a deeply concerning search history.

But I have never been so invested in two REAL PEOPLE I discovered because one of them became the subject of my university coursework.

Hollanov has everything. The international long-distance relationship. The business genius and the Russian beauty. The fact that they both dropped out of university and somehow became spectacularly successful anyway. The fact that they are now married and raising Sofia together. THE FACT THAT THEY ACTUALLY CHOSE EACH OTHER AND BUILT A LIFE TOGETHER.

Anyway, I have an assignment due next week about Hollander's investment strategy, and I am going to have to write a serious, properly researched analysis of his business decisions while knowing that somewhere out there, this man is probably having breakfast with his gorgeous husband and their niece. I am supposed to discuss capital allocation and long-term growth while picturing Ilya stealing food from Shane's plate. I am supposed to analyze the Centaurs' organizational restructuring while it takes all of me not to turn my paper into a detailed Hollanov fanfiction story.

I came to McGill to get an education. I have instead acquired a celebrity ship, a mild identity crisis, and a renewed belief that life is fundamentally unfair to people who have to study for exams.

Anyway, Hollanov nation, I am one of you now. Please direct me to the appropriate support group. I have a finance midterm and several feelings.

Comments:

@CapitalismAndKisses

"Please direct me to the appropriate support group. I have a finance midterm and several feelings" is the most McGill sentence I have ever read in my life.

 

@NotAnInvestmentAdvisor

As a finance graduate, the fact that Shane dropped out does not mean university is useless.

It means he was an extreme outlier with an unusual combination of intelligence, risk tolerance, and timing.

Please finish your degree.

 

@McGillDebtSurvivor

The funniest part is that McGill can literally use him as an example of entrepreneurial success while simultaneously collecting tuition from thousands of people who are studying his success.

 

@PrivateEquityPossum

I have worked in private equity for eleven years, and your professor is using Hollander because his career is genuinely a great case study.

His turnaround of the Centaurs demonstrates that capital alone doesn't create value; organizational competence matters.

Also, yes, his husband is offensively attractive.

 

@HollanovDefenseLeague

"Being the most beautiful househusband in North America" is now Ilya's official job title.

Please update his LinkedIn accordingly.

 

@ActuallyReadTheCase

I'm begging everyone to stop reducing Shane's success to "he dropped out and got rich."

He built a serious investment business.

His decisions involved actual research, calculated risks, and years of work.

 

@AnyaTheDogFanclub

Ilya is not simply a gorgeous househusband.

He is a gorgeous househusband who lives with his husband, their niece, and a dog who has a better life than most people on this website.

 

@McGillAdmissionsOffice

We would like to remind prospective students that McGill University remains committed to academic excellence.

We cannot guarantee that admission will result in becoming a billionaire or marrying a gorgeous Russian househusband.

 

@RealEstateRomantic

The Centaurs are the perfect example of why Shane's business background matters.

He didn't buy a team and suddenly become a sports expert; he invested in the infrastructure, hired competent leaders, and gave them resources.

 

@RespectfullyYourHonor

I would like to defend Ilya's right to be a gorgeous househusband.

He has earned the right to sit around looking beautiful, supporting his family, and living a calm life.

 

@CaseStudyGirlie

@LuluLives, imagine your professor asking you to present your findings and you accidentally say, "Hollander's most significant long-term investment was, in my opinion, his husband."

 

@LuluLives

I AM NOT SAYING THAT IN CLASS!

I HAVE A REPUTATION TO MAINTAIN!

 

@AcademicWeaponGoneSoft

The actual tragedy is that @LuluLives is going to get an A on this assignment because the obsession has made her research more thorough than anything she's done all semester.

 

@HollanovNation

Welcome to the fandom, Lulu.

We have fan accounts, wedding photos, and absolutely no ability to behave normally when they appear in public together.

 

@LuluLives

I will be finishing my degree and submitting my assignment.

However, I reserve the right to spend the next four years referring to Shane Hollander as an entrepreneurial genius and Ilya Hollander as unfairly attractive.

 

@McGillAdmissionsOffice

We are once again reminding students that our business program does not include a course on celebrity shipping.

 

@LuluLives

IT DOES NOW.

---

@ottawacentaurs

[PHOTO]

An aerial shot of Bank Street packed shoulder-to-shoulder with a sea of red and black fans under a bright June sun. At the front of an open-top double-decker bus, Captain Zane Boodram holds the Stanley Cup aloft with one hand while hoisting a bottle of champagne with the other. Just behind him, Troy and Harris are laughing as Harris leans against Troy's shoulder, and further back near the upper-deck railing, Shane and Ilya stand side-by-side—Shane in a crisp linen shirt, and Ilya in a designer blazer, casually pouring champagne directly into a paper cup for Coach Weibe.

Caption: BACK-TO-BACK. 🏆🏆 They said the first one was magic. They said lightning doesn’t strike twice. But hard work, elite culture, and a city that never stops believing built a dynasty. THE STANLEY CUP IS STAYING IN OTTAWA!

#BackToBack #StanleyCupChampions #NHL #OttawaCentaurs #DynastyEra

Comments:

@BywardMarketRegular

I was at the first parade thinking “it literally doesn’t get better than this.”

AND THEN THEY WENT AND WON IT AGAIN.

Dynasty status confirmed 😭

 

@PuckGoblin420

Remember when people said the Centaurs’ win was just a fluke?

TWO YEARS IN A ROW, BABY.

TWO. IN. A. ROW.

 

@CentaurSZN_

Look at Ilya on the bus just casually handing out bubbly like he’s the official parade sommelier 😂

Never change, king.

 

@SensArmy_2026

The entire downtown core is literally vibrating.

I’ve never seen Ottawa this loud in my entire life.

TWO-PEAT! 🏆🏆

 

@SpreadsheetGoblin69

Troy and Harris in the background looking domestic as hell on an open-top bus surrounded by a million screaming fans is my Roman Empire.

 

@BlueLineBanshee

Four years ago, we were a bottom-feed franchise.

Now we’re hanging back-to-back banners from the rafters.

Shane and Ilya really built a hockey powerhouse out of pure vibes and elite analytics.

 

@OttawaValleyPuck

Coach Weibe accepting a paper cup of champagne from Ilya Hollander while wearing aviator sunglasses is the exact energy I needed for my summer.

 

@GoalieGlitterBomb

WYATT HAYES POST-PARADE SPEECH: “One cup was nice, but matching our rings looks better.”

STOP IT RIGHT NOW 💍💍

 

@RedLineRambler

My grandkids are going to grow up reading about the Hollander Era in history class.

What a time to be alive in Ottawa!

 

@CapSpaceCryptid

Imagine telling someone that a finance mogul and his husband would buy the Centaurs and turn them into the most feared back-to-back machine in the NHL.

They'd laugh you out of the room.

Look at us now!

Chapter 13: Playlist

1. Svetlana Vetrova - Happier, by Ed Sheeran.

2. David Hollander - How Would You Feel, by Ed Sheeran.

3. Hayden Pike - The Joker and The Queen, by Ed Sheeran.

4. Harris Drover - One Life, by Ed Sheeran.

5. Troy Barrett - Kiss Me, by Ed Sheeran.

6. THE BOY WHO WALKED AWAY FROM McGILL - Castle on the Hill, by Ed Sheeran.

7. Yuna Hollander - Leave Your Life, by Ed Sheeran.

8. Sergei Vetrov - Sandman, by Ed Sheeran.

9. Sofia Rozanova - Photograph, by Ed Sheeran.

10. Shane Hollander - Perfect, by Ed Sheeran.

11. Ilya Hollander - Love in Slow Motion, by Ed Sheeran.

12. How a Culture of Silence Broke Open - Beautiful Game, by Ed Sheeran.