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, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders WAGs Ensemble & Shane Hollander

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Connors (Heated Rivalry), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders WAGs Ensemble (Game Changers), Eric Bennett, Ryan Price (Game Changers), Carter Vaughn, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Farah Jalali, Svetlana Vetrova, Coach LeClaire (Game Changers), Rose Landry, Original Children of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, Sergei Vetrov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Grigori Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Shane Hollander, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Omega David Hollander, Alpha Yuna Hollander, Alpha Rose Landry, Alpha Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Alpha Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Alpha Connors (Heated Rivalry), Alpha Eric Bennett, Alpha Ryan Price, Beta Carter Vaughn, Beta Svetlana Vetrova, Model Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Obsessive Shane Hollander, Obssessive Ilya Rozanov, Dark Shane Hollander, Dark Ilya Rozanov, Baby Trapping, Momager Yuna Hollander, Good Parent Yuna Hollander, Good Parent Ilya Rozanov, Good Boy Shane Hollander, BAMF Shane Hollander, BAMF Ilya Rozanov, Good Parent David Hollander, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Confident Shane Hollander, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Freak4Freak Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mpreg | Male Pregnancy, Ilya Rozanov is Hollander Catnip, Social Media, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Shane Hollander Has an Eating Disorder, Girl Dad Shane Hollander, Girl Dad Ilya Rozanov, WAG Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 8 of Hollanov Lulu-verse

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-23 Completed: 2026-09-08 Words: 56,530 Chapters: 13/13

The First Bloom of Spring

Summary

For the first time in nineteen years, a sudden, blinding flash of color flooded Ilya’s world.

It was as if a dormant switch inside him had been violently flipped on. His Alpha instincts, usually as dormant and indifferent as the rest of him, surged forward with a fierce, possessive roar that made his blood run hot. The dull gray reality he had inhabited his entire life vanished, replaced by a single, absolute, unyielding mandate:

That Omega is mine.

Ilya didn’t know his name. He didn’t know his story, or his background. But as his blue eyes locked onto the stunning stranger, watching the way his warm brown eyes crinkled with a soft, gentle laugh, Ilya knew with absolute certainty that he would stop at nothing until that Omega belonged to him.

Chapter 1: Scott Hunter

The tension in the corridor felt suffocating and thick.

“Fucking Rozanov,” Scott muttered, running a hand down his face. “Fucking Boston Bears.”

Losing was a bitter pill under any circumstance, but surrendering a home-ice victory to Boston made the stomach acid burn twice as bad. The Bears didn’t just beat you; they tenderized you. They were a team built on brutal physical contact, relentless board battles, and filthy cross-checks that left fresh bruises bloom under your pads before the second period even ended.

And then, above the violence, there was Rozanov.

It wouldn’t surprise Scott if the guy was half bird, not with the way he never stopped chirping. He talked from the opening puck drop to the final horn, an endless stream of jabbering designed to get under your skin and stay there.

Walking beside Scott, Carter Vaughn shrugged his shoulders, his brow furrowed in annoyance. Ryan Price and Eric Bennett trailed just behind, the four Admirals marching down the backstage hallway of the New York arena in a haze of post-game frustration.

“Say whatever you want about him,” Eric grunted, kicking a loose piece of tape off the floor. “Say he’s an annoying, arrogant showboat, and that his mouth needs a padlock.”

“The problem,” Ryan chimed in, hesitantly, “is the bastard backs it up.”

That was the nightmare of Ilya Rozanov. If he were just a loudmouth, you could hit him into next week and forget about him. But Rozanov possessed a terrifying hockey IQ.

It was almost freakish.

He read the ice like he’d written the playbook himself, tracking the puck’s trajectory before the guy holding it even decided where to pass. It was like playing against a psychic—a mischievous, evil mind-reader who used his brilliant brain strictly to ruin your night and talk shit while doing it.

“Superpower wasted on pure malice,” Carter deadpanned.

A faint, tired chuckle rippled through the group. It was a lame joke, standard locker-room gallows humor, but after a brutal loss on home ice, it was the best they could manage.

They turned the corner toward the high-security family and guest area, only to pull up short.

Standing near the intersection of the main hallway was an omega. He looked completely out of place, turning in slow, hesitant circles as if trying to decipher the arena’s maze-like layout.

Who the hell is that? Scott thought, his eyes narrowing. And why is an omega wandering around the back corridors of the Admirals’ rink wearing black and gold?

Because there was no mistaking the oversized jersey draped over the stranger’s shoulders. It was a Boston Bears Rozanov 81.

Despite the opposing colors, Scott’s eyes lingered. The omega was striking. He was half-Asian, with dark, lustrous hair framing a face that belonged on a billboard. His skin looked soft and pristine, save for a scattering of freckles across his cheekbones that looked remarkably like delicate constellations. His eyes were a warm, deep brown, illuminated by the harsh overhead fluorescent lights.

Even clad in a bulky hockey jersey, the guy could easily be a professional model. Not even the number 81 emblazoned across his back could stop Scott from staring.

“Well, well,” Eric murmured, leaning in slightly toward Scott. “Look at that. Must be one of Rozanov’s puck bunnies.”

Carter scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Unbelievable. They go completely insane for that guy.”

Insane is an understatement, Scott thought silently.

When Rozanov had been drafted four years ago, the media had predicted a circus. A nineteen-year-old alpha prodigy coming over from Russia, overflowing with raw talent and supreme confidence. In his very first NHL interview, Rozanov had casually claimed he would score fifty goals in his rookie season. Everyone had laughed it off as arrogance.

The worst part? The bastard actually hit fifty.

With that kind of instant stardom, everyone assumed Rozanov would tear through the city, partying non-stop and leaving a trail of broken hearts in every hotel he stayed in. And while the tabloids certainly caught photos of him out late with his teammates, getting drunk and causing chaos at high-end clubs, the rumors were entirely wrong about his personal life.

Rozanov never took anyone home.

Not once. The puck bunnies had gone wild trying to crack his armor. It had devolved into an actual contest among the groupies in half the cities in the league—a high-stakes game to see who could finally be the first person to tame Boston’s golden boy. None of them had succeeded.

Yet here stood an omega, wearing Rozanov’s exact jersey, waiting in the restricted belly of the New York arena.

Scott watched as the omega glanced down at his phone, a subtle, annoyed line forming between his brows as he tapped the screen. He didn’t look like a frantic fan or a desperate groupie.

Before Eric or Carter could make another comment,  Scott adjusted his gear bag on his shoulder, shifting his weight as he stared at the intruder.

“Come on,” Scott muttered under his breath, taking a decisive step forward. “Let’s go give the guy a heads-up before arena security drags him out.”

Carter, Ryan, and Eric fell into step right behind him, a wall of navy-and-red tracksuits marching down the narrow concrete passage. It was standard protocol—fans weren’t allowed in the restricted corridor behind the locker rooms, and an omega wearing an opponent’s jersey was bound to draw aggressive guard attention sooner rather than later.

Scott intended to be civil, give a polite warning, and point the guy back toward the public concourse. Five paces away, the omega turned his head, hearing their approaching footsteps.

Then the scent hit Scott like a physical blow.

It wasn’t a subtle note lingering in the hallway; it was an absolute tidal wave of scent. Scott froze in his tracks, his chest hitching as his lungs filled with the overwhelming aroma of fresh lilies and sweet honey.

The potency of it made Scott’s head spin. Most people who watched Ilya Rozanov on television—watching him tear up the ice, hurl himself into brutal physical checks, and bark endless chirps—assumed the Russian alpha would smell like ash, cedar, or raw iron.

They were dead wrong. Rozanov’s scent was surprisingly rich and comforting, a lush, golden atmosphere that carried an unexpected warmth. In hindsight, Scott realized with a jolt, that very scent was likely the reason the Boston Bears were able to maintain their composure.

No matter how rowdy, aggressive, or chaotic the team got on the ice, they never stepped over the line. It was a miracle considering this league throws so many Alphas on the ice and allows them to get into fights. It must be the alpha’s underlying presence acting like a soothing buffer, rounding off the Bears’ rough edges whenever they regrouped.

Right now, that exact scent was saturating every single thread of the oversized jersey in front of them. It was draped over the omega so heavily that Scott couldn’t catch a single trace of the guy’s natural scent. It was a complete, suffocating blanket. An undeniable, public declaration of ownership from an alpha.

As the omega shifted his stance, clutching his phone closer to his chest, the wide collar of the gold-and-black jersey slipped slightly off his left shoulder.

Scott’s eyes dropped to the exposed curve of the neck, and his blood ran cold.

Indented deep into the smooth skin over the scent gland was a dark, fully healed mating mark. The puncture scars were distinct, perfectly shaped, and unmistakable.

Behind Scott, Carter let out a sharp: “What the fuck…”

Scott couldn’t even formulate a reply. His mind scrambled to reorganize everything he thought he knew about the league’s most notorious bachelor. This wasn’t a groupie. This wasn’t some random puck bunny who had snuck backstage after a game. This was Ilya Rozanov’s claimed, mated omega.

How the hell did he keep this a secret? Scott thought, stunned. How does nobody in the media know about this?

Before Scott could even process the absurdity of the situation, the pleasant aroma of lilies in the air underwent a terrifying transformation. The crisp, sweet scent turned instantly bitter and acrid—the sharp, decaying stench of wilted lilies that only ever surfaced when Rozanov was consumed by unadulterated rage.

Scott snapped his head to the side.

Down the intersecting corridor, Ilya Rozanov was prowling toward them.

He moved like a predator closing in on a target, his broad frame tense, as his blue eyes locked onto the group of Admirals. Flanking him like two giant enforcers were Cliff Marleau and the Bears’ newest alpha rookie, Connors. Both of them had their arms crossed over their chests, their expressions hard and murderous.

Rozanov didn’t say a word as he closed the distance. In one swift, fluid movement, he slid an arm around the omega’s waist and pulled him flush against his chest, pivoting the smaller man so his back was to shielded from the Admirals.

Rozanov buried his face directly into the curve of the omega’s neck, nuzzling aggressively against the mating bite, flooding the air with a suffocating blast of territory-marking alpha pheromones.

Scott felt a sharp knot of nausea twist in his gut. Watching an alpha as notorious and aggressive as Rozanov act so hyper-possessive, so animalistically protective in the middle of a stadium hallway, was deeply unsettling. It was raw, unfiltered alpha instinct exposed in a way Scott had never witnessed up close.

Then, Rozanov lifted his head.

Over the crown of the omega’s dark hair, Rozanov fixed Scott with a glare so frigidly violent it sent a shudder straight down Scott’s spine. The Russian’s blue eyes were cold, promise-of-bloodshed sharp, silently warning the four New York players that if they took one more step, they wouldn’t make it out of the hallway on two feet.

Scott couldn’t breathe, as the dread settled into his bones like ice.

Then, as if a master switch had been flipped, the terrifying aura vanished instantly.

The menacing, feral posture melted away, replaced by a soft, almost puppy-like demeanor. Rozanov leaned down, resting his chin lightly on the omega’s shoulder, his expression instantly changing into something tender, and shockingly affectionate.

Scott stared, feeling unmoored from reality as he watched the absolute terror of the NHL turn into a needy, purring mess.

“Shanya,” Rozanov crooned, his voice dropping into a fond, low rumble as he addressed the omega. “What are you doing out here? I was waiting for you near the guest room.”

The omega’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. He looked at the golden-haired alpha with warm brown eyes, an embarrassed smile tugging at his lips.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his tone sweet and sheepish. “I’m so used to the layout back at TD Garden in Boston. I took a wrong turn at the main ramp and got turned around.”

Rozanov stroked a hand over the back of the omega’s jersey, smoothing down the fabric with practiced affection. “These guys weren’t bothering you, were they?” he asked softly, though his tone carried an underlying edge.

Behind Rozanov, Marleau and Connors hadn’t dropped their guard for a fraction of a second. They stood like immovable stone statues, their shoulders squared, and glaring daggers at Scott, Carter, Eric, and Ryan.

If the situation weren’t so intensely hostile, Scott might have found the sheer absurdity of it funny. It felt like stepping directly into an alternate reality—a surreal, twilight zone where the most ruthless player in hockey was a coddling, overprotective mate, guarded by two silent bodyguards in the basement of the Admiral arena.

“No,” the omega replied easily, shaking his head. “They didn’t even say anything before you showed up. I was just trying to find my way to you with my phone.”

Rozanov smiled, a small, terrifying flash of white teeth that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Great,” Rozanov purred.

The word dripped with pure, unadulterated malice, directed squarely at the four Admirals who remained frozen on the rubber flooring.

Without another word, Rozanov turned his mate around, keeping one hand planted firmly on the small of the omega’s back. Marleau and Connors fell into step seamlessly behind them, forming an impenetrable wall of gold and black that blocked the omega from view as the group turned the corner and disappeared down the hall toward the exit.

For a long moment, nobody moved. The lingering scent of wilted lilies and honey hung in the air, a fading reminder of what they had just witnessed.

Carter let out a slow, ragged exhale, staring at the empty space where the Boston players had been standing just seconds prior.

“What the fuck?” Carter repeated, his voice echoing off the bare concrete walls.

Scott rubbed a hand over his face, his heart still hammering against his ribs from the sheer intensity of Rozanov’s threat.

“Yeah,” Scott muttered, completely dazed. “What the absolute fuck just happened?”

The weeks following the locker room confrontation blurs into a haze of grueling road trips, early morning skates, and relentless game prep. As captain of the New York Admirals, Scott Hunter forces the bizarre image of Ilya Rozanov and his hidden mate into the dark corners of his mind. He has a locker room to lead, young players to guide, and a playoff push to execute.

The strategy works. The Admirals tear through the latter half of the regular season, earning a spot in the playoffs and battling their way to the Eastern Conference Finals.

Then, they hit the brick wall that is the Boston Bears.

The series is a bloodbath, stretching the Admirals to their absolute physical limits, but Boston’s relentless pressure ultimately prevails. The Bears take the series, ending New York’s season short of the ultimate prize.

A week later, the mood inside Scott’s Manhattan penthouse is a mix of frustrated defeat and lingering pride. The living room is packed with players and empty beer bottles cluttering the coffee tables. Mounted on the central wall, the massive television screen illuminates the room as Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final between the Boston Bears and the Colorado Avalanche ticks down its final, excruciating minutes.

Scott sits on the edge of the leather sectional, a cold bottle resting loosely in his hand, his eyes fixed on the broadcast. He feels the phantom ache of the loss in his shoulders, a dull bitterness that refuses to lift.

Beside him, Carter sets a fresh pack of drinks on the table and turns to face the room. Ever the steady alternate captain, Carter’s presence instantly shifts the atmosphere.

“Hey, bring it in for a second,” Carter says, his voice carrying clearly over the ambient noise of the television crowd. “I know this sucks to watch. Trust me, I get it. But look at what we did this year. We fought all the way to the Eastern Conference Finals. We proved we’re the second-best team in the East, and we made them earn every single inch of that ice. Hold your heads up. Next season, is ours.”

A wave of agreement ripples through the penthouse. Eric Bennett nods, raising his bottle, while Ryan Price taps his glass against the counter.

“To next year,” Scott agrees with his alternate.

“To next year,” the room echoes.

The momentary toast is cut short by a sudden, deafening roar from the TV speakers.

On screen, with less than ten seconds on the clock, Rozanov intercepts a pass at his own blue line, shifts his weight, and breaks down the ice. With a fluid, brutal wrist shot, the puck slams off the inside of the far post and ripples the back of the net.

The horn blares, as the red light flashes, and TD Garden explodes into a ruckus of celebrations as the final second ticks away.

The Boston Bears are Stanley Cup Champions.

Scott stares at the screen. As much as he disdains the Russian’s endless chirping, his showboating, and his relentless aggression on the ice, there is no denying the absolute truth of what just happened. Rozanov, the youngest captain in Boston Bears franchise history, has led his team to the absolute peak of the sport.

The guy is a force of nature.

Setting aside his frustration, Scott raises his beer toward the screen in a gesture of sportsmanship. Across the living room, Carter, Eric, Ryan, and the rest of the Admirals follow suit, silently acknowledging the victory.

On screen, the gold-and-black jerseys flood the ice, burying Rozanov in a sprawling, ecstatic dogpile near the glass. Minutes pass in a blur of celebration until the ice is cleared for the trophy presentation. Rozanov lifts the Stanley Cup high above his head, the arena shaking under the roar of the crowd, before taking his victory lap around the rink.

Then, the arena doors open to allow the players’ families onto the ice.

Scott leans forward slightly, his eyes tracking the moving crowd on screen. Walking alongside the team officials is the same dark-haired omega from the arena corridor—Shanya something.

He isn’t alone. Walking beside him is an older Japanese woman with striking, elegant features, and a tall, grey-haired man walking shoulder-to-shoulder with her.

As Rozanov skitters over on his skates, stopping near the red line, the two older adults step forward. The woman reaches up, gently holding the sides of Rozanov’s face, and plants a warm kiss directly on his forehead. The older man steps in immediately after, pulling the broad-shouldered alpha into a swift hug and pressing a brief kiss to the top of his head as well.

Scott blinks, stunned by the sight. The formidable, ruthless captain of the Boston Bears instantly melts into something surprisingly youthful, ducking his head with an affectionate, bashful grin that makes him look every bit his twenty-three years.

“Is that…?” Eric starts from the kitchen island, leaning over the counter.

Before Eric can finish, Rozanov skitters two steps forward, wraps his broad arms around Shane’s waist, and hoists the omega straight up into the air. Shane laughs, clutching Rozanov’s shoulders as the alpha twirls him around in a dizzying circle right on the ice, before pulling him down into a deep kiss in front of twenty thousand screaming fans and millions watching at home.

The broadcast commentary goes entirely off the rails, the play-by-play announcers stumbling over their words as the cameras zoom in on the couple.

“Wait, folks—is that who I think it is?” the play-by-play announcer stammers into his microphone. “Is that Shane Hollander? The Canadian model? He’s been on every major campaign cover this year!”

In Scott’s living room, Carter snorts into his bottle, shaking his head with a breathless laugh.

“Of course,” Carter mutters, taking a sip of his beer. “Of course Ilya Rozanov is mated to a famous model. The bastard really does have everything.”

Scott continues to watch the screen as Rozanov sets Shane back on his feet, keeping one arm securely wrapped around the omega’s waist as the team gathers for the official cup photo.

By three in the morning, the penthouse had emptied out. The residual smell of stale beer, takeout boxes, and alpha sweat lingered in the living room, a dull reminder of another season ended without a championship.

Scott moved through the silent apartment in a daze, stacking empty beer cans and clearing abandoned bottles from the mahogany coffee table. His teammates had retreated into the New York night, eager to drown their postseason disappointment in sleep or distract themselves until training camp rolled around in the fall.

He threw a handful of trash into the bin, wiped down the granite kitchen island, and finally dropped onto the leather sofa. The massive TV screen was dark now, but the image from before remained burned into the back of his eyelids.

Ilya Rozanov, hoisting a dark-haired omega into the air on home ice, looking at him as if the rest of the world had completely ceased to exist.

Scott reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and unlocked it. He stared at the blank search bar for a long second, his thumb hovering over the screen. He felt an inexplicable knot of embarrassment. As captain of the New York Admirals, he had no business prying into the personal life of his biggest rival. It was weird.

It borderlined on absurd.

Yet, he couldn’t stop himself. His thumb tapped out the name: Shane Hollander.

He didn’t know where the compulsion came from. Maybe it was the sheer shock of that encounter in the arena corridor—the animalistic possessiveness Rozanov had displayed, radiating a dangerous, territorial aura that made Scott’s blood run cold. Or maybe it was the way Shane had looked back at the Russian monster. The omega hadn’t looked intimidated or overwhelmed by the suffocating scent of lilies and honey; he had turned toward Rozanov naturally, blossoming under the attention like a flower soaking in the sun.

Scott needed to understand. He needed to figure out who had managed to tame the untamable beast of the Eastern Conference.

The search results loaded instantly, flooding the screen with high-resolution imagery.

If Shane Hollander had looked striking in an oversized gold-and-black hockey sweater, he was downright breathtaking in high fashion.

Scott scrolled through campaign photos, his eyes widening slightly. There was Shane walking the runway for Yves Saint Laurent in Paris, draped in an impeccably tailored dark suit that accentuated his long, lean frame, his dark eyes sharp and captivating under the bright runway lights.

There he was as the fresh-faced ambassador for Canada Dry, smiling warmly with those distinct, constellation-like freckles dusted across his nose. There he was in a crisp white shirt, his wrist adorned with a silver watch as the global ambassador of Rolex.

He was a powerhouse in the industry. An omega who held his own in an elite world, matching Rozanov’s athletic stardom with his own towering presence in haute couture.

Scott leaned back against the couch cushions, scrolling deeper into the search results, diving down a rabbit hole that he knew crossed the line into cyberstalking. He clicked through entertainment blogs, fashion magazines, and official profiles, searching for a link, a quote, a single grain of context.

Nothing.

There were plenty of articles detailing Shane’s rising career, his roots in Ottawa, and his studies in Montreal, but not a single mention of hockey. No red-carpet appearances with athletes. No leaked tabloid photos of him at TD Garden or spotted in Boston restaurants. No personal social media posts hinting at a partner, let alone a fierce, high-profile alpha captain.

How had they kept it all a secret? In an era where every move Rozanov made was dissected by sports journalists and paparazzi, they had somehow managed to keep not only a relationship, but a full mating mark completely hidden from the world until the exact second they lifted the Stanley Cup together.

How did a kid studying in Montreal meet a Russian hockey prodigy playing out of Boston? Scott thought, staring at a photo of Shane from a recent Vogue shoot. How long have they been doing this? And how the hell did they pull it off?

The secret remained entirely out of reach, locked away behind the tight-lipped silence of the Boston Bears locker room and the closed doors of their private lives.

Scott locked his phone and set it face down on the couch beside him, leaning his head back against the cushion and staring up at the dark ceiling of his penthouse.

He still hated Ilya Rozanov. He still wanted nothing more than to crush the Bears on home ice next season and take that trophy for New York. But as Scott finally closed his eyes to get some sleep, one thought lingered in his mind: whatever bond existed between that alpha and his omega, it was stronger, deeper, and far more lethal than anyone in the league could have ever guessed.

Chapter 2: Yuna Hollander

Yuna Hollander adjusted her thin-framed reading glasses, leaning back in the ergonomic leather chair as the dual monitors on the table illuminated the living room with the soft blue glow of spreadsheets.

“Not bad, Yuna,” she hummed to herself, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she reviewed the fourth-quarter revenue projections. “Not bad at all.”

At forty-eight, Yuna was a force of nature. As a prominent Alpha and the founder of her own talent management agency, she lived by a simple, uncompromising code: doors were meant to be opened, and walls were meant to be smashed through.

When she had married her sweet, steady Omega husband, David, years ago, she had made a silent vow that their children would never have to shrink themselves or apologize for who they were in a world that so often tried to dictate where an Omega belonged.

That fierceness had defined her early parenting, for better and for worse.

She remembered the relentless fire she had carried during Shane’s early teenage years. David had been a skilled hockey player in his youth, and when little Shane had first laced up his skates, beaming with pure, unadulterated joy as he glided across the ice, Yuna had sworn to clear the entire path for him.

Hockey was an aggressively Alpha-dominated, hyper-masculine environment that was notoriously unwelcoming to Omegas. So, Yuna had fought. She had fought ruthless scout boards, stubborn youth coaches, and archaic systemic biases, pushing Shane onward, ensuring he got every single opportunity, every elite clinic, and every rep on the ice.

She had wanted to unlock every door for him.

She hadn’t realized that just because a door could be unlocked didn’t mean that being inside the room was the best option for her son.

She hadn’t stopped to ask him. She hadn’t noticed how the sport he once loved had slowly morphed into a source of suffocating pressure. It had taken a full-blown panic attack before a regional tournament game—Shane trembling, hyperventilating, and clutching his chest on the locker room floor—for Yuna to wake up.

She had felt like the worst mother on the face of the earth. In her desperate, hard-headed rush to shield him from the world’s limitations, she had pushed him straight into a pressure cooker.

That night had been her turning point. Yuna had put her own stubbornness aside, swallowing her pride, and pulled him from the ice. She had enrolled the entire family into therapy, and worked tirelessly to undo the damage. She learned to listen to Shane’s silence instead of filling it with her own ambitions.

Today, Shane had a specialized therapist and proper anxiety medication. And through that healing process, an entirely unexpected door had opened.

Shane’s psychologist had early on identified that her son carried severe body dysmorphia and a deep lack of self-confidence—wounds left over from trying to physically measure up to heavy Alphas on the ice.

The therapist had suggested a simple, low-stakes confidence-building exercise: taking a few basic modeling classes to help Shane feel comfortable in his own skin, learn body awareness, and reclaim his self-image.

Yuna had expected it to be a brief phase, a simple therapeutic exercise.

She certainly hadn’t expected her son’s striking, constellation-freckled face to completely paralyze the international fashion industry.

Once Shane stepped in front of a camera, the world took notice. Under Yuna’s fierce, protective guidance as his personal manager, Shane Hollander had ascended from a quiet McGill student doing local shoots to one of the most sought-after, highest-paid male models on the planet.

“They always try to pay the male talent half of what the female top-earners get,” Yuna muttered, tapping her pen against her calendar with a smug chuckle. “Not on my watch.”

She had negotiated his contracts with the precision of a military officer. When Yves Saint Laurent wanted Shane, they paid top tier. When Rolex and Canada Dry wanted him as ambassador, Yuna ensured the numbers reflected his true global standing. She protected his schedule, ensured his McGill studies were never compromised, and made sure he was treated with absolute respect on every set.

And then, as if her managerial plate wasn’t full enough, her family had expanded.

Yuna shifted her mouse, clicking over to a secondary folder titled Rozanov, Ilya – Endorsements & Media.

A soft, genuine warmth filled her chest as she looked at the young Russian Alpha’s file. God, she loved that boy. Ilya Rozanov had come into Shane’s life like a golden hurricane, carrying a intense, protective devotion that made Yuna’s inner Alpha sing with approval. He cherished Shane, shielded him, and loved him with a pure, unyielding affection.

The only problem? Ilya’s previous hockey management team had been absolute, irredeemable garbage.

They had treated the young prodigy like a circus pony, taking terrible local deals, letting brands exploit his image for pennies, and completely ignoring his commercial potential off the ice. The moment Ilya and Shane had officially bonded, Yuna had stepped in, taken one look at Ilya’s existing paperwork, and shredded it on the spot.

After all, he’s the captain of the Boston Bears, a Stanley Cup champion, and her future son-in-law. He deserves proper management.

She clicked through the active contract files she had personally secured for Ilya over the last six months.

–Coca-Cola: A massive global campaign featuring Ilya as the official face of Cherry Coke—his absolute favorite flavor. Yuna had personally made sure the contract stipulated a fresh supply shipped directly to his residence in Boston.

–Adidas: A multi-million-dollar athletic wear line highlighting his elite conditioning, complete with a custom gold-and-black training line.

–Speedo: A high-visibility summer campaign highlighting his formidable physical frame, which had already smashed sales records across North America.

–Calvin Klein: A joint, high-fashion underwear and lounge campaign featuring both Ilya and Shane, shot tastefully in black-and-white, which will break the internet the day the billboards go up in Times Square.

Yuna finalized the digital signature on Ilya’s newest bonus structure from Adidas, sent the confirmation email off to their legal department, and closed the laptop screen.

She leaned back in the chair, lifting a warm cup of matcha tea to her lips. She had started out years ago just wanting to make sure her Omega son wasn’t kept out of any room. Now, her son was walking the runway in Paris, her favorite Russian alpha was holding the Stanley Cup, and she was managing two of the biggest names in modern pop culture—all on her own terms.

Yuna took a slow sip, a triumphant smile spreading across her face. “Not bad at all.”

The quiet click of a ceramic mug resting on the coaster broke the stillness of the living room.

Yuna didn’t need to look up to know who had joined her. The soft, familiar scent of fresh lilies and sweet honey filled the doorway long before his socks padded across the rug.

Ilya Rozanov looked entirely unrecognisable compared to the absolute menace who tore up the ice at TD Garden. Gone was the imposing, vicious Alpha who hurled his massive frame into board battles and left opponents bruised and battered. The man standing in front of her was soft, thoroughly rumpled, and bleary-eyed. His mop of blonde curls was wild and tangled from sleep, his broad shoulders swathed in an oversized grey sweatshirt that clearly belonged to Shane.

He leaned against the table, shuffling his feet and taking a slow sip from his coffee mug.

It still occasionally threw Yuna for a loop how different her son’s Alpha was behind closed doors. She remembered the sheer shock on her husband David’s face a year ago when he’d dropped by Shane’s Montreal condo unannounced during a brief business trip. David had accidentally walked in on the two of them in a state of undress—not quite in the middle of the act, but very clearly heading down that path.

Shane had always been so private, demure, and cautious about intimacy, yet with Ilya, he was entirely unfiltered, open, and passionate. David had been stammering for a week, but Yuna had secretly cheered.

Because the world only knew the terrifying, unstoppable Russian powerhouse. But the Hollander family knew this Ilya. The soft, gentle boy who adored their son, who protected him with his life, and who treated Shane like the center of his universe.

Now, with the chaos of the Stanley Cup parade behind them, Yuna and David were staying at the couple’s Boston home for a few days to decompress.

“Mama Hollander,” Ilya grumbled fondly, his thick Russian accent extra heavy with sleep as he rubbed his eye with his palm. “Why are you awake so early? The parade was yesterday. You are supposed to rest.”

Hearing him call her Mama Hollander—or Mama Yuna on the rare occasions he got extra needy—never failed to pull at her heartstrings. She knew the grim, painful history of Ilya’s upbringing and the lingering void left by his biological mother. Being trusted, loved, and claimed as his second mother was an honor Yuna held closer than any multi-million-dollar business deal.

“I tried sleeping, Ilya, but my brain doesn’t turn off,” Yuna said softly, offering him a fond smile as she gestured toward the seat across from her. “Sit. Drink your coffee.”

Ilya sank into the leather chair, pulling his knees up slightly and cradling his mug in both hands. “What are you doing on computer?”

“I’m finalizing your new endorsement packages,” Yuna replied, turning one of her dual monitors slightly so he could see the numbers. “Coca-Cola, Adidas, Calvin Klein, Speedo—quite the spread.”

She paused, looking at him intently. Yuna had learned her lesson years ago with Shane. She was a changed woman, an improved mother and manager. She never assumed, much less force, and she certainly never signed a single piece of paper without sitting down with her sons first to ask what they actually wanted. She had checked every detail of these brand requests with Ilya weeks ago, making sure he was comfortable with the shoots, the travel, and the public exposure before moving forward.

“Now that you’ve raised the Stanley Cup as captain,” Yuna continued, a mischievous spark lighting up her Alpha eyes, “those corporate executives are practically groveling. Can you believe that they had the nerve of haggle with me last month?! They tried to lower your cut on the Adidas line and debate the cherry Coke terms.”

Ilya blinked, his blue eyes clearing as a sleepy smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “And what did you do?”

“I told them they could either pay my rate or watch you sign with their biggest competitors the day after game seven,” Yuna hummed, tapping her pen against the table with deep satisfaction. “This morning, they agreed to every single dollar, safety clause, and schedule restriction I demanded. They practically handed me blank checks.”

A rich, rumbling laugh bubbled out of Ilya’s chest. He leaned his head back against the leather rest, his curls bouncing as he grinned at her with pure admiration.

“Of course they did,” Ilya laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You Hollanders… if you wanted to take over whole world, nobody could stop you. Not even corporate bosses.”

“We don’t want the world, Ilya,” Yuna said softly, leaning forward and placing her hand over his knuckles. “Just what you and Shane deserve.”

Ilya’s smirk softened into something tender. He squeezed her hand back, taking a sip of his coffee as the morning sun finally began to bleed through the curtains.

“I go start breakfast now,” Ilya said, setting his empty coffee mug down on the table and uncurling his long limbs from the chair with a cat-like stretch. “Shanya will be awake soon, and if there is no food ready, he gets cranky.”

Yuna chuckled, closing her laptop screen. “I’ll help you. Let’s see if we can get everything plated before David and Shane get off bed.”

Together, they walked straight into the bright, open-concept main floor. The kitchen seamlessly merged into the dining area, divided only by a wide granite breakfast bar that allowed the entire space to feel connected.

Minutes later, the delicious smell of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee drifted out of the kitchen long before the rest of the house began to stir.

Yuna stood at the stove, gently tilting the skillet to coat the eggs in melted butter. Beside her, Ilya was meticulously chopping fresh fruit, his long fingers working through strawberries and pineapples with surprising deftness.

Cooking had always been a sacred ritual in the Hollander household, but it wasn’t typically Yuna’s domain. Back in Ottawa, Sunday morning breakfast had always been a bond shared strictly between David and Shane. An Omega-to-Omega sanctuary where father and son swapped recipes, shared secrets, and took complete ownership of the kitchen. Yuna had usually been the grateful observer, lingering at the island with her paperwork while her husband and son worked in synchronized harmony.

Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her son’s Alpha, flipping pancakes while Ilya meticulously arranged berry garnishes, was a privilege Yuna will never take for granted.

“Pancakes are golden,” Yuna noted, plating the final batch onto a warm porcelain dish.

“Good,” Ilya grunted affectionately, adding a drizzle of organic honey over the sliced fruit bowl. “Shane eats three. Maybe four if I distract him.”

Right on cue, soft footsteps padded down the hallway.

David came into the kitchen first, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his silk robe wrapped loosely around his waist. Shane trailed right behind his father, buried inside a plush gold-and-black hoodie that swam on his frame. His black hair was a wild nest of bedhead, his freckles bright against his pale skin, and his warm brown eyes were still heavy with residual tiredness.

“Smells incredible in here,” David murmured, leaning over to press a loving kiss to Yuna’s cheek before sliding into his chair at the head of the dining table.

Shane drifted straight toward Ilya. Without a single word of greeting, the younger man leaned his forehead against Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s arm wrapped around Shane’s waist, drawing the smaller man flush against his hip, while his free hand buried itself in Shane’s dark hair, his thumb gently smoothing down the tangled locks over his scent gland.

Yuna watched the interaction from the counter, a wave of profound gratitude washing over her.

For as long as she could remember, Shane had carried a subtle, constant tension in his posture. Even after leaving hockey behind and building a monumental career in modeling, her son was someone who naturally held himself guarded, and constantly managing his environment to keep his anxiety at bay. But the moment Ilya touched him, that barrier vanished entirely. Shane practically liquefied into the Alpha’s hold, resting his weight against Ilya without a single drop of reservation.

A low, resonant sound began to vibrate in Shane’s chest—a soft, rhythmic purr that echoed through the quiet kitchen. It was the exact same contented sound David made whenever Yuna pulled him close after a long day. Hearing that sound come from her son, a boy who had spent years struggling to feel safe in his own skin, had Yuna ready to burst from happiness.

“Sit down, baby,” Ilya murmured softly into Shane’s hair, pressing a quick kiss to his temple. “Breakfast is ready.”

Shane let out a sleepy, reluctant sigh, finally uncurling himself from Ilya’s chest to take his seat beside his father.

Once the table was fully set with eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and pancakes, the four of them began filling their plates. The energy in the room was lively, saturated with the triumphant afterglow of yesterday’s parade.

“I still can’t get over the crowd size,” David commented, topping off his coffee. “When we were walking near the commons, Yuna and I could barely hear each other over the chanting. The fan base here is utterly devoted to you, Ilya.”

“Devoted is an understatement,” Yuna chimed in, smiling at her son. “I saw three different fans wearing full replica suits with fake championship rings. They treat you like royalty in this city.”

Ilya blushed, ducking his head over his plate, though a proud, crooked grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Boston fans are insane,” he admitted with a laugh. “Very loud and passionate.”

“And what about the wives and partners’ float?” Yuna turned her attention to her son, her eyes bright with maternal curiosity. “How was your ride through the city, Shane?”

Shane swallowed a bite of pancake, his face lighting up with a brilliant, genuine smile. “It was unbelievable, Mom. St-Simon's wife brought custom gold champagne glasses for everyone, and Koslov’s partner organized a whole playlist for the speaker system. We were singing the entire route.”

Yuna felt a profound sense of relief listening to him talk. When Shane had first made the decision to relocate his primary base from Montreal to Boston to be with Ilya full-time, Yuna’s overprotective instincts had flared up. She had worried about isolation—about her son being swallowed up by the demanding, fishbowl environment of a major sports hub. But seeing the bright, relaxed way he spoke about the other team partners proved those fears completely groundless.

He wasn’t isolated; he was thriving, surrounded by a tight-knit, supportive circle of real friends.

“The team bus was much crazier, trust me,” Ilya interjected, leaning his elbow on the table as he reached out to casually lace his fingers through Shane’s under the edge of the wood.

“Keep it family-friendly, Ilya,” David warned playfully, raising an eyebrow over his mug. “I know how hockey players celebrate.”

Ilya let out a bright, booming laugh. “Okay, okay, PG-13 only! Marleau tried to wear the Cup as a hat during the first twenty minutes. Then Connors dropped his cell phone into the beer cooler and spent half an hour trying to dry it out with a bag of pretzel bites.”

Shane burst out laughing, the sound ringing clear and bright across the dining room. “Wait, Connors actually did that? He told me he lost his phone at the arena!”

“He is a rookie,” Ilya said, shaking his head with affectionate exasperation. “He panics about everything. I had to pull him away from the microphone twice before he said something to the news cameras that would get us fined.”

Yuna laughed along with them, but her sharp eyes remained focused on how between bites of food and shared laughter, without looking, Ilya would reach out to nudge a bowl of fruit closer to Shane’s plate. And Shane would instinctively lean sideways, resting his shoulder against Ilya’s arm whenever he spoke, his purr returning in low, warm waves every time Ilya’s hand rubbed gentle circles against the small of his back.

It was so domestic and sweet, and Yuna cannot believe how much her son had grown.

She looked down at her own plate, taking a sip of her orange juice as a wave of deep peace settled over her. She had spent so many years worrying about Shane’s future—worrying if she had pushed him too hard, if she had broken his confidence, or if he would ever find a place where he could simply exist without fear or expectation.

Looking at the golden-haired Alpha sitting beside her son—the fierce captain who turned into a golden retriever  the moment he was with Shane—Yuna knew her boy was entirely safe.

“Pass the syrup, Mama Hollander,” Ilya requested with a bright, boyish grin.

“Here you go, son,” Yuna replied softly, handing the bottle over with a smile that came straight from her heart.

Chapter 3: Rose Landry

The moment Rose Landry met Shane Hollander, she was covered in synthetic blood on a freezing side street in Montreal, filming another high-octane thriller where her character spent half the script kidnapped.

As a female Alpha, Rose was an anomaly. Female Alphas weren't unheard of, but they certainly drew stares, positioned in that demographic layer just slightly more common than male Omegas, yet rare enough to make people look twice. It gave her a commanding edge on screen, an intensity that directors fell over themselves to cast.

It was three years ago, during a break between takes, when she had stepped out to grab an espresso. A few doors down, a major fashion house had set up an outdoor shoot, blocking off a historic stone courtyard with silver reflectors and heavy camera rigs.

Rose had leaned against the brick wall, coffee cup in hand, simply watching the commotion.

And then her eyes had landed on him.

Shane Hollander was still an emerging name in the modeling world back then, but the moment the lens focused on him, he looked like a god descended from a canvas. He was breathtaking. It wasn't just his half-Japanese features or the dusting of freckles across his cheekbones; it was the sheer authority he projected under the flash. He possessed a striking countenance—a regal, untouchable aura that demanded absolute respect. Looking at him pulled the air straight out of Rose's lungs, keeping her pinned to the sidewalk without her even realizing she had stopped breathing.

Then, the photographer lowered his camera and yelled, "That's a wrap for this set!"

The transformation was instantaneous.

Like a switch flipping off, that imposing posture vanished in a single breath. The formidable runway titan dissolved into a warm, polite, endearingly cute Omega who immediately bowed his head in gratitude to the crew, thanking the lighting technicians by name and pulling a soft carded sweater over his shoulders.

Rose was completely fascinated. The contrast between his intense professional presence and his sweet, approachable nature was magnetic. Driven by an Alpha's curiosity, she had walked straight over, introduced herself—blood-stained jacket and all—and asked if he wanted to grab lunch at the bistro across the street.

Shane had blinked, surprised, but offered her a brilliant smile and accepted.

"I look like a crime scene, I know," Rose said with a light laugh as they crossed the pavement toward a deli nearby. "Special effects test in Studio B got a little too enthusiastic."

"It's a huge improvement over the wardrobe assistants who look like they want to murder me with garment steamers," Shane replied softly, his hands tucked loosely into his jacket pockets. "Honestly, I'm just relieved to escape the focus of the camara lens. Photographers tend to forget that humans actually need to eat."

Over lunch, as they ordered some healthy salads and talked about the absurdity of their respective industries, Rose asked, leaning back against her chair as she watched him pick a tomato with his fork. "So how do you handle it? The sheer volume of people constantly staring at you, expecting you to be this unreachable, flawless creature every second of the day?"

Shane paused, a faint, thoughtful expression crossing his features before he offered a shrug. "You learn to compartmentalize. On set, I'm a product. But outside of it... I just try to ground myself to the things that are actually real." He smiled softly into his ginger ale, his tone dropping into a warm, deeply tender register. "It helps that I have someone who reminds me who I am when the rest of the world gets too loud. It's a private, long-distance relationship, but it's the most important thing in my life. He keeps me grounded, no matter how chaotic things get."

She had briefly wondered if something romantic might blossom between them. He was, after all, the most captivating person she had ever encountered. So, his words made her feel a shred of disappointment.

"He sounds like a keeper," Rose finally said. "Anyone who can keep you smiling like that from thousands of miles away deserves an award."

Shane looked up, meeting her eyes with a fond expression. "He really is," he murmured softly. "I don't know what I'd do without him."

While it was disappointing that they did not end up as a couple, something far deeper and more permanent clicked into place. They didn’t need romance, as friendship was just as good.

Over the following months and years, their bond grew into something rare and absolute. They became platonic soulmates—two people from wildly different, high-pressure worlds who understood each other without effort, backed each other’s ambitions, and offered an anchor when the rest of the world felt overwhelming.

Their text history became a living, chaotic timeline of two lives moving at breakneck speed. It was an unfiltered archive of rapid-fire messages sent from hotel rooms in Paris, trailers on movie sets, and airport lounges at three in the morning—a steady stream of quiet support, sarcastic bantering, and mutual protection that kept them grounded through the absolute worst of their respective industries.

Rose: If one more director asks me to 'look fiercer while holding my breath under fake rain,' I’m walking off set and opening a bakery.

Shane: I will fund the bakery under the condition that I get free croissants. I’m currently stuck in a velvet suit that weighs more than I do.

Rose: Deal. How’s the fitting going?

Shane: Tailor accidentally pricked my leg with a pin and apologized four times. I told him it was fine, but now my agent looks like she’s about to file a lawsuit. Send help.

Rose: Tell her I’ll bring fake blood from Bay 3 if she needs to stage a crime scene.

Shane: [Sticker: Cat laughing] Please don't, she’d actually use it.

As Shane's modeling career took off internationally, Rose learned early on that high fashion meant absurd restrictions, long hours, and empty stomach trays. She quickly made it her personal mission to look out for him from afar, bypassing his strict agency handlers whenever they happened to be on the same continent:

Shane: [Image attached: A photo of a hotel room service tray featuring two plain rice cakes and a green juice] High fashion dinner in Paris. Living the absolute dream.

Rose: Absolutely not. Look in the closet.

Shane: What? Why?

Rose: I had my cousin who is studying in Paris drop off a box of actual almond pastries at the front desk before your shoot wrapped. Check the coat bag.

Shane: ...ROSE. YOU DID NOT.

Rose: Eat them all. If your agent complains, tell her an aggressive female Alpha threatened you.

Shane: You are officially my favorite person on this entire continent.

And when Rose began landing major roles that brought her onto red carpets and high-stress media circuits, Shane was always the first to track down her streams, offering validation before the self-doubt could creep in:

Rose: Just finished my first big red carpet interview in Cannes. My heels were two sizes too small, and I think I mispronounced the director’s name.

Shane: You looked incredible. I watched the livestream from my gate in JFK.

Rose: You watched it?!

Shane: Of course I did! Your posture was flawless, the suit was sharp, and nobody noticed the shoes. You completely killed it, Rosie.

Rose: Stop, you’re gonna make me ruin my eyeliner in front of my publicist. How’s New York?

Shane: Loud and exhausting. Missing home a bit tonight, honestly.

Rose: Call me when you get to the hotel. I don't care what time it is.

Beyond the glamour and public success, their text chat was also the one place where neither of them had to pretend to be invincible. When the crushing weight of public scrutiny and exhaustion became too heavy, they gave each other permission to drop the mask entirely:

Shane: [Voice Note — 0:42] "Hey Rose... sorry it's 3 AM your time. Just... feeling really overwhelmed with the schedule this month. Sometimes it feels like everyone just wants a piece of me and I don't have enough left for myself. You don't have to call back, just needed to say it out loud."

Rose: Calling you right now. Pick up.

Even when their schedules kept them trapped on opposite ends of the globe, trapped in grueling production days, they maintained an effortless back-and-forth rhythm that made thousands of miles feel like nothing:

Rose: [Image attached: A close-up selfie of Rose wearing a full prosthetics harness, looking thoroughly unimpressed] They have had me hanging from this rig in Montreal for three hours. My spine is now a spiral staircase.

Shane: [Image attached: A blurry photo of Shane stretched out on a green room couch wrapped in three different puffer jackets] I am currently acting as a human rack for five different winter coats between takes in London. We are both living glamorously.

Rose: At least you’re on the ground!

Shane: True. But your jacket is cooler. For much longer will you be on set?

Rose: Two hours. Then I’m ordering a pizza large enough to use as a blanket.

Shane: Save me a slice. I’m flying back to Montreal on Friday.

Rose: You got it, Hollander. First round of drinks is on me.

Rose slowly became his fierce protector behind the scenes, keeping demanding directors at bay and ensuring he had quiet moments to breathe during grueling photo shoots whenever they were in the same city. Meanwhile, Shane became her safe harbor, always ready with a steadying word, a warm drink, and an open ear whenever the cutthroat pressure of production threatened to break her drive. They celebrated every career milestone together, trading insider jokes and holding down the fort whenever the industry became too loud to bear.

Which was precisely why, the moment Shane returned from a whirlwind vacation in Mexico with a fresh mating mark embedded in his scent gland, Rose was one of the very first people invited to celebrate.

The trip to Mexico had initially been a gift from the Russian Alpha to celebrate Shane finally graduating from McGill University. But somewhere amidst the sun, sea, and tropical air, the pair had slipped into a sudden, passionate heat and emerged completely bonded. Naturally, Yuna Hollander was already transforming the news into an absolute managerial spectacle, planning a high-profile wedding fit for international royalty.

Rose made the trip to Boston specifically to pay her respects, congratulate her best friend, and finally size up the famous Alpha who had successfully convinced Shane to pack up his life in Montreal and move south.

Walking into the couple’s spacious townhouse, Rose found Shane glowing with a radiant, unbothered happiness. He was thrilled to introduce his platonic soulmate to his new mate, bouncing on his heels as he guided Rose into the main living room.

At first glance, Ilya Rozanov seemed like the absolute golden standard of an Alpha mate.

Whenever Shane was in the vicinity, Ilya was all warmth, charm, and attentive devotion. The Russian kept a heavy, protective arm constantly resting around Shane’s waist, idly twisting a dark strand of Shane’s hair around his fingers, or dropping frequent, sweet kisses onto his cheek. He was polite and respectful to Rose, offering drinks with an easy smile while Shane practically beamed beside him.

Then, Shane excused himself to check on the catering trays in the kitchen—driven by those innate, immaculate host instincts that every Hollander possessed.

The instant the kitchen doors swung shut, the transformation hit the room like a sudden drop in temperature.

As if a mask had been peeled away, the bright, attentive golden retriever vanished. Ilya leaned back into the sofa cushions, his face flattening into a completely blank, apathetic expression. His blue eyes locked onto Rose, devoid of heat, hostility, or even surface-level curiosity.

There was no overt jealousy or posturing. Instead, it was something far more unnerving: total, absolute indifference.

To Ilya Rozanov, Rose simply did not matter. She wasn’t a threat, she wasn’t a rival, and she wasn’t an object of interest. She was an empty space in the room, tolerated strictly because she happened to be someone Shane cared about. The moment Shane stepped out of sight, Ilya didn’t bother expending a single ounce of energy to entertain her or pretend to care about her presence.

A prickle of apprehension brushed against Rose’s Alpha instincts. The sheer, chilling intensity of his detachment was enough to make anyone pause. It was a terrifying level of hyper-fixation—a mind that functioned strictly for one person and viewed the rest of humanity as background noise.

Yet, as Rose watched Ilya’s eyes instantly ignite the second Shane re-entered the room holding a platter of appetizers, she relaxed her shoulders.

Shane didn’t look smothered or controlled. The moment he sat back down, melting straight into Ilya’s waiting embrace, Shane’s shoulders dropped, his chest vibrating with that low, contented purr. This sharp, terrifying level of singular devotion wasn’t a trap for Shane; it was his anchor. It was the exact brand of unyielding, intense commitment her anxiety-prone best friend needed to feel completely safe.

As long as Ilya wasn’t attempting to isolate him or limit his world, Rose could accept it. But as she took a sip of her drink, watching the Russian Alpha happily press his nose into Shane’s hair, Rose made a silent vow.

She would be keeping a very close eye on Boston’s golden boy.

Life went on. Over the following months, Rose spent most of her time living out of suitcases, flying from one film set to another across different continents, while Shane’s modeling career kept him in constant motion between Paris, London, and New York. Ilya, too, was locked into the grueling grind of the NHL season, traveling constantly for away games with the Boston Bears.

Despite the distance and crazy schedules, nothing changed between Rose and Shane.

Their communication remained as constant as ever—a steady stream of late-night texts, long phone calls during layovers, and frequent video chats whenever their time zones briefly aligned. It was a immense relief to Rose. Ilya had never tried to restrict Shane’s independence. He didn’t demand that Shane turn down international modeling gigs, he didn’t insist Shane stay home, and he certainly never tried to police who Shane talked to or kept in his inner circle.

Through those calls, Rose gradually built a clearer picture of Shane’s life in Boston. He was genuinely thriving. The Boston Bears partners had embraced him entirely, giving him a tight, supportive social network that kept him anchored. Ilya’s teammates treated Shane with fierce protection, and even Shane’s parents had completely taken the Russian Alpha in as one of their own.

Rose began to wonder if her initial wariness during that first meeting had simply been her own Alpha instincts overreacting to Ilya’s protective nature.

When the hockey season reached its climax, Rose was stuck on set in Atlanta for one of the most physically demanding projects of her career. It was a massive superhero film—the X-Squall franchise—and while sitting through four hours of body paint every morning to turn entirely blue was an absolute nightmare, the role was a game-changer. The pay was incredible, and it finally gave her the chance to diversify her filmography beyond her usual thriller and mystery credits.

Between takes, while sitting in the hair and makeup chair for a touch-up, her co-star Miles held up a phone.

“Hey, Rose,” Miles said, leaning over. “Isn’t this that model friend of yours? The one you did the YSL campaign with?”

Rose looked at the screen. It was a crystal-clear wire photo taken straight from center ice at TD Garden. In the frame, Ilya Rozanov was hoisting Shane high off his feet by the hips, pulling him into a deep, passionate kiss right in the middle of the gold-and-black confetti storm as the Boston Bears celebrated their Stanley Cup victory.

“Yeah,” Rose hummed softly, a warm smile tugging at her lips. “That’s him.”

Miles nodded in appreciation, completely unaware of the underlying details, and moved on as the assistant director called them back to set.

That night, after wrapped scenes and an excruciating hour spent scrubbing off blue body paint, Rose finally collapsed onto the king-sized bed in her hotel room. By the time she woke up the following morning, the massive victory parade in Boston had already wrapped up.

She grabbed her phone, dialed Shane’s number, and put it on speaker.

“Rose!” Shane answered on the second ring, his tone vibrant and buzzing with residual energy.

“Hey, champion,” Rose smiled, leaning back against her pillows. “I saw the photos from center ice. Pass my congratulations along to Ilya, will you? Leading Boston to a Stanley Cup is no small feat.”

“I will,” Shane said, his voice brimming with pure, unmistakable pride. “He’s cooking right now, but he was incredible, Rose. You should have seen him out there. He worked so hard for this.”

Hearing how genuinely radiant Shane sounded made a dull ache of guilt settle in Rose’s chest. She loved her best friend, but as an Alpha—and as his platonic soulmate—she couldn’t let the lingering question go unanswered any longer. She needed to know for certain.

“Shane,” Rose said, her tone shifting, becoming serious. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. What’s up?”

“Are you happy?” Rose paused, choosing her words carefully to avoid using those heavy, forbidden terms she always avoided. “Are you really happy with him? Are you safe?”

The line went completely silent.

The sudden lack of sound sent a cold spike of anxiety straight down Rose’s spine. She held her breath, gripping the phone tighter as the seconds stretched out between them.

Then, Shane let out a soft, fond breath.

“Rose,” Shane murmured, his tone gentle and completely relaxed. “I know Ilya can seem very intense to people who don’t know him. His childhood in Russia wasn’t great, and growing up in that system left him with a lot of guards up. He learned early on to put on different masks depending on who he’s dealing with.”

Shane took a short breath, and Rose could practically hear the warm smile in his voice as he continued.

“He might be intense, but he loves me so much. And I love him just as much. He treats me so well, Rose. He gives me space when I need it, he supports everything I do, and he makes me feel completely secure. You don’t ever have to worry about me with him. I promise.”

Sitting alone in her Atlanta hotel room, Rose finally let out the breath she had been holding. The lingering knot of doubt in her chest completely dissolved, replaced by a wave of relief.

If Shane trusted the Russian Alpha with his whole heart, then Rose would trust him too.

“Alright,” Rose said softly, a genuine, relaxed smile finally returning to her face. “I believe you. Just make sure he takes you somewhere nice for vacation before training camp starts again.”

“We’re already planning it,” Shane laughed, the bright, clear sound echoing through the speaker. “Now go get some rest. I know that blue paint is killing you.”

Chapter 4: Ilya Rozanov

Life had always been gray.

For as long as Ilya Rozanov could remember, the world existed in dull, muted tones. Growing up in Moscow, he had initially assumed the perpetual drabness was just the environment—a city draped in endless slush, brutal winds, and bitter cold, where the icy skyline seemed to reflect directly into the temperaments of the people walking its streets.

Hockey wasn’t a grand passion or a sacred calling for Ilya. It was simply a job, a ticket out of a country he felt no allegiance to, and an escape from a household that smelled of stale vodka and ruin.

If he had allowed himself to care—if he had actually opened his heart to the reality of his childhood—he would have broken down years ago. He had watched his mother surrender to her own dark thoughts, ending her life in the bathroom of their apartment. He had watched his older brother, Alexei, chase phantom freedom through the bottoms of bottles and needle tips, spiraling out until there was nothing left of him to save. And over it all stood his father, Grigori Rozanov, a man composed entirely of cold disappointment and distant, sharp edges.

Alexei had chosen destruction, while Ilya had chosen apathy.

He didn’t care what Grigori thought of him. He didn’t care about the immense expectations Russia placed on his shoulders. He didn’t care about the press, the fans, or the noise. He moved through the world wrapped in an impenetrable armor of indifference, doing his work on the ice with a terrifying efficiency simply because he was built for it.

Then came his rookie year in Boston.

It was late November, right after a brutal, physical victory against the Montreal Metros. The Boston veterans had dragged the nineteen-year-old rookie out to an upscale, dimly lit club in the city to celebrate the win. Ilya sat in a leather booth near the back, sipping his drink with that signature, unbothered expression, watching his teammates get foolishly drunk while the surrounding crowd buzzed with loud, pointless energy.

And then, across the crowded floor, the fog lifted.

A young man walked past the VIP section, flanked by two friends. He was half-Asian, with dark, lustrous hair framing a face so striking it halted the noise in Ilya’s head entirely. Under the warm club lights, his skin looked smooth, highlighted by a delicate dusting of freckles across his nose and cheekbones.

For the first time in nineteen years, a sudden, blinding flash of color flooded Ilya’s world.

It was as if a dormant switch inside him had been violently flipped on. His Alpha instincts, usually as dormant and indifferent as the rest of him, surged forward with a fierce, possessive roar that made his blood run hot. The dull gray reality he had inhabited his entire life vanished, replaced by a single, absolute, unyielding mandate:

That Omega is mine.

Ilya didn’t know his name. He didn’t know his story or his background. But as his blue eyes locked onto the stunning stranger, watching the way his warm brown eyes crinkled with a soft, gentle laugh, Ilya knew with absolute certainty that he would stop at nothing until that Omega belonged to him.

“Who is that?” Ilya asked, his Russian accent cutting through the loud music, his gaze never leaving the dark-haired boy.

Cliff Marleau leaned over, squinting through the crowd before shrugging. “I think I’ve seen him on the covers of some magazines. From what I recall, he’s a local kid. Shane something.”

The noise of the club melted into a dull, meaningless hum the second Ilya slid out of the leather booth and moved across the floor. He didn’t rush, but his stride carried the absolute purpose of a hunter who had already locked onto his target.

Shane.

The name settled into Ilya’s mind like a permanent fixture. His relentless, singular focus would terrify anyone who noticed it, but luckily, he had grown used to hiding his rougher edges.

He didn’t care about the rest of humanity. The world could burn to ashes around them, and Ilya wouldn’t bother to turn his head. But Shane Hollander was his sun, his color, and his life. And Ilya would spend the rest of his days ensuring that color never faded again.

As he closed the distance, the dark-haired boy turned his head, hearing his footsteps approaching.

Up close, the boy was even more breathtaking than he had been from across the room. Under the ambient lighting, the constellation of freckles dusting his nose stood out sharply against smooth, golden skin. His brown eyes were wide, warm, and shining with a soft, hesitant wonder as Ilya came to a halt directly in front of him.

Up close, Ilya caught the very first hint of his natural scent—a luscious, delicate blend of warm cedar and sweet vanilla that invaded Ilya’s senses like a drug.

Shane blinked, a delicate flush creeping up his neck. He shifted his weight, wrapping his arms loosely around himself in a gesture of pure, endearingly sweet shyness.

“Hi,” the Omega murmured, his voice soft, smooth, and slightly breathless.

“Hi,” Ilya replied, his thick Russian accent dropping into a low, rumbling register. He offered a small, rare smile—one devoid of the sharp arrogance he reserved for the press. “I am Ilya.”

That single interaction sealed their fate. The rest became history.

Over the next three years, Ilya’s thoughts became completely consumed by Shane Hollander. As Shane’s modeling career exploded, taking him to runways in Paris and studio sets in New York, Ilya tracked his every move with an absolute, devoted obsession. Whenever the Boston Bears had a break in their grueling game schedule, Ilya would immediately board a flight, tracking down whichever hotel or studio Shane was staying at just to hold him for a few hours.

To the outside world, Ilya Rozanov was the towering, granite-jawed captain of the Boston Bears—a fierce, calculating Alpha whose dominance on the ice was matched only by his cold, unyielding demeanor off it. The media painted him as a force of nature, a stoic machine forged in the brutal winter of Moscow’s elite hockey clubs. They wrote essays on his icy control, his refusal to engage with fame, and the terrifying, silent authority he held over his locker room.

They didn't know the truth. They didn't see the dark, suffocating intensity that burned beneath his ribs every second he was away from Shane.

It wasn't merely love; it was an obsession so absolute, so complete, that it bordered on a sickness. In the quiet, brutal depths of Ilya’s mind, the universe had shrunk down to a single point of light, and that point of light was Shane Hollander. Everything else—the multi-million-dollar contracts, the roar of twenty thousand fans at TD Garden, the adrenaline-rushing victories—was meaningless background noise. It was sterile. Dead. The only thing that possessed life, color, or purpose was the breathtaking Omega who carried his heart in the palm of his hand.

In the early days of Shane’s burgeoning fashion career, when the young model was still navigating the predatory underbelly of the high-fashion world, Ilya’s territorial instincts hovered constantly at the surface, razor-sharp and dangerous.

Ilya remembered every single face, every name, every photographer who had ever looked at Shane with anything more than professional detachment. He spent endless, sleepless nights in lonely hotel rooms on away trips, staring at the glowing screen of his phone, meticulously checking Shane’s itinerary. He memorized flight numbers, shoot locations, hotel room suites, and the names of every stylist, makeup artist, and security guard assigned to his partner’s team.

There was a side of Ilya that never saw the light of day—a shadow that lived beneath his polished composure.

When a sleazy European talent agent attempted to corner Shane in a private lounge after a show in Milan, pressing too close and offering vague promises of magazine covers in exchange for private dinners, Shane handled it with his usual grace, stepping away and brushing it off. But Shane mentioned the incident offhandedly during a late-night phone call, unaware of the terrifying silence that settled on the other end of the line.

Ilya simply listened, his knuckles turning stark white as he gripped his phone, his chest heaving with a silent, primal rage.

Two days later, that same agent found his contract with the agency abruptly terminated, his reputation systematically destroyed overnight through a web of anonymous legal inquiries, financial audits, and pressure applied by high-level connections Ilya possessed. The man vanished from the fashion circuit entirely, never setting foot near a runway again. Ilya never spoke a word of it to Shane. He saw no reason to pollute Shane's pure, bright world with the ugly mechanics of how he kept him safe. His Omega was meant to shine, unburdened and untouched; Ilya was more than willing to be the monster in the dark that ensured it stayed that way.

Whenever the schedule allowed—even if it meant taking a four-hour red-eye flight immediately after a brutal sixty-minute hockey game in Montreal—Ilya went to him.

He would land in Paris or London at 5:00 AM, bruised, exhausted, his body aching from blocked shots and hard hits, and ride in a black car straight to Shane’s hotel. He didn't care about sleep or rest. He only cared about the precise moment the hotel keycard clicked green and the door swung open.

The moment he saw Shane, the darkness inside Ilya quieted down, transforming into something possessive and deeply protective.

He would cross the room in three heavy strides, gathering the smaller Omega into his arms with a desperation that bordered on feral. He buried his face into the warm crook of Shane’s neck, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent of vanilla and cedar, letting the heavy weight of his Alpha instincts finally settle. Shane would wrap his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, fingers tangling in blond hair, murmuring soft, soothing words as the Alpha squeezed him tight enough to bruise—as if constantly reassuring himself that Shane was real, that he was here, that he was his.

"You are crazy, Rozanov," Shane would whisper softly against his ear, a light laugh bubbling in his chest as he felt the frantic beat of Ilya's heart against his own ribcage. "You played in Canada last night. You shouldn't be here."

"I am where I belong," Ilya would growl low in his throat, his thick arms locking tighter around Shane’s waist, lifting him slightly off the floor just to anchor him against his chest. "I do not care about what I should be doing. I only care about this."

In those private, stolen hours behind locked doors, Ilya belonged entirely to Shane, but his possessiveness remained absolute.

He would sit on the edge of the bed for hours, watching Shane move around the room, his eyes tracking every breath, the arch of his back, and every flicker of emotion on his delicate face. If Shane had a shoot that required revealing clothes, Ilya’s jaw would set into a hard, rigid line, his inner Alpha snarling at the thought of complete strangers staring at the skin that belonged strictly to him. To Ilya, those eager fans, photographers, and admirers weren't harmless—they were pests, trespassing on what was exclusively his. He hated the public gaze, hated the cameras, and hated sharing even a fraction of Shane's image with the world. The only thing that kept his possessive fury from boiling over was knowing that behind closed doors, he had meticulously secured Shane’s total, absolute devotion.

Ilya had slowly fed his own obsession, ensuring Shane’s heart was locked onto him alone. To guarantee that Shane’s mind remained entirely consumed by him—no matter how many cameras flashed or how many miles separated them—Ilya subtly, meticulously weaponized a Pavlovian approach.

He turned his scent, his touch, and his voice into an inescapable neurological anchor.

Every time Shane was stressed, exhausted from a grueling shoot, or overwhelmed by the industry, Ilya was right there to provide immediate, overwhelming relief—paired strictly with his Alpha scent and a distinct, firm pressure at the nape of Shane’s neck. Whenever Shane experienced peak pleasure, deep rest, or absolute safety, Ilya made sure his presence was the sole triggering stimulus.

He repeated this conditioning relentlessly, day after day, month after month, until Shane’s nervous system was completely rewired.

Eventually, the psychological trap was sprung. The moment Shane stepped off a runway, felt a wave of anxiety on set, or felt another person’s touch, his brain automatically short-circuited, desperately craving the exact, specific relief that only Ilya Rozanov could provide. Without even realizing it, Shane had been conditioned to associate his own baseline comfort, safety, and arousal exclusively with his Alpha.

The world could stare at Shane all it wanted. Millions could gush over his face on billboards. But Ilya walked away satisfied, knowing he had engineered Shane's mind so thoroughly that his Omega’s thoughts would always, inevitably, lead straight back to him.

Some might look at the way Ilya cultivated their bond and brand it as calculated manipulation, but every single action Ilya took was rooted in his unyielding love. There was one specific boundary where Ilya’s possessiveness turned even more uncompromising: Shane’s natural scent.

The divine, intoxicating aroma of cedar and vanilla belonged to Ilya alone. The thought of another Alpha catching a pure whiff of Shane’s unadulterated scent made Ilya’s blood burn. Which was precisely why, from the very beginning of their relationship, Ilya ensured Shane was perpetually bathed in his own scent.

Whenever they had to part, Ilya wrapped him in clothes saturated with his presence, aggressively nuzzling his neck until every inch of Shane’s skin was completely covered in lilies and honey.

Shane never minded. In fact, he leaned into it, purring softly as Ilya blanketed him in safety, entirely content to walk out into the cold world carrying the undeniable mark of the Alpha who adored him.

To the rest of the world, Ilya Rozanov’s absolute hyper-fixation on Shane Hollander looked like simple, raw territorialism. Outsiders assumed the Russian Alpha treated the stunning model like an expensive treasure—a prize he had claimed and refused to share with the rest of the league.

Ilya knew how people looked at them. He had seen the sharp wariness in Rose Landris’s eyes during their very first meeting. To her, watching Ilya grow hyper-protective, blanket Shane in his scent, and shield him from the world felt like watching a bizarre, unsettling display of unhinged Alpha instinct.

Ilya simply did not care.

Their shock, their judgment, and their opinions were entirely irrelevant to him. The rest of humanity was background noise—empty silhouettes drifting past his field of vision. The only person who held any real substance in Ilya’s world was Shane.

By natural extension, the only other people Ilya bothered to care about were Shane’s parents. David and Yuna Hollander had opened their home and their hearts to him without hesitation, welcoming him into their family with a warmth Ilya had never experienced in Moscow.

Ilya grew genuinely fond of them, largely because he saw the very best parts of Shane reflected in both of them—Yuna’s fierce, protective drive and David’s gentle, steady warmth. He made an actual effort with the Hollanders, earning their trust and affection, because keeping Shane’s family close meant keeping Shane securely anchored to him.

Rose, however, represented a unique variable. Even after she began to relax her guard, her presence remained a subtle reminder to Ilya that Shane possessed people in his corner who might eventually encourage him to reconsider their life together. Shane was young, brilliant, and widely adored. What if the distance between Boston and Montreal, or the stress of their hidden relationship, eventually caused Shane to doubt their love? What if someone convinced him that a high-profile, intense Alpha captain was too much trouble?

Ilya refused to leave his future to chance.

So, when Shane graduated, Ilya organized a celebration trip to a private coastal estate in Mexico. It was framed as a romantic, relaxing escape—a chance for Shane to unwind after years of balancing heavy coursework with international fashion campaigns.

Behind the scenes, Ilya carefully orchestrated every detail of the trip.

Leveraging Shane’s absolute trust in him, Ilya subtly manipulated the routine of Shane’s daily anxiety and heat-suppressant medication. Over the course of their first few days under the warm tropical sun, Ilya ensured Shane missed key doses, slowly allowing the Omega’s natural biological rhythms to overtake his suppressed system until Shane slid into a sudden, uninhibited heat.

The tropical air turned sweet with the lush aroma of cedar and vanilla, and in the overwhelming haze of the moment, Ilya sank his teeth deep into Shane’s scent gland, placing a permanent mating mark into his skin.

The moment the heat broke, Ilya played his part flawlessly.

As they lay tangled in the high-thread-count sheets of the coastal villa, Ilya buried his face into the side of Shane’s neck, his broad shoulders trembling as he let out a choked, remorseful sob. He played the part of a horrified, overwhelmed Alpha consumed by instinct, whispering desperate, tearful apologies into Shane’s skin.

“I am so sorry, Shanya,” Ilya murmured, his voice cracking with rehearsed guilt as he gently stroked Shane’s dark hair. “I am so sorry. It was… the heat of the moment. I lost control. I didn’t want to force this on you…”

The performance was seamless.

Shane, still warm and thoroughly relaxed from the intense bond, wrapped his arms tightly around Ilya’s broad shoulders, pulling the big Alpha close against his chest.

“It’s okay, Ilya,” Shane whispered softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Ilya’s blonde curls, his chest vibrating with a low, contented purr. “It’s fine. I love you so much. I wanted this too.”

Just like that, the trap was completely cemented.

Ilya pressed his forehead into the curve of Shane’s neck, hiding the dark, victorious smile that spread across his lips. Every doubt, external threat, and lingering question was wiped away in a single stroke.

Now, when Shane walked down the street, walked a Paris runway, or stood backstage at an arena, the whole world would see the dark puncture scars on his neck. They would know, without a single shadow of a doubt, that Shane Hollander belonged to Ilya Rozanov forever.

The thing about securing that bite was that it completely flipped Ilya’s whole world upside down in the best way possible.

Before Mexico, their entire relationship had been an exhausting, chaotic mess of stolen weekends, red-eye flights, and rushed hotel rooms. Ilya used to live for those away games in Montreal just to get a few hours with Shane, or he’d jump on a plane to New York the second he had a day off from the Bears.

Back in Boston, his townhouse wasn’t even a real home. It was just a cold, empty place where he crashed between road trips, with nothing in the fridge except water bottles and protein powder.

Now? That place was actually a home.

On the days when their crazy schedules lined up and they were both actually in Boston, Ilya got to wake up with Shane right there beside him, buried in the sheets and smelling like cedar and vanilla. The townhouse wasn’t cold anymore, and the fridge was always crammed with Japanese food, Russian dishes, and Canadian comfort food.

The whole place actually felt alive. It was the one spot on earth where Ilya didn’t have to put on a show. He didn’t have to be the terrifying, unhinged captain of the Bears, and he didn’t have to act like the rest of the world didn’t exist. He could just relax and be himself.

And Shane was everywhere now. He came to every single home game at TD Garden, wearing Ilya’s jersey, sitting up in the family box. Just knowing Shane was in the arena made Ilya play like an absolute beast on the ice.

So when they won Game 7 and Ilya hoisted Shane right up on center ice, twirling him around and kissing him in front of twenty thousand screaming fans, it felt completely surreal. The parade a few days later was just as wild, with everyone in Boston cheering for them while Shane stood right by his side, beaming.

Everything looked totally locked down, especially with Yuna planning a massive, over-the-top wedding that was only a couple of months away.

But deep down, Ilya’s mind just didn’t work like normal people’s. To him, a mating mark and a wedding ring were great, sure, but there was always the chance of Shane asking for a divorce down the road. Ilya needed something that would lock them together forever, no matter what.

So, very quietly, Ilya started poking tiny pinholes in the condom wrappers in their nightstand drawer.

Honestly, growing up in Russia with his terrible father, Ilya had never once cared about having kids. He’d been totally numb to the whole idea of family. But the thought of a little kid running around the house—a sweet, dark-haired pup with Shane’s freckles and warm brown eyes—made something inside him light up.

A pup, or maybe even two, would tie Shane to him in a way nothing else ever could. It meant Shane could never truly walk away, because they’d be a real family forever.

Lying there in the dark of their bedroom, watching the streetlights hit Shane’s face while he slept, Ilya slid his hand over Shane’s stomach, pulling him in close. He rested his chin against Shane’s dark hair, completely satisfied with the way everything was playing out.

Chapter 5: Shane Hollander

It drove Shane crazy how almost everyone in his life treated him like he was made of glass—some sweet, fragile little creature who needed to be shielded from the big, bad world.

Maybe he had been naïve once upon a time. Maybe he had been that soft, innocent kid before an Alpha check slammed him into the boards during a junior game, cracking his helmet against the seamless glass and spitting down at him that an omega whore had no business on the ice and would never make it to the NHL.

Shane could still remember the smell of that rink: cheap floor wax, sweat, and the sharp copper tang of blood in his own mouth. He had laid flat on the cold ice, gasping for breath while the referee’s whistle blew somewhere far away. The physical bruises on his ribs healed in a month, but the damage in his head took root like a parasite.

The panic attacks came three weeks later.

At first, it was just a tightness in his chest during morning skates—a sudden, suffocating squeeze that made his lungs refuse to expand. Then it spiraled. He would lie awake in his bedroom, heart hammering against his ribs at two in the morning, convinced his throat was closing up, sweat soaking through his sheets while his body convinced itself he was dying. He stopped eating properly. He looked in the bathroom mirror every morning and hated what he saw: a frame that felt too soft, too vulnerable, a build that didn't belong in a sport built on raw violence. Every time he looked at his shoulders in the mirror, he saw an Omega trying and failing to play an Alpha’s game.

His parents finally stepped in when they found him sitting on the floor of a locker room, hyperventilating so hard his fingers had gone numb.

Dr. Aris Thorne’s office sat on the fourth floor of a medical building in downtown Ottawa. The room was understated—soft gray armchairs, a large oak desk, and a window overlooking a line of birch trees.

"You're trying to outrun your own physiology, Shane," Dr. Thorne said during their third session, setting a leather-bound notebook on his knee. He was an older Beta with a calm voice that never rose or fell. "You view your omega nature as a defect because the sport you play punishes it. So, you try to suppress it. And when your body rebels against that suppression, you panic."

Shane sat on the edge of the plush chair, his hands clamped tightly between his knees, his jaw set so hard it ached. "I just want it to stop," he said, his voice quiet, raw from days of barely sleeping. "I want to skate onto the ice without feeling like I’m going to throw up. I want to look at my body and not feel like it’s a target."

"Your body isn't a target, Shane. It's an instrument," Dr. Thorne corrected gently. "Right now, your nervous system is trapped in a permanent fight-or-flight loop. Your brain thinks that every time you step out into the world, that Alpha on the ice is waiting to destroy you."

Dr. Thorne opened a drawer in his desk, pulling out a prescription pad, and uncapping his pen with a click.

"We are going to do two things," the doctor continued, writing smoothly across the paper. "First, we are going to silence the physiological noise. I am prescribing a daily anxiety medication. It isn't a cure, and it won't change who you are, but it will lower the baseline alarm ringing in your nervous system, and give you your floor back."

Shane stared at the paper as Dr. Thorne handed it across the desk.

"And second?" Shane asked, his thumb tracing the blue border of the script.

"Second, you are going to stop trying to force yourself into a shape you were never meant to take," Dr. Thorne said, leaning back. "You don't need to be eighty kilos of muscle to be dangerous, Shane. Control isn't always physical force. True power is controlling the perception of the room."

The medication took three weeks to build up in his system, but when it hit, the effect was profound. The dark fog in his mind lifted, and the sudden spikes of adrenaline disappeared. For the first time in years, Shane could stand in front of a mirror, look at his lean frame, his sharp jawline, and his soft features without feeling a surge of disgust or fear.

And then came modeling.

If people thought hockey was brutal, high fashion was a complete snake pit.

When Shane retired from competitive hockey and stepped into his first agency in Ottawa, he was surrounded by people who viewed him purely as an aesthetic commodity. They measured his waist, scrutinized his posture, and discussed his flaws as if he weren't standing in the room.

Early on, during a brutal three-day runway workshop in Toronto, an older instructor named Jean-Luc—a retired French model who had survived thirty years in the industry—cornered Shane in a backstage dressing room. Shane had been standing behind a rack of silk suits, visibly tense, his shoulders pulled tight as two rival models laughed nearby about his short stint in junior hockey.

Jean-Luc had walked over, grabbed Shane by the chin, and tilted his face toward the long vanity light.

"You're standing like a boy who expects to be hit," Jean-Luc spoke coldly, examining Shane’s eyes. "Stop it. Confidence isn’t something you’re born with, Shane—it’s a muscle you train. You fake it until you make it. You convince yourself you’re untouchable, project it to the world, and one day you wake up and realize you aren’t pretending anymore."

Jean-Luc let go of his chin and tapped Shane’s chest right over his heart. "They want you soft? Give them soft. But make them bleed when they touch it."

So, Shane learned the game. He learned how to navigate a cutthroat industry, and more importantly, he learned how to turn his natural softness into a lethal advantage. He used his gentle smile, his quiet demeanor, and his polite deference as a velvet curtain. He let casting directors, agents, and rival models underestimate him, assuming he was just a timid, pretty face they could step over. They never saw the steel underneath until he had already taken the campaign right out from under them.

He remembered his first major campaign call in Paris. A senior talent scout had tried to push Shane out of a lucrative autumn campaign in favor of a larger Alpha model, making patronizing comments during the callback about how Shane looked "too delicate" to carry a structured winter line. Shane hadn't argued or thrown a fit. He had simply smiled politely, thanked the director, and spent the next forty-eight hours studying the brand's entire historical archive. At the final director's dinner that evening, Shane sat next to the head designer, casually dropping references to the brand's 1990s archival silhouettes with effortless, charming grace. By the end of the night, the campaign was his, and the Alpha model was dropped from the roster.

He didn’t stop being kind—he was still genuinely sweet to the people who earned it. He gave his unconditional love to his parents, his absolute loyalty to Rose, and his warmth to Ilya’s teammates and their partners in Boston.

Which was why, when Rose had called him after the Stanley Cup win, asking with that laced-in Alpha concern if he was truly safe with Ilya, Shane had almost laughed. It was genuinely adorable how much Rose worried about him.

Rose didn’t get it. Nobody really did.

Shane wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t some clueless Omega wandering blindly into a trap. He knew exactly what Ilya was doing.

He had noticed when his medication routine started subtly shifting during that trip to Mexico. He had absolute control over his body, tracking his own hormonal cycles with mathematical precision ever since his therapy days. He knew his body inside and out, and he knew damn well that sliding into an uninhibited, intense heat wasn’t a sudden random fluke. His daily anxiety and regulatory meds hadn't failed on their own. They had been subtly tampered with—a missed dose here, a slightly altered schedule there, carefully coordinated by a desperate Alpha who thought he was being subtle.

Shane had let it happen.

He had welcomed the bite, sinking his fingers into Ilya’s hair as the Alpha claimed him, internally thrilled that Ilya was binding them together forever.

And the condom wrappers in the nightstand drawer with the pinholes? Shane had found those two weeks ago.

It happened on a humid Tuesday evening, during one of the many away games that Shane had joined his Alpha in. Ilya was in the shower, the hot water rumbling through the pipes, humming a mindless Russian pop song. Shane was looking for a hair tie in the bottom drawer of the nightstand when his fingers brushed against the box.

He didn't even know why he looked closely. But when the light caught the edge of the wrapper, he noticed it.

A deliberate pinhole.

Shane stilled, holding the foil square between two fingers. He held it closer to the bulb. There was another. Every single packet in the box had been punctured. He didn't feel panicked or betrayed at the discovery of his Alpha’s plan. Instead, he felt a dark rush of euphoria.

A normal Omega—the soft creature people assumed Shane was—would have spiraled. They would have burst into tears and confronted their Alpha in a fit of betrayal.

However, Shane had never been a normal Omega.

Catching his reflection in the mirror above the night table, he stared at his face. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes blown wide with realization: Ilya is losing his mind.

The captain of the Boston Bears—the terrifying Alpha who treated the rest of the world like insects—was so consumed by the fear of losing Shane that he was resorting to sabotage behind closed doors. He was willing to tie Shane down with a pup just to make sure no one else could ever have him.

He’s terrified I’ll leave, Shane realized, a triumphant smile spreading across his face in the mirror. He’s so obsessed with me that he’d break every single moral and ethical rule in the book.

Shane didn't throw the box away, nor did he confront Ilya. Instead, he smoothed the foil wrapper back out, placed the box precisely where he found it in the drawer, and shut it without a sound.

When Ilya stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, steam clinging to his shoulders and his hair dripping wet, Shane was lying on the bed, waiting. He looked up at his Alpha through dark lashes, offering the innocent smile he knew drove Ilya insane.

He opened his arms, welcoming the weight of Ilya’s body as the Alpha climbed over him, unaware that Shane was guiding every move. The Omega wrapped his legs tight around Ilya's waist, sinking his fingers into his wet hair, pulling him down and silently encouraging every second of it.

Was it healthy? Absolutely not. Was it toxic by normal societal standards? Probably.

Shane just didn’t give a damn.

Ilya Rozanov was a towering, beautiful force of nature—a literal hockey god who could have anyone in the world. Shane loved him with an intensity that bordered on dangerous, but Shane was also a realist. He knew how the world worked. What if, years down the line, Ilya’s eyes drifted? What if he saw someone younger, prettier, or more exciting on some editorial cover?

If Ilya kept himself trapped in this marriage out of sheer, overwhelming guilt because he thought he’d manipulated Shane into a mating mark…

If Ilya stayed bound to him forever because he felt responsible for fathering a house full of pups…

Shane smiled softly to himself, Ilya might think he is a mastermind.

He might think he is the cunning, ruthless Alpha pulling all the strings behind the scenes to trap his poor, naïve Omega. In reality, Ilya’s desperate, possessive little schemes were just giving Shane every single thing he had ever wanted, guaranteeing that Ilya could never, ever leave him.

If Ilya’s master plan was a trap, Shane was the one locking the door from the inside.

Shane’s satisfaction bloomed into complete, triumphant reality a couple of months later when they finally stood by the edge of the lake, exchanging vows in the light of their Ottawa cottage.

The property held deep significance for Shane. He had designed and built it himself, modeled after the cherished summers he spent at his parents’ family retreat as a kid. It was his sanctuary, built with his own hard-earned money from modeling campaigns, and now it officially belonged to both of them.

He had spent over two years overseeing every blueprint, selecting the stone for the fireplace, and choosing the massive glass windows that looked out over the lake water. It was a tangible proof of his financial independence, a physical monument to his success that no one could ever take from him. And by putting Ilya’s name on the deed beside his own, he was welcoming the Alpha into his world on his terms.

The ceremony was a stunning blend of natural beauty and Yuna Hollander’s trademark extravagance. Under a rustic wooden arch frame decorated with white lilies, surrounded by close friends, teammates, and family, Shane and Ilya said their vows with the sun shimmering across the water.

During the ceremony, Shane caught sight of Rose standing near the front row, wearing a beautiful green dress, watching Ilya with that vigilant, protective Alpha gaze. Next to her, his mom was wiping a tear from her eye, looking at Shane as if he were a precious porcelain doll being handed over to a giant. Shane met his mother's eyes and gave her a small, radiant, innocent smile. She beamed back, completely unaware that her "precious baby" had orchestrated every detail of the life he was stepping into.

The reception that followed was over-the-top in every way imaginable—a lavish lakeside affair with world-class catering, an impossibly tall, multi-tiered cake, and champagne flowing freely long into the night.

When the music slowed, Shane melted into Ilya’s arms on the outdoor dance floor. Under the warm glow of string lights strung between the trees, Ilya held him like he was the center of the universe, pressing soft, reverent kisses against his temple.

Ilya’s grip on his waist was tight, almost painful, his Alpha scent wrapping around Shane like an iron wall. Shane rested his forehead against Ilya's collarbone, listening to the fast, steady thud of the Alpha’s heart. Ilya was practically vibrating with possessive relief, convinced he had officially secured his prize. Shane just let his eyes close, breathing in the scent of cedar and ice, thoroughly enjoying the illusion he was letting Ilya maintain.

The party eventually wound down, the guests retired to nearby lodges, and the newlyweds retreated inside their new home.

They christened the cottage with a wild, unrestrained passion that lasted straight through until dawn. They tore through every room, leaving their clothes scattered across the fresh hardwood floors and brand-new furniture, marking every corner of the property with their blended scent. Ilya was relentless, driven by that possessive Alpha need to stake his claim on his new husband, and Shane met him with equal fervor, taking everything Ilya gave him and silently demanding more.

A few days later, they traded the pine woods of Ontario for a private yacht cruising through the emerald waters of the Caribbean.

It was mid-way through their second week at sea when the morning sickness hit.

Shane woke up to the sway of the boat, a sudden, violent wave of nausea rolling through his stomach before his eyes even opened. He slipped out of the king bed, leaving Ilya sound asleep under the sheets, and made a dash for the ensuite bathroom.

Kneeling on the cool marble floor, clutching the side of the porcelain toilet, Shane threw up his entire stomach contents. His throat burned, and his head throbbed. Yet, as he wiped his mouth with a damp cloth and looked at his reflection in the mirror, a wicked, triumphant smile spread slowly across his face, as he rested a palm over his lower abdomen.

He didn’t even need a test to confirm it; his instincts were already singing with the change inside his body.

It had worked.

The altered wrappers, the uninhibited nights at the cottage, the relentless intensity—it had all led straight to this moment. Inside him, a tiny new life was already beginning to take root.

Shane flushed the toilet, washed his face, and leaned against the sink, his chest swelling with pure, unadulterated joy. This pup—whether a boy or a girl—was going to be the most adored, cherished child in the entire world. They would grow up wrapped in luxury, doted on by loving grandparents, protected by an entire team of Boston Bears uncles, and showered with endless affection by two fathers who loved them beyond measure.

And just as importantly, this child was another master line anchoring Ilya Rozanov to Shane forever.

Shane walked back out into the bedroom, watching Ilya stir under the blankets, those piercing blue eyes blinking open, instantly searching the room until they landed on Shane.

“Shanya?” Ilya rasped, his voice rough with sleep, extending an arm over the empty side of the bed. “Where’d you go? Come back.”

Shane’s smile softened into something warm, sweet, and entirely disarming. He climbed back into the bed, sliding right into Ilya’s waiting embrace, pressing his face against his husband’s neck while Ilya automatically wrapped his arms around him, burying his nose in Shane’s hair.

“I’m right here,” Shane whispered softly into Ilya’s skin, holding his husband close as the boat gently rocked over the ocean. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The honeymoon was a resounding success. They spent those two weeks adrift in paradise, completely lost in each other amidst the warm ocean breeze and emerald waters of the Caribbean. By the time their private yacht returned to shore, both of them were thoroughly sun-kissed, utterly exhausted, and deeply content.

Returning to Boston brought a return to their reality. Training camp was right around the corner for Ilya, while Shane needed to organize his modeling commitments for the upcoming year.

On their second morning back in the townhouse, while Ilya was out at the facility for medical check-ins and early ice sessions, Shane set up his laptop at the kitchen counter for a three-way video call. On his screen, two familiar faces popped up: Farah, his sharp-minded talent agent based in Montreal, and Yuna, his mother and head manager.

“Good morning, Shane,” Farah greeted, her stylish glasses reflecting the light of her office. “How was the Caribbean?”

“It was perfect,” Shane smiled, taking a sip of warm ginger tea to settle his stomach. “Unreal, honestly. But I called because we need to adjust my schedule for the upcoming season. I need to pull back on international travel.”

Yuna raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to her camera. “Shane? Is everything alright? Did something happen with a contract?”

“No, Mom,” Shane said softly, his smile blooming into something radiant as he rested a hand over his lower abdomen. “I’m pregnant.”

For two seconds, total silence washed over the call.

Then Yuna let out a gasped exclamation, clapping both hands over her mouth while her eyes filled with happy tears. “Oh, Shane! Oh, my baby!”

Farah let out a delighted laugh, shaking her head. “Well, that is certainly a good reason to revise a calendar. Congratulations, Shane! That is incredible news.”

“We can cancel the European runway shows right away,” Yuna said quickly, her managerial instincts kicking in alongside her maternal pride. “I will handle the brand reps in Paris and Milan personally. You don’t need to stress about a single thing. We will pivot to local editorials and domestic campaigns that don’t require flying.”

“Don’t worry about a single detail, Shane,” Farah agreed smoothly. “Your health comes first. Yuna and I will restructure every contract to fit your comfort. You just focus on taking care of yourself.”

Shane smiled softly, playing along with their protective instincts just as smoothly as he always did. "Thank you, both. I really appreciate it."

After wrapping up the call with his mother and agent, Shane spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing around the house, patiently waiting for the sound of the front door opening. He made himself a cup of decaf tea, read a few pages of a book, and mentally prepared for the evening's performance.

Around four in the afternoon, familiar footsteps echoed down the foyer. Ilya walked in, carrying his gear bag, looking flushed and tired from his very first day of grueling training camp drills.

Shane, sitting on the sofa in the living room, launched his performance.

He slumped his shoulders, let his lower lip tremble, and squeezed out a few hot, genuine tears, letting them track down his freckled cheeks. He sniffled, wiping his nose with the cuff of his oversized Boston Bears cardigan.

The moment Ilya rounded the corner and saw his husband crying, his fatigue vanished. The Alpha dropped his heavy hockey bag to the hardwood floor with a loud thud, his blue eyes widening with instant concern as he rushed across the room.

“Shanya?” Ilya called out, his accent thick and panicked. He dropped to his knees right in front of the couch, reaching out to cup Shane’s face in his large, warm palms. “Shanya, what is wrong? Are you hurt? Are you sick? What happened?”

Shane sniffled again, leaning into Ilya’s touch, looking down at his husband through a curtain of dark lashes.

“I’m so sorry, Ilya,” Shane whimpered softly, letting another tear spill over. “I know we talked about children… I know we wanted to have a few years just for ourselves to travel and focus on our careers… but… I got pregnant. I’m so sorry, Ilya.”

Ilya froze.

For a fraction of a second, his brain processed the words. Then, right underneath his concern, Ilya’s expression shifted. The panic melted away, replaced by a dark, deeply satisfied smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. A triumphant spark ignited in his blue eyes as he pulled Shane down into a tight, possessive hug, hiding his face in the crook of Shane’s neck.

Ilya thought he was being subtle. He thought he was playing the devoted, comforting husband while secretly celebrating the success of his wicked little scheme.

Buried against Ilya’s shoulder, Shane let his tears dry up instantly. His own mouth curved into a dark, secret smile as he wrapped his arms tightly around his husband’s broad back, gently stroking the base of Ilya’s neck.

Oh, buddy, Shane thought to himself, feeling the deep vibration of Ilya’s chest as the Alpha let out a long, contented sigh. You really think you’re the one in control here.

Shane pressed a soft kiss to Ilya’s cheek, running a hand through his husband’s messy blonde hair. Ilya was so proud of himself, so convinced that he had trapped his Omega forever with his clever manipulation. He had no idea that Shane had welcomed every single move, steering Ilya’s possessiveness to get exactly what he wanted: a precious pup on the way, and Ilya Rozanov bound to his side for the rest of his life.

“It is okay, Shanya,” Ilya murmured softly into his hair, his tone rich with smug satisfaction. “Do not be sorry. We will take care of this pup together. Everything is perfect.”

“Yeah,” Shane whispered back, his smile widening against Ilya’s skin. “Everything is perfect.”

Chapter 6: @ilyahollander-rozanov81

Vogue

“I Used to Want to Disappear”: Shane Hollander on Body Image, Anxiety, and Learning to Belong to Himself

By Sarah Jenkins

It takes a specific kind of courage to stand in front of millions of people with your guard completely down.

We are accustomed to seeing Shane Hollander framed by razor-sharp runway lighting or draped in high fashion. On a towering billboard in Copley Square, he is breathtaking, possessing the kind of classical beauty that can make entire crowds of busy commuters stop in their tracks. His dark hair falls loosely across his forehead, freckles scattered across his cheek and nose, his expression composed beneath the unforgiving gaze of a camera.

To the world, Shane Hollander looks completely at ease inside his own skin.

That was not always true.

And, perhaps surprisingly, his struggle with body image did not begin in fashion.

It began years earlier, in a hockey locker room.

Long before Hollander became a global model, before designers competed to dress him and photographers learned exactly how to capture his face, he was a junior hockey player trying to survive in a sport that had never been particularly welcoming to Omegas.

Hockey prides itself on toughness. Its culture has historically celebrated physical aggression, endurance and an almost theatrical resistance to vulnerability. For an Omega trying to establish himself in that environment, Hollander found that the expectations could become suffocating.

He was constantly conscious of being different.

The locker room was where that awareness became most acute.

What began as discomfort gradually became anxiety. The pressure to fit into a culture that often treated Omega traits as weakness left Hollander increasingly afraid of being judged, ridiculed or exposed. He began obsessing over his body and the ways it differed from what he believed a hockey player was supposed to look like.

Eventually, the anxiety became physical.

Hollander began experiencing panic attacks in the locker room.

Sometimes he could feel one coming before practice. His heart would race and his breathing would become shallow, as the noise around him seemed to grow louder while simultaneously feeling impossibly far away. The place that was supposed to be a second home became somewhere he dreaded entering.

It was one of those episodes that finally forced him to seek help.

A therapist became the first person to tell Hollander something he had struggled to believe: there was nothing shameful about needing help.

The therapist also recognized that the problem was bigger than hockey.

Hollander was struggling with anxiety, confidence and a growing inability to see his own body without criticism. Medication was introduced as part of his treatment, helping stabilize the anxiety that had become increasingly difficult to manage on his own.

But his therapist also suggested something unexpected.

Modeling classes.

At first, the idea seemed almost absurd. Hollander was a hockey player. Modeling appeared to belong to an entirely different universe. But the recommendation was not really about fashion.

It was about confidence.

His therapist wanted him to learn how to occupy a room without apologizing for being there. Modeling classes offered a strange but useful form of exposure. He had to stand in front of people. He had to make eye contact. He had to learn posture and movement. He had to become comfortable being watched.

Most importantly, he had to learn that being seen did not automatically mean being judged.

One of his early instructors gave him advice that stayed with him for years.

Confidence, the instructor told him, was not something you were born with.

It was a muscle.

You fake it. You practice it. You put your shoulders back even when you're terrified. Eventually, the fake confidence becomes real.

For Hollander, those classes became part of the process of rebuilding himself.

And then something unexpected happened.

He was good at modeling.

Very good.

What began as a therapeutic exercise eventually became a career.

The cameras that initially intimidated him became familiar. Runways became places where he could control his movement, his posture and his presence. Fashion offered him something hockey had rarely given him: an environment in which the qualities he had once considered weaknesses could become strengths.

His softness was no longer something he needed to conceal.

His appearance was no longer something he needed to apologize for.

Being an Omega was no longer simply a difference he had to overcome.

It was part of what made him distinctive.

But becoming a professional model did not magically cure his relationship with his body.

If anything, it introduced an entirely new set of pressures.

The modeling industry is built around scrutiny. Measurements matter. Photographs matter. Clothing has to fall correctly. Designers have specific silhouettes in mind. A model can be celebrated one season and told that his body is wrong for the next.

For Hollander, those pressures collided with insecurities that had already existed for years.

The difference was that now millions of people were looking.

The body he had once scrutinized privately became part of his profession.

He found himself obsessing over photographs, comparing his appearance from one campaign to another and worrying about whether he still fit the physical ideal expected of him. The pressure was different from hockey, but the underlying fear was familiar.

Am I enough?

Hollander's success only intensified the contradiction. The more campaigns he booked, the more people told him how perfect he looked. The more perfect people told him he looked, the more terrified he became of no longer looking that way.

There were days when stepping onto a runway still required tremendous psychological effort.

There were backstage moments when old anxiety returned.

But this time, Hollander was not facing it alone.

He continued therapy.

He continued taking the medication that had helped stabilize his anxiety.

And he became increasingly willing to speak openly about both.

That openness matters because medication still carries an enormous stigma, particularly in elite professional environments where athletes and models are often expected to present themselves as endlessly resilient.

There is a persistent misconception that needing psychiatric medication means someone is weak, unstable or incapable of handling pressure.

Hollander wants that idea challenged.

Taking medication did not make him less strong.

It helped him function.

Therapy did not make him less independent.

It taught him how to understand himself.

And asking for help did not end his career.

It helped him build one.

"People treat medication like it's something you should be embarrassed about," Hollander says. "I don't think we should be doing that anymore."

His point extends beyond his own experience.

For young people entering fashion, particularly Omegas who already face intense scrutiny over their bodies and presentation, the idea that mental-health treatment is somehow incompatible with ambition can be profoundly damaging.

Hollander knows that because he once believed it himself.

He thought admitting that he was struggling meant he was failing. Now he sees it differently. Strength, he has learned, is not the absence of fear. It is knowing what to do when fear arrives.

That lesson has followed him through every stage of his career.

The young hockey player who once experienced panic attacks in a locker room became a student of modeling because a therapist wanted him to learn confidence. The student became a professional model. The professional model became a global fashion icon.

And at every stage, the work continued.

There was no single moment when Hollander suddenly became comfortable in his body.

There were no magical words that erased years of insecurity.

There was therapy.

There was medication.

There were difficult conversations.

There were bad days.

There were moments when the old voice returned and told him he wasn't thin enough, handsome enough, masculine enough, Omega enough, or good enough.

The difference now is that he knows the voice is not telling the truth.

Today, Hollander is a global fashion icon and a happily married man preparing to start a family of his own. He has become the kind of model who can walk into a room and command attention without appearing to ask for it.

The irony is almost impossible to miss.

The boy who once wanted to disappear now occupies enormous amounts of space.

His face fills billboards.

His image appears on magazine covers.

Photographers build campaigns around him.

Millions of people look at him and see confidence.

But perhaps the most important part of his story is that Hollander no longer needs them to. When asked about his legacy, he does not talk about designer contracts, campaigns or magazine covers.

He talks about future Omegas who feel uncomfortable in their own body.

The teenager who thinks anxiety means weakness.

The aspiring model who believes taking medication will make people think less of them.

The young athlete sitting alone in a locker room, wondering why everyone else seems to know how to belong.

Hollander knows that feeling.

He remembers being that boy.

"If a fifteen-year-old who feels completely wrong in their own skin reads this and realizes they don't have to shrink themselves to fit into someone else's idea of perfection," he says, "then every hard conversation is worth it."

There is something fitting about that being the message from a man whose career was built around being seen.

Shane Hollander spent years believing that the solution was to become less noticeable.

Less vulnerable.

Less different.

Less himself.

He eventually learned that confidence was not becoming someone else.

It was becoming comfortable enough to remain himself while everyone was watching.

To belong in a locker room.

To belong on a runway.

To belong in his own body.

And, finally, to understand that none of those things required him to disappear first.

Comments:

@VogueReader

The fact that the body-image issues started in hockey completely changes how I read his story.

I assumed fashion had created the insecurity because that's where everyone talks about his appearance.

But it started much earlier.

 

@HockeyAndFashion

Exactly.

The fashion industry didn't create the original wound. It gave him a completely different environment in which that wound could show up.

 

@VogueReader

That's such an important distinction.

 

@OmegaModelNetwork

The locker-room panic attacks are heartbreaking.

People talk about Omega athletes "breaking barriers" like it's just a matter of working hard enough.

Imagine being a teenager and constantly feeling like your entire body is evidence that you don't belong.

 

@RunwayArchives

And then his therapist recommends modeling classes.

I genuinely love that part of the story.

It wasn't initially about becoming famous.

It was basically confidence training.

 

@ModelStudent

Which is honestly brilliant.

Learning posture, eye contact, walking into a room, being watched without immediately panicking...

Those are confidence exercises disguised as modeling.

 

@FashionPsychology

This is probably my favorite part of the article.

People assume confidence is something models naturally possess because they're beautiful.

No.

Sometimes a model is literally learning how to stand upright while their brain is screaming at them to hide.

 

@OttawaHockey

As someone from Ottawa, I remember when Shane was playing junior.

Nobody would have predicted that the awkward Omega hockey kid would eventually become one of the biggest names in fashion.

 

@CanadianRunway

"Awkward Omega hockey kid" becoming a global fashion icon is an incredible character arc.

 

@OttawaHockey

He would probably hate that description. 😂

Anyway, it is a pity he did not remain in the sport, because he was a great hockey player and the NHL lost a future star because of not being more inclusive.

 

@OmegaYouth

The part about hockey culture is important.

I love hockey.

I also hated being in hockey locker rooms.

Both things can be true.

 

@PuckAndPride

YES.

You can love the sport and still recognize that certain cultures within it can be incredibly hostile.

 

@RunwayWeekly

"The question had simply changed its clothes."

That line.

👏

 

@HighFashionDigest

The fashion industry needs to have a very uncomfortable conversation about this.

Because even when someone enters modeling after already having body-image issues, the industry can reinforce those issues very quickly.

The constant measurements.

The castings.

The fittings.

The photographs.

The comparison.

The rejection.

People underestimate what that does to someone.

 

@ModelOmega23

As a young male Omega model, this article is making me feel incredibly seen.

Especially the part about being told contradictory things.

Too soft.

Too masculine.

Too thin.

Not thin enough.

Too Omega.

Not Omega enough.

Eventually you don't know what you're supposed to look like anymore.

 

@OmegaFashionNet

Exactly.

The standard is often impossible because it's designed to keep moving.

 

@MedicationIsTreatment

Thank you for mentioning the medication stigma.

Seriously.

Medication isn't a moral failure.

It's healthcare.

I wish more public figures would say that plainly.

 

@FashionPsychology

Especially people in industries where performance is everything.

Athletes accept physical treatment without questioning whether they're "strong enough."

Mental-health treatment should be viewed the same way.

 

@RunwayRookie

I've been backstage at major shows.

The public has absolutely no idea how many people are silently falling apart behind those curtains.

Models disappear into bathrooms.

People have panic attacks.

People cry.

Then five minutes later the music starts and everyone walks out looking flawless.

 

@VogueObsessed

That completely changes the way I'll look at runway footage now.

The audience sees ten minutes.

The model may have spent the previous hour trying to convince themselves they can breathe.

 

@HollanderArchive

One of the things I admire about Shane is that he never pretends recovery was one dramatic breakthrough.

It's therapy.

It's medication.

It's learning.

It's having bad days and continuing anyway.

That feels much more honest.

 

@OmegaFashionNet

"Taking medication did not make him less strong. It helped him function."

Can we please put that sentence on every modeling-school bulletin board?

 

@YoungModel17

I'm seventeen and trying to get into modeling.

I've been scared to talk to anyone about anxiety because I thought agencies wouldn't want someone who needed medication.

This article honestly changed my mind about getting help.

 

@ModelingMentor

Please get help.

Your mental health is more important than any casting.

And the right agency will understand that.

 

@FashionDad

As the father of a teenage Omega who wants to model, this article is going straight into my daughter's reading list.

The biggest thing I want her to understand is that she doesn't have to earn the right to eat, rest or ask for help.

 

@CatwalkGirl

The fashion industry really needs to stop romanticizing suffering.

Being miserable does not make you more beautiful.

Being hungry does not make you more disciplined.

Being terrified does not make you more professional.

 

@VogueReader

Thank you.

I feel like this is the conversation fashion has avoided for decades.

 

@IlyaRozanovFans_RU

Ilya reading this article about his husband and realizing Shane went from panic attacks in a hockey locker room to international runways...

I would simply be sitting there like: "That's my husband."

😭❤️

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Imagine knowing the person you love survived all of that and still became this unbelievably confident person.

 

@IlyaRozanovFans_RU

Exactly.

 

@HockeyOmega

The hockey part hit me harder than the modeling part.

Because people don't realize how young you are when you're playing junior hockey.

You're still figuring out who you are.

And you're doing it in a locker room where you're constantly being told what a "real" hockey player is supposed to be.

 

@PrideOnTheRunway

I love that his therapist didn't tell him to stop being sensitive.

They taught him how to become comfortable being seen.

That's such an important difference.

 

@FashionStudent

"Being seen did not automatically mean being judged."

I need that printed on my bedroom wall.             

 

@RunwayWeekly

Same.

 

@CanadianFashion

Ottawa really said: Let's produce an elite hockey player who hates the hockey locker room, send him to modeling classes, and accidentally create an international fashion icon 😂

 

@OttawaBorn

Honestly, that's exactly how it feels.

 

@BodyNeutrality

I also appreciate that he doesn't say he woke up one day and suddenly loved his body.

That's not realistic for everyone.

Sometimes recovery is simply getting to the point where your body isn't your enemy anymore.

 

@MentalHealthFashion

YES.

Body neutrality is often a much more realistic goal than forcing yourself to think you're beautiful every second of the day.

 

@VogueFashion

The evolution is fascinating.

Hockey taught him that his body was something people could judge.

Modeling initially taught him that his body could be powerful and beautiful.

Then modeling itself taught him that even beauty can become another form of pressure.

And therapy helped him separate his worth from both.

 

@FashionHistorian

This is exactly it.

Neither hockey nor fashion gets to determine his value anymore.

 

@OmegaModelNetwork

The line about the question changing clothes is going to stay with me.

The insecurity stayed.

The environment changed.

The work was learning where that insecurity came from instead of letting every new environment define it.

 

@BackstagePass

This is such an important distinction.

If someone has existing body-image issues, changing careers doesn't automatically cure them.

Sometimes the new career just gives the anxiety new material.

 

@VogueReader

"New material" is painfully accurate.

 

@LuxuryFashionFan

The funniest thing about all of this is that the world looks at Shane and sees someone who could not possibly be insecure.

Which proves how little appearance tells you about what's happening inside someone's head.

 

@CopleySquareCommuter

I walk past his Copley Square billboard every morning.

I've always thought he looked incredibly confident.

Now I'm thinking about the teenage boy who couldn't breathe in a hockey locker room.

That's going to stay with me.

 

@FashionTherapist

As a therapist who works with young people in performance industries, I am thrilled to see someone with Shane's platform talk about treatment without shame.

Therapy isn't a sign that your career is failing.

Medication isn't a sign that you're weak.

And anxiety isn't a character flaw.

 

@MedicationIsTreatment

Thank you for saying this.

 

@RunwayRookie

I hope young models read this and understand that they don't have to choose between ambition and mental health.

You can want the career.

You can work incredibly hard.

And you can still need help.

 

@GlobalFashionFan

There is something incredibly powerful about the fact that his therapist essentially taught him how to model because they wanted him to learn how to be confident.

And then he actually became one.

 

@VogueObsessed

Therapy accidentally launched a supermodel 😂

 

@RunwayArchives

The most unexpectedly successful homework assignment ever.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

THERAPIST: "Take some modeling classes."

SHANE: "Okay."

THE WORLD: "Wait, he's REALLY good at this."

😂

 

@FashionPsychology

Jokes aside, it really does illustrate how therapeutic exposure can work.

He was given an environment where being observed was the exercise rather than the threat.

 

@YoungOmegaNetwork

I'm glad this article doesn't pretend the medication "fixed" him either.

It helped stabilize him.

Therapy helped him understand himself.

He did the rest.

That's a much healthier message.

 

@VogueReader

Exactly.

Treatment gave him tools.

It didn't erase his personality or magically remove every difficult feeling.

 

@IlyaRozanovFans_RU

Also, I am once again asking everyone to imagine Ilya watching Shane walk into a room now knowing what it took for him to become comfortable doing that😭

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Stop making me emotional in the Vogue comments.

 

@CanadianFan24

Ottawa produced a man who went from hiding in hockey locker rooms to being photographed by the entire world.

I'm incredibly proud of him 🇨🇦❤️

 

@FashionMom

I hope the fifteen-year-olds reading this understand something:

You don't need to become Shane Hollander.

You don't need to become a model.

You don't need to become famous.

You just need to believe that you deserve to exist exactly as loudly as everyone else.

 

@VogueReader

Beautifully said.

 

@ModelingMentor

This is the message I hope survives beyond the article.

The goal isn't perfection.

The goal isn't loving every photograph.

The goal isn't becoming fearless.

The goal is being able to live your life without constantly trying to disappear.

 

@GlobalVogue_Fan

The boy who wanted to disappear is now one of the most recognizable faces in fashion.

But the real victory isn't that the world sees him.

It's that he can finally see himself ❤️

---

The Athletic

Lord Stanley Comes to Boston: How Ilya Rozanov Built a Championship Team and Rewrote the Meaning of Leadership

By Fluto Shinzawa

The silver chalice was already gleaming beneath the Garden lights before the final horn sounded.

Boston had waited for over a decade, and then, with 4.2 seconds remaining in Game 6, the waiting ended.

The Boston Bears had won the Stanley Cup.

Gloves flew onto the ice. Sticks were abandoned along the boards. Players crashed into one another in a mass of black and gold, some screaming, some laughing, others standing with their hands over their faces as the reality settled in.

At the center of it stood the youngest captain in this franchise history.

Ilya Rozanov.

For a moment, the 23-year-old Russian center did not move. He looked toward the scoreboard, then at the Cup, before raising both arms toward the rafters as TD Garden erupted around him. The captain once considered too young to carry the franchise, had just carried it all the way to the Stanley Cup.

Earlier this season, when Boston placed the captain's “C” on Rozanov's jersey, the decision was met with skepticism. His talent had never been in question. He was already one of the NHL's most gifted young centers, combining physical strength, offensive instincts and an unusual understanding of the game.

The uncertainty concerned leadership.

Boston is not an easy market in which to learn how to be a captain. The Bears are an Original Six franchise with a demanding fan base and a history that weighs on every player who wears the jersey. Their captains are expected not only to perform, but to represent the identity of the team.

Rozanov was 23 when he was given that responsibility. He was also Russian, an Alpha and still relatively new to the intensity of an Original Six spotlight. Critics wondered whether he was too young, too emotional or too aggressive to command a veteran locker room.

Now, those concerns have been answered.

Rozanov did not become captain by trying to imitate an older player. He earned the role by making his own qualities impossible to overlook. His physicality is controlled rather than reckless, his intensity is matched by discipline, and his greatest advantage remains the ability to recognize what is about to happen before anyone else on the ice sees it.

That hockey IQ shaped Boston's playoff run.

Rozanov led all postseason skaters in scoring while drawing the opposition's most difficult defensive assignments. He played in every situation, taking shifts on the power play and penalty kill and returning to the ice whenever Boston needed to change the momentum of a game. His average of roughly 26 minutes per night reflected the trust placed in him, but the workload alone does not explain his influence.

Rozanov's game is built around control. He identifies where open ice will appear, understands when a hit can alter the structure of a possession and uses defenders' expectations against them. When the middle of the ice was closed during the playoffs, he moved the puck through the wall. When defenders collapsed toward him, he found the open teammate. When Boston needed to protect a lead, he became nearly impossible to separate from the puck.

That versatility allowed the Bears to rely on him without making their attack predictable. Opponents could try to contain his scoring, but doing so often created opportunities elsewhere. If they gave him space, he attacked. If they crowded him, he moved the puck. If they tried to wear him down physically, he turned those battles into extended possessions.

Then came Game 7.

Boston entered the night with a chance to end a decade of frustration, and Rozanov played as though the pressure belonged to someone else. He opened the scoring with a one-timer in the first period, beating the goaltender before the defense could rotate into position. Later, with the game tied, he helped create the decisive goal by drawing multiple defenders toward him and finding the space that allowed Boston to take the lead.

The defining moment came in the final minutes.

With the opposition pressing during a late power play, Rozanov threw himself into the play, absorbing contact and disrupting the possession before Boston cleared the puck. It was not the prettiest moment of the night, but it may have been the most important.

“That's Rozanov,” Coach LeClaire said afterward. “He doesn't understand the concept of asking somebody else to do something he's not willing to do himself.”

LeClaire paused before continuing. “When the captain is the guy throwing his body into a play with the Cup sitting four minutes away, everyone else believes they can do anything.”

That has become the foundation of Rozanov's leadership. He does not rely on speeches or theatrics, and he has never seemed interested in reminding the room that he is its most important player. Instead, he establishes the standard through repetition: arriving early, staying late, accepting difficult matchups and taking responsibility when the game becomes uncomfortable.

That approach has given him authority without requiring him to manufacture it. Veterans follow him because they trust his judgment. Younger players follow him because they see the level of commitment expected from them. The coaching staff relies on him because he understands not only what Boston is trying to do, but why.

This championship also carries the weight of what came before it.

Earlier this year, Rozanov was still answering questions about the disappointment of the Sochi Olympics. The loss followed him into the postseason, visible in the way he spoke about international hockey and in the way he approached his return to Boston. Rather than allowing the result to diminish him, he used it as motivation.

The player who came back was sharper, more disciplined and more complete. He had always been physically imposing. Now he was tactically devastating as well.

That evolution is why this championship feels less like an arrival than a confirmation. Boston did not win because its captain suddenly became a superstar. It won because its superstar learned how to make the entire team better.

There is a difference between being the best player on a team and being the player around whom a championship team can be built. Rozanov crossed that line during these playoffs.

For Boston, he now represents both the present and the future. The NHL has increasingly placed greater responsibility on younger players, while speed, analytics, international scouting and development have reshaped how contenders are assembled. Rozanov embodies that shift: an international star who has moved from Moscow to Boston and become the central figure in the franchise's next era.

His postgame reaction, however, was a big surprise, as he made his way through the celebration toward the people waiting for him. Among them was Shane Hollander. For most of the hockey world, his presence beside Rozanov was almost as surprising as the championship itself.

Hollander is one of the most recognizable faces in international fashion, a global model whose career has taken him from major runways to magazine covers and campaigns around the world. Rozanov, meanwhile, has spent his professional life almost entirely within the hockey world. Their careers rarely overlap publicly, and neither man had ever given fans much reason to believe they knew one another.

Until that night.

During the celebration, cameras caught Rozanov and Hollander sharing a kiss.

Within minutes, the footage was everywhere.

The inevitable question came afterward: Was this new?

Rozanov laughed when a reporter asked.

“No,” he said. “We’ve been together for three years.”

Three years.

That revelation may have been almost as shocking to the public as the Cup itself.

For three years, the two had apparently maintained a relationship almost entirely outside the public eye. There had been no carefully staged red-carpet appearances, no public declarations and no obvious attempt to turn their relationship into good PR.

Their careers simply demanded that they become very good at finding time wherever they could.

Hollander's modeling career regularly takes him across countries and continents for campaigns, fittings, runway seasons and photo shoots. Rozanov's NHL career does much the same in a different way, with an eighty-two-game schedule, road trips and the constant demands placed upon a professional athlete.

They spent as much time together as their schedules allowed, which was used to explain how nobody caught on to the budding relationship.

Anyway, the Hollander-Rozanov era began.

And after the way it started, the rest of the NHL and fashion industry should be paying attention.

Comments:

@BearsPuck617

WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR OVER A DECADE!

And the youngest captain in franchise history is the one who finally bring the Cup back home.

I am never emotionally recovering from this.

 

@BearsPuck617

WAIT.

WAIT WAIT WAIT.

I came here to read about Ilya Rozanov winning the Stanley Cup and instead I just found out he's been dating SHANE HOLLANDER FOR THREE YEARS???

THREE YEARS???

HOW DID WE NOT KNOW THEY EVEN KNEW EACH OTHER???

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

THE KISS.

THE FUCKING KISS.

I was watching the championship celebration and suddenly Shane Hollander is kissing Ilya Rozanov on live television.

I genuinely thought I was hallucinating.

 

@HockeyHistory

For those who somehow missed the postgame interview:

Reporter: “Is this new?”

Ilya: laughs

“No. We’ve been dating for three years.”

YOU FUCKING TROLL!

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING!

 

@BearsNation

I need everyone to understand something.

I follow Ilya's career extremely closely.

I have never once heard him mention Shane Hollander.

Not once.

 

@FashionWeekly

I follow Shane's modeling career extremely closely too.

Same.

I have never seen anything that made me think these two even knew each other.

This is insane.

 

@BostonHockeyTalk

The craziest part isn't even that they're together.

It's that they're apparently GOOD at keeping things private.

Three years is an absurd amount of time.

 

@HighFashionDigest

Shane has spent years traveling internationally for modeling.

Runways, campaigns, fittings, editorials, fashion weeks.

Apparently somewhere in between all of that, he was also dating the captain of the Boston Bears.

And nobody knew.

 

@HockeyNerd

Meanwhile Ilya has spent three years traveling around North America for hockey.

They apparently just met wherever their schedules allowed and kept the relationship to themselves.

Honestly?

That's kind of impressive.

 

@BearsPuck617

I'm still processing the fact that Shane Hollander has apparently been sitting somewhere watching Boston Bears games because HIS BOYFRIEND IS THE CAPTAIN.

 

@FashionArchivist

And I am processing the fact that Ilya Rozanov has apparently been watching fashion campaigns and runway footage because HIS BOYFRIEND IS SHANE HOLLANDER.

HOW DID THIS NOT LEAK???

 

@SportsMediaWatch

This is one of the stranger celebrity relationship reveals I've ever seen.

Both men are extremely recognizable within their respective industries.

Yet there appears to have been almost no public crossover.

 

@BostonSportsRadio

We have reporters who know what hockey players had for breakfast.

Apparently, nobody knew our captain had been dating one of the biggest male models in the world for three years.

I may need to resign.

 

@HockeyWorld

I keep seeing people asking why nobody knew.

The answer is quite simple.

Because they were private.

That's it.

Not every relationship has to be announced.

 

@PuckDrop

Exactly.                 

They weren't hiding each other.

They were apparently just protecting the relationship from the public.

There's a difference.

 

@BearsForever

Okay but Ilya saying “three years” with a LAUGH is killing me.

SIR.

YOU CANNOT DROP THAT INFORMATION LIKE YOU'RE SAYING WHAT YOU HAD FOR LUNCH.

 

@BostonBorn

Reporter: “Is this new?”

Ilya: “No, we’ve been dating for three years.”

Everyone watching at home:

“EXCUSE ME????”

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

He looked so amused by the question too.

Like this was completely normal information.

Meanwhile the entire internet had stopped functioning.

 

@HockeyInsider

There are going to be a LOT of people going through old photographs tonight trying to figure out where these two have been together.

 

@FashionDetective

Already started.

I have learned absolutely nothing.

These two are apparently ghosts.

 

@HollanderFashionFan

I've followed Shane for years.

I've seen him photographed leaving airports.

I've seen him at fashion weeks.

I've seen him backstage at shows.

I've seen him at campaigns all over the world.

Apparently, I never saw Ilya standing ten feet away.

 

@BearsFanTillIDie

I've followed Ilya for years.

I've seen him photographed at airports.

At charity events.

At team functions.

Apparently, Shane could have been standing beside him, and I'd have assumed he was just some model.

Oh wait.

 

@HockeyMom24

The fact that they managed this for three years while both having careers that put them in front of cameras constantly is honestly remarkable.

 

@StyleOverSubstance

Shane's entire profession is literally being photographed.

Ilya's entire profession involves sports media following him around.

And somehow, they still managed to keep their relationship private.

Respect.

 

@SportsCenter

Tonight's two biggest Boston revelations:

1. The Bears won the Stanley Cup.
2. Ilya Rozanov has apparently been dating model Shane Hollander for three years.

One of these was expected.

The other absolutely was not.

 

@BearsNation

I genuinely thought Shane was there because he's famous and was watching the celebration.

I DID NOT REALIZE HE WAS THERE BECAUSE HIS BOYFRIEND JUST WON THE STANLEY CUP.

 

@FashionWeekly

Same.

I thought:

“Oh, Shane is at the game.”

Not:

“Oh, Shane is at the game because the man kissing him is his boyfriend of THREE YEARS.”

 

@BostonSports624

This is the most spectacularly casual relationship reveal imaginable.

No announcement.

No magazine cover.

No Instagram post.

Just:

kisses boyfriend

“Yeah, we've been together for three years.”

Goodnight, everyone.

 

@HockeyHistory

And apparently, they simply spent as much time together as they could.

Which makes sense.

Their careers are both incredibly demanding and involve constant travel.

There probably wasn't much reason to invite the entire world into it.

 

@FashionInsider

Exactly.

Modeling isn't just walking a runway.

There are fittings, campaigns, shoots, travel, castings, events and weeks spent in different countries.

If Shane and Ilya wanted private time together, they probably had to actively make it happen.

 

@HockeyTactics

I am fascinated by the logistics.

Ilya has an NHL schedule.

Shane has an international modeling schedule.

And somehow, they found three years' worth of time together.

 

@BearsForever

Forget hockey analytics.

I want the scheduling algorithm.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Someone calculate how many airports these two have probably met in.

 

@CanadianFashionFan

As a Shane fan, I am simultaneously shocked and deeply impressed.

We really knew NOTHING.

 

@RussianHockeyVibe

As an Ilya fan:

WE KNEW NOTHING.

Apparently, our captain has been dating a world-famous model for three years.

Three.

Years.

🇷🇺😭

 

@MoscowHockey

Ilya's private life has always been private.

But THIS?

This is next-level.

 

@FashionDaily

Shane Hollander's fans are currently discovering that the mysterious man in his life was apparently Ilya Rozanov.

I cannot stress enough how unexpected this is.

 

@BearsPuck617

“Mysterious man in his life” is killing me.

We didn't even know there WAS a man.

 

@FashionWeekly

Exactly.

There wasn't even a rumor.

That's the impressive part.

 

@HockeyInsider

I've been covering the Bears for years.

I have never even heard Rozanov mention Hollander socially.

I've never seen them publicly photographed together.

I've never heard a teammate casually reference him.

Nothing.

 

@SportsJournalist

Same from the fashion side.

No obvious connection.

No public appearances.

No social-media breadcrumbs.

No interviews where either casually mentioned the other.

It's almost textbook privacy.

 

@PuckAndPride

And honestly, I hope people leave it there.

The surprise is fun.

The fact that they kept it private for three years is fascinating.

But they clearly chose not to make their relationship public until they were ready.

 

@BearsFanTillIDie

Agreed.

I'm absolutely going to scream about the three years.

But I'm not entitled to know what happened during those three years.

 

@HollanderFanClub

ATTENTION:

THE HOLLANDER FAN CLUB HAS DISCOVERED THAT SHANE HAS HAD A SECRET BOYFRIEND FOR THREE YEARS.

WE HAVE NO FURTHER INFORMATION.

OUR INTELLIGENCE NETWORK HAS FAILED.

🫡

 

@Omega4Life

Three years of investigation and apparently the answer was Ilya Rozanov.

I quit.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

THE ROZZY GIRLS ALSO FAILED.

WE WERE NOT PREPARED.

 

@OmegasRock

Joint intelligence failure between the Hollander Fan Club and Rozzy Girls.

We will never recover from this.

 

@BostonFashionGirl

Can we talk about how absolutely ridiculous they look together?

They are like the perfect couple.

 

@HockeyFan88

The new power couple of Boston.

 

@BearsNation

The fact that this came out during a Stanley Cup celebration is also hilarious.

They could have announced it literally any other way.

Instead:

Boston wins Cup.

Ilya kisses Shane.

Ilya casually reveals three-year relationship.

Internet explodes.

 

@SportsRadioMike

I have covered championship celebrations for years.

This is a first.

 

@BostonSportsTalk

The postgame press conference is going to be useless.

Every reporter has now mentally deleted every hockey question.

 

@HockeyReporter

For the record, I still asked him about the game first.

He answered.

Then someone asked about Shane.

And apparently that was the end of civilization.

 

@BearsForever

Priorities.

 

@HockeyHistory

Jokes aside, the relationship actually makes the timing of the reveal strangely fitting.

The Cup is one of the biggest moments of Ilya's life.

He was celebrating with the people closest to him.

Shane happened to be one of those people.

The camera caught a private moment that suddenly became public.

 

@FashionWeekly

And I think that's why the reaction has been so intense.

Nobody was expecting a carefully managed celebrity announcement.

We accidentally saw something real.

 

@HockeyWorld

Exactly.

It wasn't a press release.

It wasn't a campaign.

It was a kiss during a championship celebration.

 

@BostonBorn

Which makes the whole thing feel even more like:

“Oh.

So THAT'S why Shane was standing there.”

 

@BearsPuck617

I am going to need approximately six business days to process this.

 

@FashionFan24

Take your time.

I'm still processing it too.

 

@HockeyMom24

Congratulations to Ilya and the Bears.

And apparently congratulations to Shane too 😂

 

@BearsForever

Three years.

I keep coming back to three years.

 

@SportsCenter

The Boston Bears have their first Stanley Cup a decade.

Their captain is the youngest in franchise history to lift it.

And, completely unexpectedly, the hockey world has discovered that Ilya Rozanov has been quietly dating global model Shane Hollander for three years.

Some nights really do contain everything.

 

@BearsPuck617

What a fucking night 🐻🏆

---

@YSL

Some walk the runway.

Others command it.

Introducing Shane Hollander for Saint Laurent Menswear Winter.

Untouchable Elegance. Defined by Saint Laurent.

#YSL #SaintLaurent #ShaneHollander

[video]

The video opens in the towering dome of the Bourse de Commerce is dimly lit from above, the polished black lacquer runway stretching out like a mirror. The space is completely silent except for the low, ambient bassline pulsing through the venue. A solitary silhouette appears beneath the grand stone archway.

Shane Hollander steps onto the floor.

The camera captures the fluid movement of a floor-sweeping midnight silk-wool coat—broad, exaggerated shoulders giving him an armored profile while the tailored waist accentuates his lean frame. Underneath, a plunging silk blouse rests unbuttoned against bare skin.

The tempo of the music swells.

The camera transitions to sharp, rhythmic cuts following every step. High-waisted fluid trousers pool precisely over patent leather boots, clicking with absolute authority against the glossy runway. Overhead spotlights catch his jawline, while flashes erupt continuously around the front row. Hollander’s expression remains completely cool and unfazed, his brown eyes locked straight ahead.

A rapid sequence of close-ups highlights Vaccarello’s tailoring in motion.

The silk coat catches the air behind him like a cape. The camera tracks the subtle contrast of his ethereal features against the raw, structured power of the garment—the delicate movement of the fabric against bare skin paired with an unshakeable, commanding posture.

He reaches the mark at the edge of the runway.

The camera zooms in tight as Hollander holds the turn for a fraction of a second, casting a piercing, effortless look directly into the primary lens. The flashbulbs peak in a blinding strobe before he turns sharply, sweeping back down the aisle as the coat flares behind him.

The frame cuts to black.

Tailored Perfection.

Comments:

@voguefashions

Ethereal.

Absolutely took over Paris. 🔥

 

@menswearweekly

That coat on Shane is a historical moment. 🖤

 

@HighFashionDigest

The silhouette, the structure, the stride. Anthony Vaccarello and Shane Hollander are a match made in runway heaven.

Absolute perfection. 🔥

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

I HAVE BEEN STARING AT THIS FOR TEN MINUTES STRAIGHT.

The unbuttoned silk shirt?! The cheekbones?! Shane Hollander you will pay for my medical bills 😭🖤

 

@ilyahollander-rozanov81

🖤

 

@ShaneAndIlyaUpdates

NOT ILYA DROPPING A BLACK HEART IN THE COMMENTS SECONDS AFTER IT WAS POSTED 😭

HE IS HIS NUMBER ONE FAN!

 

@VogueRunway

Unapologetic elegance.

One of the strongest walks Paris has ever seen.

 

@RunwayAddict_NY

Rewatching this as I realize that we won’t be seeing him again on a runway for a long time, at least until the baby arrives is giving me full-blown withdrawal already.

How are we supposed to survive without Shane content?! 💔😭

 

@HauteCoutureDaily

Literally crying at my desk.

We’re so happy for them, but self-care means admitting I’m going to miss his presence on the runway so much.

 

@CopleySquareCommuter

From Montreal billboards to owning Paris.

Shane just operates on another level entirely. 👑

 

@OmegaStyleWatch

He looks so breathtakingly regal.

Enjoying every single second of this video knowing he’s going to be taking a long hiatus for paternity leave soon!

He deserves the rest, but the fashion world is gonna feel empty 🥺✨

 

@HollanderFanClub

Commanding the runway like a total boss. 🫡

Enjoy the maternity leave!

We’ll be waiting whenever you decide to come back.

 

@FashionWithdrawals_Real

I am NOT ready for the drought.

Please tell me, he’ll still post on IG! 😭🙏

 

@ModelScout_Paris

That liquid midnight silk coat movement on the turn was legendary.

Pure artistry.

 

@RozzyAndShaneFanClub

We will be replaying this video until you come back! 🖤🍼       

 

@Vogue_Insider

The industry is going to miss him desperately while he’s away on family leave, but what an absolute showstopper to end this season on.

A legend.

---

@LuluLives

I HAVE OFFICIALLY BECOME THE BIGGEST HOLLANOV FAN ON THIS PLANET AND I BLAME THEM ENTIRELY

Okay.

I need everyone to understand that before Shane and Ilya went public, I was already emotionally invested in these two. Individually that is, but NOW?

I am finished.

Completely finished.

Because apparently these two spent years being painfully private and the second they were allowed to actually exist as a married couple in public they collectively decided: What if we become the most disgustingly domestic people anyone has ever seen?

And because I am weak, I have been documenting it.

I have approximately a million photos saved at this point.

So here is my completely normal and definitely not obsessive chronological collection of Shane and Ilya becoming suburban husbands while waiting for their baby.

[Photo 1]

Shane and Ilya leaving a little café in Boston. Shane is wearing a huge cream sweater, jeans and sunglasses, holding a coffee in one hand while Ilya carries literally everything else. EVERYTHING. Two coffees, a shopping bag, Shane's jacket, his own jacket, and what appears to be a paper bag containing pastries. Shane is looking at him like he's mildly annoyed. Ilya is looking at Shane like he has personally been entrusted with the most fragile object on Earth.

[Photo 2]

They're grocery shopping. Shane is standing beside the cart holding a list, while Ilya is pushing the cart. There is a very obvious argument happening. Shane has that expression where you know he's explaining something very carefully while Ilya has the expression of a man who has already decided he is correct.

The grocery cart contains:

• strawberries
• blueberries
• oranges
• yogurt
• crackers
• bread
• approximately twelve different kinds of cereal
• ginger tea
• whatever the hell "pregnancy cookies" are
• and a stuffed bear

WHY IS THERE A STUFFED BEAR IN THE GROCERY CART?

[Photo 3]

Shane's bump is starting to show. They're walking through Boston; Ilya has his hand on Shane's lower back. Not even in a romantic way. It's that incredibly instinctive protective thing where his hand is just THERE. Shane is talking to someone and Ilya is looking around like he's personally responsible for monitoring every moving object within a fifty-foot radius.

He looks like a security detail.

[Photo 4]

The bump is officially impossible to miss now. Shane is wearing a loose black sweater, and Ilya is standing behind him with both hands resting over Shane's stomach. Shane is laughing, and Ilya looks completely fascinated. There is also a tiny pair of baby socks being held by Shane.

I repeat:

BABY SOCKS.

I am dead.

[Photo 5]

Boston farmers market. Shane is wearing a baseball cap and one of Ilya's enormous jackets. Ilya is holding Shane's hand. Shane is carrying absolutely nothing.

Ilya is carrying:

• two grocery bags
• flowers
• a loaf of bread
• a giant box of something
• and what looks suspiciously like a second bag of pastries

I swear this man has decided his husband is no longer legally allowed to carry objects.

[Photo 6]

They went to a Boston Red Sox game. Shane is heavily pregnant and standing beside the row of seats, one hand braced against the back of a chair while he prepares to sit down. His stomach extends prominently beneath his loose shirt, making it difficult for him to bend or lower himself without support. Ilya is standing directly beside him, facing him with one hand placed beneath Shane's elbow and the other positioned at his lower back. He is guiding Shane down slowly, keeping him steady as he lowers himself into the seat. Shane's feet are already positioned in front of him, with a blanket and pillow arranged on the chair.

I love these two.

I love their baby.

I love protective Ilya.

I love domestic Shane.

I love Boston, apparently watching two international superstars turn into someone's embarrassingly affectionate dads.

That is all.

For now.

Comments:

@rozzygirl88

LULU YOU HAVE AN ENTIRE PREGNANCY PHOTO ARCHIVE 😭

 

@LuluLives

I prefer the term "historical documentation."

 

@BeanTownBears

You have photographs labeled by pregnancy stage.

 

@LuluLives

Historical.

Documentation.

 

@Omega4Life

The grocery cart photo absolutely destroyed me.

Ilya looks like he's been assigned a quest.

PROTECT SHANE AT ALL COSTS.

 

@BostonBorn

The funniest part is that Shane clearly does NOT want to be treated like he's made of porcelain.

He keeps trying to carry his own stuff.

Ilya keeps taking it away.

 

@rozzyfan21

I think Ilya's Alpha instincts have gone completely insane.

 

@BabyWatch2026

Okay, I'm sorry.

But looking at the last photo…

Is anyone else thinking twins?

Because that is a LOT of baby.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

I WAS THINKING TWINS TOO.

👀

 

@TDGarden81

Guys.

Please don't start diagnosing someone's pregnancy from a photograph.

 

@BabyWatch2026

I'm not diagnosing!

I'm speculating!

There is a difference!

😂

 

@LuluLives

For the record, no one should be trying to determine whether someone is carrying twins based solely on how large their stomach looks.

There are MANY reasons someone's bump can look different.

Position of the baby, body structure, gestational age, fluid levels, previous pregnancies, etc.

You cannot look at a photograph and know.

 

@TwinTheory

BUT WHAT IF IT'S TWINS.

 

@BeanTownBears

Lulu literally just explained why you can't know.

 

@TwinTheory

I KNOW.

I AM STILL EMOTIONALLY INVESTED IN THE POSSIBILITY.

 

@MedStudentPuck

As someone studying medicine:

Please stop using "he's too big for one baby" as evidence of twins.

That's not how this works.

 

@BabyWatch2026

Okay okay.

I accept the correction.

But I am still hoping for twins.

 

@ConcernedReader

I don't really love the comments about Shane being "huge" or "too big."

Pregnant people already get enough scrutiny about their bodies.

 

@PrideAndPuck

This.

Can we just say he looks happy?

That's literally all that matters.

 

@OmegaFashionNet

Thank you for saying this.

The pregnancy photos are adorable.

The body commentary is unnecessary.

 

@HockeyMom24

The sweetest thing about these pictures isn't the bump.

It's Shane smiling.

He looks genuinely happy.

 

@ShaneAndIlyaUpdates

YES.

That smile is EVERYTHING.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Also, can we discuss Ilya's hand?

Every single photo.

Lower back.

Hip.

Shoulder.

Belly.

Man has apparently appointed himself Shane's permanent support system.

 

@BearsFanTillIDie

He's not walking beside Shane.

He's orbiting Shane.

 

@HockeyTactics

That's actually a pretty accurate description of Ilya's entire relationship with him.

 

@LuluLives

THANK YOU.

"Orbiting" is exactly what I've been trying to describe.

 

@CanadianBaseball

The baseball game photo is my favorite.

 

@TDGarden81

The blanket.

THE BLANKET.

 

@BostonMama617

I need to know why professional athletes become helpless when their spouse is pregnant.

Every pregnant woman's husband apparently turns into a full-time logistics coordinator.

 

@DrFuture

Because they are terrified 😂

 

@MedStudentPuck

I can confirm.

Medical school has taught me that pregnancy causes the non-pregnant partner to develop a mysterious condition called "I Need To Carry Everything."

 

@LuluLives

EXACTLY.

Ilya has it badly.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

The stuffed bear in the grocery cart is adorable!

A little bear for the littles cub!

 

@TwinTheory

I have reviewed the evidence.

I am saying twins.

 

@TDGarden81

You have no evidence.

 

@TwinTheory

I have vibes.

 

@MedStudentPuck

Vibes are not a diagnostic tool.

 

@TwinTheory

They should be.

 

@HockeyHistory

The real story here is that Ilya Rozanov, one of the most intimidating hockey players alive, apparently spends his free time carrying pastries and stuffed animals around Boston for his pregnant husband.

 

@BearsFanTillIDie

This is the content I came here for.

 

@QueerInBoston

Honestly, seeing them be this openly domestic is kind of beautiful.

 

@RussianHockeyVibe

Ilya will absolutely be the terrifying hockey dad.

 

@BostonMama22

Imagine having Ilya Rozanov show up to your parent-teacher conference.

Teacher: "Your child has been disruptive."

Ilya:

"...Is that so?..."

 

@BearsPuck617

Teacher immediately apologizes.

 

@LuluLives

I AM CRYING.

 

@ShaneAndIlyaUpdates

No because Shane would be the one saying: "Ilya, you're intimidating her."

And Ilya would genuinely have no idea what he did.

 

@BostonBorn

I am still laughing over Ilya’s Alpha Protective stage.

Shane: "I can carry this."

Ilya: "No."

Shane: "It's a water bottle."

Ilya: "No."

Shane: "Ilya."

Ilya: "No."

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Marriage 😂

 

@HollanderFanClub

Pregnancy 😂

 

@BearsForever

Boston's most competitive rivalry: Shane Hollander vs. Ilya Rozanov over who is allowed to carry the groceries.

 

@LuluLives

And unfortunately for Shane, Ilya is undefeated.

Before anyone asks again, NO, I do not know whether they're having twins. 😂

And NO, you cannot determine it from the photos.

Please stop asking me.

Please let the man have his baby in peace.

---

@ilyahollander-rozanov81

Welcoming our little team. Yuri Yuna Hollander-Rozanov (Alpha) and Sofia Irina Hollander-Rozanov (Omega). Shane and the babies are healthy, resting, and completely perfect. My whole world is in one cradle ❤️

[Photo]

In the center of a handcrafted wooden cradle, two tiny newborn twins are curled up together, under matching cream-colored cashmere blankets. Their small hands are tangled in each other’s swaddles, resting chest-to-chest in complete comfort.

On the left, little Yuri is the spitting image of her tosan, Shane—possessing the same delicate, refined facial features, soft dark hair, warm brown eyes. and porcelain skin. However, placed neatly on her cheek, and scattered down her small neck are the distinct, unmistakable dark moles that match Ilya’s.

On the right, tiny Sofia is unmistakably a miniature version of Ilya—born with a thick tuft of light blonde hair, his blue eyes, and his strong, distinct facial structure even as a newborn. Yet, scattered softly across her button nose and tiny cheeks is a constellation of Shane’s signature freckles.

Comments:

@BabyWatch2026

I was right!

 

@TwinTheory

Vindication!

 

@ShaneAndIlyaUpdates

YURI AND SOFIA?! TWINS?!

ALREADY CUDDLING IN THE CRADLE?!

I AM CRYING SO HARD MY PHONE IS WET 😭😭😭

BROUGHT INTO THE WORLD BY THE POWER COUPLE OF THE CENTURY!

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

SOFIA HAS SHANE’S FRECKLES ON ILYA’S FACE AND YURI HAS ILYA’S MOLES ON SHANE’S FACE?!

ARE YOU ACTUALLY KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW 😭❤️

THE GENETICS ARE GENETING!

 

@LuluLives

YURI YUNA AND SOFIA IRINA.

THE HONORS TO THEIR MOTHERS.

I am officially sobbing in my living room.

They are the most breathtaking little angels on earth!

Welcome to the world, babies! 🍼✨

 

@BearsNation81

An Alpha and an Omega!!

Congrats Ilya and Shane! 🏆👑

 

@FashionWeekly

The most anticipated newborns of the decade have arrived.

Yuri Yuna and Sofia Irina Hollander-Rozanova are absolute perfection.

Wishing Shane a speedy recovery and so much love to the growing family!

 

@HollanderFanClub

ATTENTION Fan Club: NEW RECRUITS HAVE ARRIVED. 🫡

Direct orders to send all the love to our beloved model and the new babies!

Welcome, Yuri and Sofia!

 

@CanadianFan24

The way they’re tangled up together in that cradle… my heart is completely melted.

Shane created absolute magic.

Rest up, Shane, you did amazing! ❤️

 

@VogueRunway

Congratulations @ilyahollander-rozanov81 and @shanehollander-rozanov!

The most beautiful family.

Sending all our love from Paris! ✨

 

@CopleySquareCommuter

The whole city of Boston is celebrating today!

Twins!!

Congratulations to both of you, Ilya! 🍼🐻❤️

 

@NHL

Congratulations to Ilya and Shane on the birth of their twins, Yuri and Sofia!

Future champions in the making! 🏒✨

 

@OneMapleLeaf

Alright, I’ll suspend my hatred for Boston for 24 hours.

Those are insanely cute babies.

Congrats to Shane and Ilya!

---

Posted by @HotTakeHayley

CAN WE PLEASE TALK ABOUT THE CALVIN KLEIN CAMPAIGN?! THIS SHOULD SERIOUSLY BE ILLEGAL 🚨🔥 (Plus CK holding onto these for a YEAR?!)

I am typing this with shaking hands while sitting on the subway because I just walked out of Times Square and I am officially LOOSING MY MIND.

Calvin Klein just dropped their joint campaign for Ilya and Shane. A full black-and-white, ultra-high-fashion loungewear and underwear line. Towering fifty feet high on the massive billboard right over Times Square.

FIRST OF ALL: THE PHOTOS.

It is utterly ridiculous. Unfair. Unethical. A crime against humanity.

It’s completely shot in raw, grainy black-and-white. There’s one shot where Shane is sitting on a white linen couch in just low-rise CK briefs and an unbuttoned lounge shirt, looking into the camera like a literal Greek god. Ilya is sprawling behind him in low-waisted lounge pants, bare-chested, with one massive, calloused hand casually resting on Shane’s hip, his chin tucked into the crook of Shane’s neck. They look so raw, so effortlessly breathtaking, and so ridiculously in love that it physically HURTS to look at.

How can two people be this hot?! How is it allowed for one household to hold 99% of the world’s bone structure genetics?!

SECOND OF ALL: THE TIMELINE.

CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE FACT THAT THEY SHOT THIS BEFORE THEY EVEN GOT MARRIED?!

Look at Shane’s left hand on the couch armrest in the billboard shot. THERE IS NO WEDDING BAND. He’s wearing his engagement ring, but not the band! Which means Calvin Klein sat on these photos for AT LEAST A FULL YEAR, just casually holding the most explosive, internet-breaking campaign of the decade in their vaults, waiting for the perfect moment to drop it!

The restraint that CK’s marketing team had to not leak this immediately after the wedding or the pregnancy announcement deserves a national award. They really waited until after the twins were born to drop the nuclear bomb on us.

I am in complete awe. My brain is fried. Put these two in jail for being this gorgeous.

Comments:

@TimesSquareCommuter

I literally almost missed my train because I was standing on the sidewalk staring up at the billboard like a statue.

The sheer scale of Ilya’s shoulders next to Shane’s jawline on a 50-foot screen is overwhelming.

 

@PuckHead_99

Can we go back to when hockey players focused on hockey?

Rozanov is a fantastic player, but watching an NHL captain do soft-core underwear shoots for a fashion brand is just embarrassing for the sport.

 

@BearsNation81

Embarrassing?

The man just won the Stanley Cup as the youngest captain in franchise history, led the league in postseason points, and brought a championship to Boston.

He can wear whatever he wants in his off-time🏆

 

@LuluLives

I KNEW THOSE PHOTOSHOOT RUMORS WERE REAL!

I told everyone they were seen at a studio in Brooklyn before the wedding and everyone said I was crazy!

ONCE AGAIN, VINDICATED! 🗣️🔥

 

@TraditionalValues_Fan

Over-hyped, staged, and completely artificial.

People treat these two like royalty when it’s literally just a calculated publicity stunt by their PR teams to sell overpriced cotton underwear.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

“Publicity stunt” 😭

Ah yes, a stunt that involved getting married, having twins, and dominating both professional sports and high fashion.

Just admit you’re jealous you don’t look 1/100^th as good in CK briefs, babes!

 

@SportsMarketingInsider

From a purely strategic standpoint, CK dropping this right now is brilliant.

Holding an unreleased shoot featuring a top-tier global model and an NHL superstar until after their wedding and the birth of their twins maximized the media exposure ten-fold.

 

@FashionWeekly_NY

The lighting contrast is masterclass photography.

Combining Shane’s delicate Omega runway presence with Ilya’s raw Alpha athlete frame in monochrome creates an incredible visual balance.

 

@YankeesCryMore

I hate the Boston Red Sox, I hate the Boston Bears, and I hate everything about that city.

But I walked past the billboard on 42^nd St today and yeah… okay, fine. Objectively, it’s a great ad.

Still hate them though.

 

@CopleySquareLocal

If they put this billboard up in Copley Square, Boston traffic will come to a complete standstill.

 

@ModelStan_99

Shane looking that ethereal while resting back against Ilya… I need a physical magazine print of this campaign for my wall immediately.

Absolute art.

 

@TorontoFan

Ilya looks ridiculous here. Stick to the ice, man. You look uncomfortable as hell posing like a model.

 

@CanadianFan24

Uncomfortable? He’s literally leaning on his husband looking completely relaxed while making millions in endorsements.

Sounds like someone is projecting hard because their team didn’t make the finals! 😉

Chapter 7: Svetlana Vetrova

The silk of Svetlana’s crimson gown felt like ice against her skin, but her focus was entirely locked on the silver foil title gleaming on the fresh issue of L’Officiel Hommes. The copy sat on the coffee table of the Ottawa penthouse suite, displaying a shot that had been everywhere for the past forty-eight hours:

ILYA ROZANOV: THE MAN WHO HAS IT ALL. TWO-TIME STANLEY CUP CHAMPION, CAPTAIN OF THE BOSTON BEARS, MODEL HUSBAND, AND FATHER OF TWO.

In the photo, Ilya stood tall in a tailored charcoal tuxedo, looking infuriatingly composed. Shane Hollander-Rozanov leaned against his side in liquid white silk, a radiant smile on his freckled face. The article inside detailed their domestic life with their two young daughters—though the girls weren't pictured, the text went on and on about the toddlers: the older one with dark hair, brown eyes, and a scatter of small moles, and the younger one by four mintes, with blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and tiny freckles across her nose.

The man who has it all.

Svetlana let out a sharp breath, her manicured thumb pressing into the glossy edge of the page.

"Svetlana, tell me you aren't lounging on the velvet in that dress," Anne’s polished voice drifted from the adjoining room. Her mother stepped through the doorway, adjusting a diamond earring while smoothing her midnight-blue dress. "Your father is fixing his tie. The motorcade for the diplomatic gala leaves in fifteen minutes. If you crease that silk, I will be furious."

"I’m fine, Mama," Svetlana muttered, not moving her eyes from the print.

Anne walked over, her heels tapping against the hardwood floor. She glanced down at the table, her gaze landing on Ilya’s face. A subtle tightness formed around her mouth, but she merely clicked her tongue.

"Put that away," Anne said in a dry, low register. "Staring at dead history right before a political dinner isn't a good look."

"He has two kids, Mama," Svetlana said, her tone sharp. "Daughters."

"He has a Canadian family," Anne corrected briskly, walking toward the mirror to check her lipstick. "And he hasn't been your concern for six years."

Six years.

Svetlana leaned back, staring up at the grand ceiling, her thoughts drifting straight back to Moscow.

It felt absurd now, but the memories were still distinct enough to sting. They had been pushed together since childhood by both of their fathers—Sergei, a legendary Russian goalie turned high-ranking minister, and Grigori Rozanov, a brutal man who viewed his son strictly as an investment. The outline was obvious: combine two major Russian families. Sergei’s political weight paired with Grigori’s prodigy son.

Back then, Svetlana hadn't minded. Ilya was handsome, sharp, and played hockey better than anyone she’d ever seen in person. She had grown up in arenas and understood the sport inside out, so the prospect of ending up with him actually appealed to her.

Their youth had been a string of private parties, late-night rinks, and an easy physical dynamic. They lost their virginities to each other on a rainy night in Grigori’s apartment, and while Ilya was never romantic, he was reliable in public. He kept sleazy officials away from her at gatherings and never tried to control what she did or who she saw. Behind closed doors, they worked well together.

Svetlana had assumed they were building something. She figured his distant nature was just how he operated, and she let herself imagine a future as his wife, standing beside him as he conquered the league.

Then came the NHL Draft.

Boston picked him, Ilya packed a single bag, flew across the ocean, and changed his contact info, dropped every mutual acquaintance in St. Petersburg and Moscow, and moved on as if his life in Russia had never existed.

For months, she had made excuses for him, thinking he was overwhelmed by being a rookie in a whole new country, and having to adjust to a foreign culture. But weeks became years. Then came the sudden headline that shattered everything: Ilya Rozanov hadn't just settled in North America—he was married to a Canadian male supermodel, and now they had a family.

An Omega.

The news had been mind-boggling. The guy who barely uttered ten sentences at a dinner table was now posing for international fashion spreads, holding hands on red carpets, and raising two little girls in Boston.

What actually happened? she thought, her teeth grinding. Was any of it real to him?

Even if their setup had mostly been friends with benefits toward the end, she had considered him a genuine friend. You don't share your youth and your family ties with someone only to treat them like a complete ghost the second you cross a border. The ghosting was a direct insult to her pride, one that no amount of designer clothes or high-society events could erase.

The main door swung open, interrupting her thought process.

Sergei entered the room, his broad frame filling out his tuxedo. He held a glass of vodka in one hand, his phone pressed to his ear as he spoke in rapid, harsh Russian.

"...Tell the press secretary we are not issuing a statement!" Sergei barked into the receiver. "If the Federation wants to draft a response, they can do it themselves!" He ended the call with a swipe of his thumb and took a quick drink.

Anne eyed him from the mirror. "Sergei. The car will be here shortly."

"Let it wait," Sergei muttered, tossing his empty glass onto the sideboard. "Do you know what Moscow just asked me to do, Anne? They want me to use my diplomatic access in Ottawa to investigate whether Ilya is ditching his Russian passport for Canadian citizenship through his marriage."

Svetlana sat up, looking at her father. "Is he applying for citizenship?"

"There are rumors everywhere in the European papers," Sergei said, pacing across the rug. "And now the Federation expects me to fix it. They want a public statement claiming it’s Western media lies and that Ilya remains a loyal Russian athlete."

Sergei let out a brief, sarcastic laugh. "Loyal. After the way they treated him after the Olympics? The Federation is terrified because he’s the only generational talent this country has produced in a decade."

Svetlana felt a strange spike of frustration—not just at Ilya for vanishing, but at the absolute hypocrisy of the people running Russian sports.

Her father was right.

Russia’s international hockey reputation had taken a massive hit, capped off by the total failure at the Sochi Olympics. Back then, the roster was loaded with legacy names and political favorites—with Sergei involved in management—and the team folded under pressure on home ice. The country needed a dominant player to fix their image, and Ilya had been that player. He was the only one in Sochi who actually delivered, scoring goals and carrying the entire lineup on his back.

And the Federation’s response? They blamed him for the loss.

They turned him into a scapegoat and dragged his name through state media while he was busy winning games in Boston.

Svetlana knew the real story. It wasn't that Russia lacked talented players—that was just a lie pushed by officials to hide their own incompetence. Look at Kozlov, the brilliant goalie playing right alongside Ilya for the Bears. Look at Mitty, the only good player that the Montreal Metros possessed.

The talent existed, but players like Kozlov and Mitty were routinely ignored for national selections or stalled on international clearances simply because they lacked political connections or wealthy family backing to pay off the right directors. The whole structure was rotten. Even as Boston’s captain, Ilya couldn't pull the Russian national team to a gold medal back then because he was surrounded by utter incompetency.

Why would he ever come back? Svetlana thought bitterly.

Russia treated him like property when he was there and a villain when he left. Why keep a Russian passport or feel any loyalty to a system that threw him under the bus, when he could live in North America with two Stanley Cup rings, millions of dollars, a husband who loved him, and two daughters?

"He isn't going to surrender his Canadian life, Papa," Svetlana said quietly.

Sergei paused, glancing at her. The anger in his face eased slightly, replaced by sheer fatigue. "I know he isn't, Sveta."

"Then why bother going through the motions?" she asked. "Why let them use you to chase down someone who cut ties with all of us?"

Sergei adjusted his jacket cuffs. "Because we have to play along. The Federation funds our standing, access, and position. If they want me to show up at this Ottawa dinner and pretend I'm looking into his loyalty, I do it. But off the record... I don't blame him for leaving. I just wish he hadn't severed every single connection on his way out."

He looked down at the magazine on the table for a brief moment before turning to his wife. "Anne. Let's go."

"Finally," Anne huffed, grabbing her clutch. "Svetlana, get your wrap."

Her parents walked out into the corridor, their footsteps receding down the hall. Left alone, Svetlana picked up the issue one last time, staring at the cover image.

Ilya looked entirely different from the young guy she used to know in Moscow. The sharp edge in his demeanor hadn't disappeared, but his eyes were brighter now, looking at the man standing beside him with utter devotion.

She wondered what made Shane Hollander so special. Why had she not been enough for Ilya? Had there been anything she could have done to keep his attention? Did it all wind down to secondary genders? How could a Beta keep an Alpha’s attention when Omegas were made for them?

Svetlana felt a bitter sting in her chest. She was furious about the way he had written her out of his life, angry at the total silence and the sheer arrogance of his departure. He hadn't even given her a proper final conversation.

Yet, underneath the wounded pride, she understood his choice.

He had walked away from the trap their parents had laid for them, and built something entirely of his own.

Svetlana adjusted her red dress, stood up, and flipped the magazine face-down onto the table. She glanced in the mirror, lifting her chin and fixing a smooth, perfect smile. "Fuck you, Ilya," she muttered softly to the empty penthouse.

Then she pulled the long wool wrap over her shoulders and followed her parents down the private elevator to the waiting black limousine. Rain streaked the tinted side windows, turning the Ottawa streetlights into long, blurred smears of yellow and red across the dark pavement.

Anne adjusted her gloves, staring out at the muted buildings passing by outside. "Monotonous," her mother murmured, her tone dripped in mild disgust. "Look at this place. Grey stone, government offices, and quiet streets. There is nothing here. No grandeur, or style. It is unbelievable that anyone with real money would choose to live in this boring city."

Svetlana rested her head against the cool leather of the headrest, keeping her eyes fixed on the rain. "It’s a capital city, Mama. It isn't meant to be Monaco."

Anne turned her head slowly, her sharp gaze sweeping over her daughter with cool disapproval. "You really need to start focusing, Svetlana. You have already graduated from your university in St. Petersburg, and it is time for you to understand how the real world operates. You sit there acting bewildered as if we were sent on a random vacation."

Svetlana didn't answer, but she did frown at her mother’s tone.

"Why do you think the Federation assigned your father to this specific diplomatic leg?" Anne continued, her voice dropping into a calculated, instructional whisper. "Do you think it was a coincidence? That model Ilya married—Shane Hollander—is originally from this exact city. His parents live here, and they are attending the gala tonight."

Svetlana’s jaw tightened slightly, though she maintained her neutral expression. "His family?"

"Yes," Anne replied, smoothing a fold on her skirt. "His mother, Yuna Hollander, is an absolute force. She acts as the primary manager for both her son and Ilya. She handles their commercial portfolios, brand alignment, and contract negotiations across North America and Europe. Meanwhile, the boy’s father, David Hollander—another rare male Omega—has risen through the ranks in the Treasury of Canada at an astonishing speed. He now sits near the top of their financial board, which is precisely why they received an official invitation to a high-level diplomatic function."

Anne leaned in slightly closer, her diamond rings catching the ambient streetlights. "The plan tonight is straightforward. We do not approach them with heavy political demands or legal threats. We are building a bridge, and your job tonight is to charm them. You will introduce yourself politely, share light stories about growing up alongside Ilya in Moscow, and present an amicable face. We need to gauge them and figure out what Ilya’s actual long-term intentions are regarding his status."

Anne let out a small, bitter scoff, shaking her head as she looked her daughter up and down. "Honestly, what a monumental waste. If you had managed to retain his interest back then, you would be married to a hockey player whose net worth has tripled in the past three years alone. Between his Bears contract, his sponsorships, and those endorsement deals, his capital is staggering."

Svetlana felt a dull, unpleasant knot form in her chest, the familiar sting of her mother's conditional approval pressing against her ribs. She looked down at her hands, saying nothing.

"Anne, drop it," Sergei’s voice cut through with a glare. "Stop lecturing the girl."

"I am simply stating reality, Sergei," Anne replied smoothly. "She had the chance, and she let it slip. After resigning with the Bears this summer, his new contract has made Rozanov the best paid NHL player in North America. What a total waste."

"Neither of them was ever serious about that arrangement," Sergei replies firmly, his tone closing the debate. "Ilya was focused on one thing: getting out of Russia. Hockey was his exit ticket, and he took it. He had zero intention of staying in Moscow or building a family there, no matter who was standing in front of him. Let the past stay where it is."

Anne gave a huff but fell silent, turning her focus back to the window as the limousine slowed down.

The car pulled up to the grand stone entrance of the venue. Attendants opened the doors under large black umbrellas, shielding them from the drizzle as they stepped onto the red carpet leading into the main foyer.

While the city outside was ordinary, the interior of the hall was a grand display of international wealth and political status. High arched ceilings, massive crystal chandeliers, and polished marble floors set the stage for clusters of diplomats, ministers, and foreign representatives moving through the space in tailored formalwear.

Svetlana scanned the room as they handed their coats to the valet. It didn't take long to spot the Hollanders.

They stood near the center of the reception hall, speaking easily with a small group that included Canada's Minister of Innovation. Svetlana recognized them instantly, mostly because of their striking physical presence.

They were an unusually rare pairing: a female Alpha and a male Omega.

Yuna Hollander was a breathtaking woman. She possessed sharp, Japanese features with a strong, high-boned facial structure that gave her profile an commanding, elegant outline. She wore a tailored black evening suit with satin lapels, her dark hair pulled back into a flawless, low knot. Looking at her, Svetlana instantly saw where Shane Hollander got his striking baseline, though Yuna possessed a sharper, more formidable edge to her posture that her model son lacked.

Beside her stood David Hollander. The softness in Shane’s features, the delicate line of his jaw, and the faint scatter of freckles across his skin clearly came directly from his father. David was dressed in a classic midnight-blue tuxedo, holding a glass of sparkling water, his demeanor relaxed and approachable.

Watching the two of them navigate the crowd was a study in seamless coordination. Yuna never attempted to dominate the conversation or speak over her husband, in the traditional Alpha posturing. Instead, she moved with efficient confidence, stepping in smoothly whenever the topic turned toward international contracts, media rights, or major corporate sponsorships.

At the same time, the surrounding Canadian officials treated David with genuine, deep-seated respect. He spoke with a warm, steady cadence, listening attentively to the dignitaries around him, displaying the confidence of someone who understood the intricacies of public finance without needing to raise his voice.

What struck Svetlana most was the total absence of the sleazy, performative charm typical of most politicians in Moscow. The Hollanders didn't look like people trying to claw their way up a social ladder or backstab their peers for a title. They appeared entirely grounded, comfortable in their standing, and genuinely affectionate toward one another. Yet beneath that accessible warmth, Svetlana caught the occasional sharp, perceptive flash in Yuna’s eyes as she scanned the room—a clear reminder that neither of Shane’s parents had reached their positions by being naive.

She took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, sipping it slowly as she watched her father prepare himself. Sergei stood nearby, straightening his jacket, looking every bit the legendary figure he was expected to be, while Anne stood at his elbow, her eyes fixed on Yuna Hollander like a hawk choosing its moment.

Svetlana took another small sip, feeling the cold bubbles on her tongue. The evening was just beginning, and despite her mother's precise instructions, she found herself wondering how two people so visibly grounded had managed to handle a son married to the most intense, and aloof hockey player Russia had ever produced.

She smoothed the crimson silk of her dress, taking a small step behind her parents as Sergei and Anne made their way across the polished marble floor toward the circle surrounding the Hollanders.

As they closed the distance, the ambient chatter of the group came into focus. A senior European diplomat was speaking with genuine warmth, gesturing toward David and Yuna.

"You both must be immensely proud of your children," the diplomat said with a broad smile. "To see Shane back on the runway so quickly after the birth of his daughter—it is remarkable. Opening for Saint Laurent in Paris, then walking in New York, Milan, and Tokyo back-to-back? My wife commented just yesterday that most people take years to recover that kind of conditioning after pregnancy, let alone return to high fashion."

David gave a modest, grounded smile, resting a hand briefly near his chest. "Shane worked extremely hard with his trainers and nutritionists. He was determined to return on his own terms, but yes, we are very proud of his dedication."

"And then there is Ilya, of course," an ambassador added with an approving nod. "Back-to-back Stanley Cup championships with the Bears, captaining the team to another stellar season. Having two dynamic forces in one family must keep your household quite lively."

Before David could answer, a middle-aged Canadian official stepped forward, a thin, patronizing smirk on his lips as he addressed Yuna directly. "Though I must admit, it is a bit of a pity your son didn't end up with someone from the Montreal Metros. We all remember how devoted you used to be to the team. A proper Canadian boy playing for Montreal would have been the ultimate story, wouldn't it?"

The mood around the group grew awkward, as Yuna turned her dark eyes slowly toward the official, her posture remaining impeccably straight, while her face was a mask of effortless composure.

"I certainly supported them when I first moved to Canada," Yuna replied. "After all, both David and I studied in Montreal. However, the organization is hardly what it used to be—not simply on the ice, but culturally. The lack of structural respect toward players of color and Omegas within that front office is well documented. That is not an environment or an ethos the Hollander family supports."

She paused, offering the official a razor-thin, brilliant smile.

"We are more than delighted that Shane is with Ilya. He is an exceptional Alpha, a devoted partner, and frankly... the Hollander family looks far better in Boston black and gold."

Svetlana caught the sharp edge of the delivery and had to cover her mouth with her champagne flute to hide her chuckle. God, I like this woman, she thought, the cool taste of the sparkling champagne settling on her tongue.

Looking at Yuna and David standing side by side—protective, unflinching, and openly proud of their family—it suddenly made complete sense why Ilya had severed every tie with Moscow. Why he hadn't written, called, or looked back for a single second.

Grigori Rozanov had treated Ilya as a commodity, an investment to be traded, criticized, and beaten into submission. He had never once looked at his son with warmth, respect, or pride. Now, seeing the wall of unconditional support and fierce protection the Hollanders provided, Svetlana understood that Ilya hadn't just moved to North America for a hockey contract.

He had found a real home.

As the official cleared his throat awkwardly and the surrounding guests began to disperse toward the dining tables, her father stepped forward into the newly cleared space. "Good evening," Sergei said, his deep, resonant voice carrying across the small gap.

Yuna and David turned toward them. Anne immediately stepped up to her husband's side, adjusting her stance into her most refined, aristocratic posture.

"Allow us to introduce ourselves," Anne said, her tone dripping with polite diplomacy. "I am Anne Vetrova, this is my husband Sergei, and our daughter Svetlana. We wanted to extend our greetings. We knew Ilya very well back in Moscow when he was growing up. In fact, he and Svetlana were childhood friends."

Svetlana braced herself for a guarded reaction, half-expecting the Hollanders to pull back or offer a cold, polite brush-off at the mention of Russia or Ilya's past.

Instead, David's expression softened into an open, welcoming smile.

"Ah, the Vetrovs," David said warmly, stepping forward to shake Sergei's hand. "Yes, Ilya has mentioned your family on occasion. It is very nice to meet you all. Welcome to Ottawa."

"Thank you," Sergei replied, his brow twitching slightly in mild surprise at the easy reception. "It is a pleasure."

"Are you staying in the city for long?" Yuna asked, her sharp gaze softening as she looked at Svetlana, offering a polite nod.

"We are here on diplomatic business for a few days," Anne offered smoothly, trying to steer the conversation into a more strategic direction. "It is a quiet city."

"It can feel that way compared to Moscow or Boston," David agreed with a light nod. "Ottawa doesn't have the extensive Eastern European markets or commercial hubs you might be accustomed to, but there are a few wonderful authentic spots. If you have an open evening, we can certainly recommend a couple of excellent family-run restaurants nearby."

Anne blinked, clearly thrown off by the complete lack of duplicity. There were no hidden motives, or sharp counters, not even political maneuvering to exploit. The Hollanders were simply being gracious, welcoming, and entirely unbothered by the presence of people connected to Ilya's past.

Before Anne could redirect the angle again, Sergei looked directly at Yuna. "I must say, Mrs. Hollander, I noticed your comments regarding team management earlier. You clearly keep a very close eye on the league's operational structures."

Yuna’s eyes lit up with genuine interest. "Of course, Mr. Vetrov. And I certainly know who you are. The legendary Soviet goaltender. I followed your international career closely back in the nineties."

Sergei raised an eyebrow, a rare, genuine smile touching his mouth. "Did you now?"

Within seconds, Yuna, Sergei, and Svetlana fell into a rapid-fire discussion regarding defensive schemes, goaltending mechanics, and special teams management.

Svetlana watched in awe as Yuna broke down power-play formations with the precision of a head coach. Her hockey IQ was incredible—sharp, analytical, and deeply knowledgeable about both the NHL and international systems. Svetlana found herself leaning in, actively debating the transition play of the Boston Bears with Yuna, completely forgetting her mother's instructions to probe for personal secrets.

On the side, David easily engaged Anne, steering her into a polite, high-level conversation regarding Canadian treasury policies, trade relations, and the cultural landscape of the capital.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of fine dining, wine, and flowing conversation. By the time the gala concluded, and guests began calling for their coats, not a single probing question had been asked about Ilya's passport, his legal status, or his plans regarding his Russian citizenship. The Vetrovs had simply spent three hours enjoying the company of two articulate, highly capable people who treated them with hospitality.

The ride back to the hotel was dead silent.

Rain continued to drum softly against the roof of the black limousine as it glided through the dim streets of Ottawa. The streetlights cast long, rhythmic shadows across the interior of the car.

Anne sat in the backseat next to Svetlana, her posture slumped slightly against the leather cushions. The rigid, haughty air she had maintained all evening had completely evaporated, replaced by a strange, reflective silence.

She looked out the side window at the dark buildings passing by, watching the rain streak down the glass. "Well..." Anne said softly, her voice missing its usual sharp, critical edge. "I suppose I can see the charm of Ottawa now. Even if it is simple. It has a certain... quaint charm."

Svetlana looked over at her mother in surprise, then turned her focus toward her father. Sergei was staring straight ahead out the windshield, his broad hands resting heavily on his knees.

"Papa," Svetlana said quietly, her voice cutting through the hum of the engine. "We didn't end up asking them anything. Or get any information about the citizenship or his plans."

"We didn't need to ask anything, Sveta," Sergei replied, his tone calm and devoid of anger. "I already have the answer."

Svetlana remained silent, waiting.

Sergei let out a long sigh, looking out at the rainy capital night. "He is applying for Canadian citizenship. He is building his life with that family, and he is never coming back. There is zero chance he would ever return to Russia, to the Federation, or to Grigori Rozanov. And frankly... after seeing who he has standing behind him now, I cannot blame him."

Anne didn't object. She didn't offer a bitter comment about money, status, or missed opportunities. She simply closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the headrest, accepting the doomed truth.

Svetlana turned back to her window, watching the streetlights fade into the dark Ottawa night. She felt a strange sense of relief settle in her chest. The anger she had carried all evening—the resentment over being ghosted, forgotten, and left behind—finally dissolved.

Ilya was gone, completely out of reach, and for the first time in six years, Svetlana was ready to accept it.

Chapter 8: Coach LeClaire

The chalkboard in the coaches' office at TD Garden still had the defensive zone rotations from yesterday’s practice scrawled across it in white dust, but head coach LeClaire wasn't looking at the board. He was looking through his glass window down at the ice, where the late morning skate had wrapped up twenty minutes ago.

Most of the guys were already in the showers or messing around with their phones in the locker room, but one figure remained out near the red line, systematically scooping pucks into a bucket with the blade of his stick.

Ilya Rozanov.

LeClaire took a slow sip of his black coffee, feeling the heat bleed into his knuckles. Looking back now, after a captaincy hand-off, two Stanley Cup titles, and a complete media circus that had somehow settled into unprecedented stability, LeClaire could admit he had been dead wrong about his star center all those years ago when he had first been drafted.

When the Boston Bears draft board had locked in on Rozanov, LeClaire had braced himself for the classic headache. An eighteen-year-old phenom built like an ox, hailed as the next great savior of Russian hockey, coming off a massive hype train in Europe. LeClaire had expected an arrogant, entitled kid who would fight the coaching staff on backchecking, demand first-line power-play minutes from day one, and act like he was doing the NHL a favor by playing in the league.

Instead, the kid who walked into LeClaire’s training camp flipped the coach’s preconceived notions upside-down.

He skated until his legs gave out, executed drills with military precision, and sat in the corner of the locker room with his head down, completely isolated. But it wasn't the dedication of a humble rookie that caught LeClaire’s attention. It was the eyes.

Rozanov had the dead, vacant gaze of a machine running on a factory setting.

LeClaire had been around professional sports for thirty years. He knew what burnt-out players looked like, and he knew what troubled kids looked like. But Rozanov was a different category altogether. In those early months, LeClaire spent late nights reading scouting reports from Moscow, looking closely at how the Russian Hockey Federation managed their youth pipelines.

He knew the rumors in the North American coaching circles. Everyone talked about systemic pressure, non-stop national team obligations, and the rampant suspicions of physical or chemical performance enhancements pushed on young athletes in state programs.

LeClaire had the Bears' medical team run exhaustive blood panels on Rozanov during his intake physical. The kid was clean—no anabolic steroids, or illegal stimulants, there was no proof of doping. Physically, he was pristine.

Which meant the damage was psychological.

The Russian Federation hadn't just coached him; they had drained the life out of him. They had treated a generational talent like a public utility, squeezing every drop of productivity out of him while blaming him for national team losses and treating him like the property of the state.

And nobody else in the organization seemed to care.

General Manager Mark Vance was thrilled. The kid was scoring goals at a point-per-game pace as a rookie, driving revenue, and the fans adored to hate him on social media. While the veteran players on the Bears roster did not seem to realize there was anything wrong with their rookie. After all, Ilya joined them for drinks after games, and into clubs to celebrate wins.

He’s just a typical stoic European, Vance had told LeClaire over drinks after a meeting one night. Low maintenance, high output. Wish all our draft picks were this easy.

LeClaire had stayed quiet, but his stomach had turned. He isn't low maintenance, LeClaire had thought, watching Rozanov sit alone at the back of the team bus, staring out at the highway lights. He’s numb.

Then came a mid-winter road trip to Montreal.

It was a standard Thursday night game against the Metros at the Bell Centre, and a rounding success for the Bears. Rozanov had played twenty-two minutes, taken four hits, and scored two goals. After the post-game press conference, LeClaire checked the locker room and noticed Ilya’s stall was already empty.

By midnight, back at the team hotel, the curfew chime went off on LeClaire’s phone. Every player had checked in via the digital security log—except Ilya.

LeClaire had sat at the desk in his hotel room, the phone in his hand, hovering over Vance's contact number. Protocol was clear: a player breaking team curfew on an away trip required an immediate fine, a benching for the next period, and a formal report to management.

LeClaire gave it an hour. Then two.

At four in the morning, LeClaire stood by the lobby window, watching the rain hit the Montreal streets. A cab pulled up. Ilya stepped out, pulling his hood up against the drizzle. He didn't look drunk.

As Ilya crossed the lobby toward the elevators, LeClaire stepped out from behind a pillar, intending to confront him. But when Ilya looked up and caught LeClaire’s eye, LeClaire stopped dead in his tracks.

The dead-fish look was completely gone.

Ilya’s eyes were focused, bright, and unmistakably alive. There was a flush of real warmth on his face, a relaxed set to his jaw that LeClaire had literally never seen during the months he coached him. The kid looked human, like an actual nineteen-year-old boy.

The coach had looked at the kid and made a split-second decision. He didn't say a word about the curfew. He just gave a brief nod, turned around, and walked back to his room.

From that night on, a pattern emerged.

Whenever the Bears played in Montreal—or whenever the team was within a short driving distance of Quebec—Ilya would disappear after the final whistle. He broke curfew every single time. He sneaked out of hotel fire exits, missed late-night team meals, and slipped back into his room right before early morning check-ins.

LeClaire knew what he was supposed to do as a head coach. He was supposed to enforce discipline, protect team rules, and maintain authority over his roster.

But LeClaire couldn't bring himself to cut that line. He saw the change on the ice. The flat, robotic precision in Ilya's play began to shift into something dynamic, creative, and passionate. He wasn't just executing drills anymore; he was playing with a dark, fierce joy. He was communicating on the bench, taking accountability for line changes, and displaying genuine emotion during post-goal celebrations.

Ilya was in love. It didn't take a genius to figure out a budding relationship was happening in secret, even if LeClaire had no idea who the other person was at the time.

If breaking curfew a few times a year gives this kid his soul back, LeClaire reasoned with himself every time he left Ilya's name off the violation reports, then the rules can take a backseat.

The mystery solved itself a few years later, following a summer break that had the entire front office holding its breath.

Ilya had gone off to Mexico, completely dropping off the grid. When he showed up in Boston during preseason, he walked into the Player Personnel office, updated his papers to add an Omega mate, and sent the office manager into an immediate meltdown.

When Vance brought LeClaire into the front-office boardroom after the news surfaced, wringing his hands over the "situational risk" of their star forward being secretly bonded to a jet-setting international public figure whose career kept him on runways across North America and Europe, LeClaire had simply sat back in his leather chair and laughed out loud.

"Risk?" LeClaire had said, looking Vance dead in the eye. "Mark, look back at his tracking numbers from the seasons since those two had been dating in secret. His lung capacity was up four percent and his reaction times were faster."

"He is hiding a secret mating with a celebrity, LeClaire!" Vance had argued, rubbing his temples. "The paparazzi, the travel schedules, the potential media circus—what if this takes his focus from the season?!"

"What happened," LeClaire replied smoothly, "is that Rozanov finally found an anchor. You wanted a franchise player, Mark? You have one now. Because for the first time since he moved to North America, he actually has something to lose."

And the ice proved LeClaire right.

That hidden bond had quietly propelled the Bears through an electric playoff run that culminated in 2014, when Boston raised their first Stanley Cup with Ilya leading the charge on the ice—his heart already claimed before the world ever knew.

The summer immediately following that win, the transition from being secretly mated to officially married happened at head-spinning speed.

LeClaire remembered standing in the middle of the team charter during that off-season, looking at the travel itinerary that required the entire Boston Bears roster, coaching staff, and front office to fly out to the wilderness surrounding Ottawa. It was absurd on paper—the team’s Russian superstar marrying a Canadian supermodel, on a secluded private property nestled against the Canadian trees.

Of course, his boy had ended up with a Canadian model as a mate. Leave it to Ilya Rozanov to take the most complicated, high-stakes route possible towards his happiness.

The wedding was a private affair, far removed from the media circus that usually hounded both men. But what followed during the subsequent season—their second Cup run—sent the Boston front office into an absolute tailspin.

Shane Hollander was pregnant with twins.

The moment the news leaked to management mid-season, General Manager Mark Vance called for another emergency meeting in his top-floor office at TD Garden. The atmosphere in that room had been suffocating. Vance paced behind his mahogany desk, sweating through his shirt, rambling about focus, physical conditioning, distractor variables, and whether Ilya’s mind would remain on a back-to-back Stanley Cup push with a pregnant Omega back home and upcoming pups on the way.

"We need to sit him down, LeClaire," Vance had barked, slamming a palm on his desk. "We need to set boundaries. Is he going to pay attention to defending the Cup, or is he going to be completely focused on his mate and upcoming pups? He’s taking too many personal days! He’s distracted! I want you to tell him to pull back on the family stuff until after the finals."

LeClaire had sat in his chair, listening to the corporate panic, feeling a cold, dark fury rising in his chest.

They saw a multi-million-dollar asset whose performance metrics might dip. LeClaire saw a kid who had spent eighteen years being crushed under the weight of the Russian Hockey Federation, a boy who had been starved of real affection, isolated, and emotionally crippled until he finally found a lifeline in Shane.

LeClaire knew what had happened in Russia, even if he didn't know every brutal detail. He had seen the dead-fish stare, the hollow compliance, the utter apathy of a boy who expected nothing good from authority. LeClaire had sworn to himself years ago that he would never let anyone drag Ilya back into that dark mindset. Not the press, not the Russian Federation, and certainly not his own General Manager.

LeClaire slowly stood up from his chair, towering over Vance.

"If you go near him with that corporate bullshit, Mark, I walk," LeClaire had said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made the GM freeze.

"LeClaire, don't be ridiculous—"

"I am not being ridiculous," LeClaire snapped, leaning across the desk, his eyes hard as flint. "That boy gave everything he had to this organization while he was completely hollow inside. Now he’s building a life. He’s finally happy. If you go to him right now and tell him that his family is a 'distraction' from a championship, you will break something in him that took years to fix. I won't allow it."

"You work for this franchise!" Vance yelled, his face turning red. "I can replace you by tomorrow morning!"

"Then draft the termination papers right now," LeClaire replied without flinching. "Because as long as I am the head coach of this team, I stand between my players and anyone who tries to treat them like machines. Ilya will play, while he takes as many personal days as he wants. And you better keep your mouth shut."

The standoff lasted three agonizing seconds before Vance swallowed hard, backed down, and muttered a string of curses under his breath. LeClaire had almost lost his job that afternoon, but he didn't give a damn.

And Ilya had proven every single doubter in the front office dead wrong.

Instead of slumping, Ilya played with a terrifying, beautiful intensity throughout that second Cup run. Driven by the steady anchor of his husband and the anticipation of his growing family, he carried the Boston Bears on his shoulders through the regular season and straight through four brutal rounds of playoffs.

When the horn sounded at the end of Game Six in the Finals, sealing back-to-back Stanley Cup championships for the Bears, LeClaire didn't look at the trophy being rolled onto the ice. He looked at Ilya. His captain was on his knees near the blue line, arms raised, screaming into the rafters—a man entirely freed from his past.

The real trial, however, happened just weeks after that second Cup victory, in the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridor of a private Boston hospital.

Complications had arisen during Shane’s labor. What was supposed to be a routine delivery turned into an emergency procedure behind closed doors.

LeClaire stood in the waiting hallway alongside Cliff Marleau, the Bears' veteran defenseman and one of Ilya's closest friends on the team. The air in the corridor was thick with the sharp smell of antiseptic and the oppressive, high-tension silence of a surgical wing.

Ilya was pacing the floor like a caged predator. He had torn his coat off, his hair was disheveled, and his hands were trembling—actually trembling—as he stared at the frosted glass doors of the delivery suite.

When the medical alarms beeped inside and a nurse rushed out with a hurried expression, Ilya cornered her. The terror radiating off the giant Russian was so absolute, so suffocating, that even the veteran nurse paled.

"Is he okay? Where is Shane?" Ilya demanded, his voice raspy and broken, stripped of all his usual stoicism. "Tell me!"

"Sir, the doctors are working, please remain in the waiting room—"

Ilya grabbed the doorframe, his knuckles turning stark white, his eyes bloodshot and wide with an unadulterated, primal panic.

"If anything happens to him," Ilya whispered, his voice shaking with a terrifying, hollow certainty that echoed off the white walls, "if he dies... I am going to kill myself. You understand me? I die too."

Those were not the words of a nervous mate. Nor were they the dramatic exaggeration of a stressed athlete.

LeClaire knew the difference. He had heard men speak in moments of extreme crisis, and he knew with absolute, chilling clarity that Ilya was stating a literal fact. Shane Hollander was not just Ilya's husband; he was the entire foundation of Ilya's sanity, his sole connection to humanity. If Shane vanished from this world, the dark void that Ilya had clawed his way out of would swallow him whole, and he would not survive it.

Cliff froze beside LeClaire, his breath catching in his throat, completely stunned by the raw desperation in their captain's voice.

LeClaire felt a cold drop of sweat trace down his spine. He had never had biological children of his own. For thirty years, his players had been his sons—boys he watched grow, suffer, mature, and succeed. He loved them with a fierce protectiveness that he rarely spoke aloud.

Standing in that quiet hospital hallway, watching his captain unravel on the threshold of losing everything, LeClaire closed his eyes. And for the first time since he was a twelve-year-old boy sitting in a pew in Vermont, Coach LeClaire prayed.

God, LeClaire thought, his throat tight, his inner voice trembling, I don't ask for much. I don't ask for games, or cups, or contracts. But don't do this to him. Don't bring this boy out of the dark just to destroy him now. He has suffered enough. They both deserve better than this. Please.

For twenty agonizing minutes, nobody moved. The clock on the wall ticked with a brutal, mechanical rhythm. Ilya stood frozen against the wall, his head buried in his hands, his broad chest heaving with silent, ragged breaths while LeClaire stayed right beside him, a steady, silent presence, ready to grab the boy if he collapsed.

Then, the heavy double doors swung open.

A senior surgeon stepped out, pulling down his surgical mask. He took one look at Ilya's frantic, haunted face and immediately offered a warm, reassuring smile.

"They're okay, Ilya," the doctor said softly. "Shane is awake. He's tired, but he's completely fine. And your daughters are healthy."

The sudden release of tension in the hallway was so physical it felt like the air pressure shifted.

Ilya didn't say a word. He didn't issue a triumphant roar or ask any technical questions. He simply let out a long, shuddering sob, covered his face with his heavy, and leaned his forehead against the cool drywall of the corridor. Cliff let out a massive sigh, slamming a fist into his palm with relief, before he rested a hand on Ilya's back.

LeClaire leaned back against the wall, taking a deep, steadying breath, wiping a quick, uncharacteristic trace of moisture from the corner of his eye before anyone could notice.

A few minutes later, the nurses cleared the room and allowed Ilya inside.

LeClaire and Cliff stood by the open door, looking in.

Shane was lying in the hospital bed, pale and exhausted, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, but his face illuminated by a soft, radiant warmth. Resting in the crook of his right arm was a tiny baby with a light dusting of dark hair, and cradled on his left side was a second infant, wrapped in a pink hospital blanket.

Ilya dropped to his knees right beside the bed, burying his face in the crook of Shane's neck, his arms wrapping gently around both his husband and the two tiny bundles, weeping openly without an ounce of shame or restraint. Shane smiled, whispering soft, comforting words in French and English, kissing the top of his husband's head.

Cliff looked over at LeClaire, offering a nod of profound relief.

LeClaire pulled the hospital door shut, giving the young family their privacy. He walked down the corridor toward the exit, feeling the weight of the last hours slowly lifting off his shoulders. Out in the hospital parking lot, the morning sun was breaking through the Boston clouds, casting a warm, golden light across the pavement.

LeClaire took out his phone, unlocked it, and pulled up Shane’s parents’ number. They were on their way from Ottawa and probably wouldn’t see the message while they were on the plane. Still, if this were his child, he’d want to know as soon as possible. He typed out a short, simple text: Shane and the twins are healthy.

He hit send, put the phone back in his pocket, and walked toward his car with a contented smile. The Russian machine was gone forever, buried beneath two Stanley Cup rings, a marriage that had defied every expectation, and two little girls sleeping soundly in their father's arms.

The alignment of the calendar after the second Cup win had felt like a rare gift.

When Ilya’s paternity leave commenced following the post-championship media obligations, it merged seamlessly with the off-season. For once, Vance had no reason to complain about missed practices or travel logistics. The off-season gave Ilya a clear, uninterrupted runway to sink entirely into his new reality as a father, tucked away in the privacy of their Ottawa residence while Shane recovered and the twins settled into a routine.

By the time training camp opened for their third Cup run, getting back to professional hockey was going to take some adjustment. They were raising two infants while dealing with the demands of an 82-game season, and Shane had also returned to modeling after recovering much faster than anyone expected. Somehow, though, he and Ilya made it work. They had settled into a rhythm that seemed to work for both of them, rarely needing to say much to know who was handling what.

Coach LeClaire made subtle, deliberate adjustments behind the scenes. During road trips across North America, LeClaire quietly worked with the team’s travel coordinator to ensure Ilya always had a single suite reserved on a private floor.

It wasn't special treatment in terms of ice time or accountability; it was simple operational empathy. LeClaire knew that after twenty-two minutes of hard physical hockey, hitting five hits, and taking faceoffs against top centers, Ilya’s priority was opening his laptop, dialing into FaceTime, and watching Shane balance two tiny girls on his lap while detailing their feeding schedules and milestones.

LeClaire would occasionally walk past Ilya’s hotel room door late at night on away trips, catching the low, soft murmur of Ilya’s voice speaking a mix of Russian and English into his phone screen. Those quiet moments kept the captain grounded.

That third season, however, proved to be an uphill battle from the start. After all, you cannot win them all.

Parity in the league was too tight, the physical toll of back-to-back deep playoff runs was too severe, and the hockey gods eventually demanded their toll. By mid-November, the Boston Bears’ injury report looked like a medical ward casualty list.

First went their top-pairing left defenseman with a torn shoulder labrum. Two weeks later, their second-line center took a puck to the ankle, sidelining him for two months. By January, half of the first and second lines were either sitting in the press box in street clothes or playing through core injuries that severely limited their speed.

Ilya skated like a possessed man all winter, carrying an extraordinary burden on his shoulders. He logged massive minutes, played on both special teams units, and shielded the younger call-ups as best he could. But hockey is a team sport of attrition, and even a generational talent cannot overcome a roster missing four of its top six forwards and its top defensive anchor.

The Bears fought valiantly through the early rounds, but their gas tank was empty. They fell short before making it to the finals, watching the New York Admirals claim the Eastern Conference crown before the Colorado Avalanche ultimately raised the Stanley Cup in June.

When the final horn sounded on their season, there were no bitter meltdowns in the Boston locker room. There was disappointment, certainly, but also a pragmatic understanding. Back-to-back Stanley Cup titles had been a monumental achievement. A year of recovery, proper rehab for the injured core, and a full summer of rest was exactly what the roster needed.

LeClaire had stood before his team in the silent locker room after their elimination game, looking around at the exhausted faces of his players. He didn't offer a dramatic speech. He simply told them to rest, heal, and come back in September hungry, because the Boston Bears were far from finished. They would return stronger, rested, and ready to reclaim what was theirs.

Now, two months into the off-season, the mood was light, warm, and entirely removed from the pressure of the rink.

The afternoon sun lit up the back patio of the Rozanov-Hollander estate, casting a golden glow over the manicured lawn, the outdoor dining setup, and the sparkling pool area. The house was a stunning blend of warm wood, grand glass panels, and modern architecture.

Today was a special milestone: the first birthday of the twins.

The backyard was filled with the usual mix of people. Bears teammates—including Cliff, who was currently trying to grill burgers without burning off his eyebrows—had fallen into easy conversations with Shane’s agency contacts.

And Rose Fucking Landry.

Shane’s friends and family seemed to have absorbed the team into the gathering without much effort. David and Yuna Hollander moved between the guests, chatting with the coaching staff and catching up with people near the patio tables.

Coach LeClaire stood near the shade of the grand oak tree at the edge of the patio, a bottle of sparkling water in his hand, taking in the entire scene like a proud papa bear watching his extended family.

At the center of the lawn, a large picnic blanket was laid out, covered in colorful soft blocks, stuffed animals, and two small smash cakes decorated in light pastel frosting.

Sitting in the middle of the blanket were the two stars of the day.

The contrast between the twin girls was striking and beautiful. The older sister sat upright, her dark hair framed around her face, as her brown eyes curiously inspecting a plastic toy. She had a distinct scatter of tiny moles near her jaw, an exact mirror of Shane’s soft baseline, though her calm, observing demeanor carried an intensity that came straight from her father. Beside her, her younger sister giggled happily, waving a frosted spoon with chaotic energy. She was a cheerful, blonde little creature with bright blue eyes, her nose dusted with a faint sprinkle of tiny freckles that caught the afternoon sunlight.

Shane leaned down, wiping a stray smudge of pink frosting from the dark-haired girl’s cheek with a napkin, his laugh light and musical as he looked up at his husband.

Ilya sat right on the grass beside them, completely unbothered by his tailored linen shirt or the possibility of grass stains on his trousers. The giant captain—the same man who intimidated opposing players across the league—was currently letting the blonde twin drag a plush hockey stick over his head while he made soft, ridiculous growling sounds to make her laugh.

LeClaire took a slow sip of his water, as pride swelled in his chest.

Over near the grill, Vance walked up beside LeClaire, holding a plastic cup of lemonade and watching the scene on the lawn. The General Manager looked relaxed, his summer tan replacing the pale, stressed complexion he usually wore during the trade deadline.

"Quite a setup," Vance noted softly, taking a sip. "Hard to believe it's been a whole year since that night we raised the Cup for a second time."

"Time moves fast when they're healthy," LeClaire replied, his gaze fixed on Ilya, who was now carefully lifting both baby girls into his arms, holding them with an effortless, protective strength that looked entirely natural.

"You were right, you know," Vance said quietly, looking down at his cup for a second before turning to LeClaire. "Back during that second Cup run. In my office. When I was panicking about whether he'd be focused on the finals or his upcoming pups."

LeClaire turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow at his boss.

"I mean it," Vance continued, offering a rare, genuine moment of humility. "If I had pushed him the way I wanted to... if I had treated his personal life like a distraction... I probably would have broken him. Or he would have walked. Seeing him like this now... he brought us that second Cup under total exhaustion, and he did it because he had a real home to fight for."

"He needed a family, Mark," LeClaire replied smoothly, turning his eyes back to the blanket where Shane was wrapping an arm around Ilya's waist, leaning his head against Ilya's broad shoulder as they watched the girls play with their gift boxes. "He spent his entire youth being told that his only value was what he produced on six thousand square feet of ice. That rots a kid from the inside out. Shane gave him an anchor, and the girls gave him a future."

Vance nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth in the words. "And next season?"

A sharp, familiar glint returned to LeClaire’s eyes. "Next season, our players will be healthy again and rested. We’re coming back for that Cup, and everyone in the league knows it."

Vance smiled, tapping his cup against LeClaire’s water bottle. "I'll hold you to that, Coach."

As Vance wandered off to talk to the athletic trainers near the pool, LeClaire remained standing under the shade of the tree, enjoying the warm summer breeze.

From across the lawn, Ilya glanced up, catching LeClaire's eye. The captain offered a brief, respectful nod—a silent, unspoken acknowledgment between two men who had walked through the fire together and come out the other side intact. LeClaire raised his glass in return, a soft smile touching the corner of his mouth.

For thirty years, Coach LeClaire had managed locker rooms, drawn up power plays, and fought boardrooms to protect the young men who wore his team's jersey. In every way that truly mattered, his players were his boys. He had watched them arrive as scared, arrogant, or broken teenagers, and he had helped guide them into men.

Watching Ilya Rozanov laugh freely under the afternoon sun, surrounded by his husband, his healthy daughters, and a community that loved him for who he was rather than what he scored, LeClaire felt an absolute, serene sense of fulfillment.

The kid from Moscow wasn't lost anymore. He wasn't dead-eyed, isolated, or trapped under the weight of a system that viewed him as property. He was a two-time champion, a partner, a father, and a man who had reclaimed his life on his own terms.

And as far as Coach LeClaire was concerned, that was the greatest victory any coach could achieve.

Chapter 9: Cliff Marleau

The summer heat of late August had settled over Boston, but in the spacious, sunlit backyard of the Rozanov-Hollander estate, a cool breeze swept off the harbor, keeping the afternoon comfortable.

It was the annual pre-season barbecue; a tradition that had organically formed over the last few years to welcome new roster additions, re-connect after the off-season, and let everyone unwind before the grueling 82-game grind of the season officially kicked off.

Cliff Marleau leaned back against the patio railing, a cold beer resting in his palm, his eyes scanning the crowd with the practiced, easy vigilance of a veteran alternate captain. The yard was packed. Children were running through the sprinklers near the pool, players were gathered around the outdoor kitchen, and wives and girlfriends were scattered across the lounge chairs under the shade of the grand pergola.

Standing right beside Cliff was the team’s newest acquisition: Carmichael.

The twenty-one-year-old winger had been acquired in a draft-day trade earlier that summer. He wasn't a wide-eyed, eighteen-year-old rookie straight out of juniors, but at twenty-one, he still had that distinct, polished-bright look of a young player entering a championship-caliber locker room for the first time. He carried himself with a mixture of genuine awe and visible nervousness, his eyes constantly tracking the room.

"Man," Carmichael muttered softly, taking a quick sip of his Corona. "It's just crazy being here. This is the team that did back-to-back Cups in '14 and '15. You look around, and everybody’s just... so relaxed."

Cliff let out a chuckle, tapping the neck of his beer bottle against Carmichael's. "Give it two weeks until training camp fitness testing, kid. Nobody’s gonna look relaxed then. But for now, yeah. Enjoy it. Eat some food, meet the guys."

As an alternate captain—and one of the few guys who had been with the Boston Bears long enough to remember when the locker room felt like a cold war bunker—Cliff took it upon himself to keep an eye on Carmichael. Ilya should have been helping too, but as captain and host, he was busy holding court at the massive stainless-steel smoker near the patio. A few veteran defensemen had gathered around him, all of them arguing about the proper temperature for brisket.

That left Cliff to shepherd the new guy.

"So," Cliff said, gesturing toward the various groups scattered across the lawn. "Over by the pool, that's our top-pairing left wing and his wife. Near the bocce court, those are the call-ups from Providence. If you need anything regarding housing or getting settled in Boston, talk to me or Connors. Don't go bugging Ilya with appliance delivery schedules."

"Got it," Carmichael nodded quickly. But as he spoke, his gaze drifted past the grill, past the pool, and locked onto the far side of the patio.

Cliff followed the kid's eyes and suppressed a grin.

Sitting in a massive, deep-cushioned outdoor armchair under the shaded canopy of the pergola was Shane Hollander.

Shane was draped in a loose, cream-colored linen shirt, effortlessly regal, surrounded by half a dozen wives and girlfriends. The twins—now a year old—were nestled on the blanket at his feet, playing with wooden blocks. Yuri was calmly inspecting a toy, while Sofia was actively trying to climb her father's leg. Shane was laughing at something one of the defensemen’s wives said, brushing a stray dark lock of hair from his forehead with the back of his hand.

It was, quite literally, like watching a queen hold court.

Cliff couldn't blame Carmichael for staring. Cliff was straight, and in their world that didn't necessarily mean he had to be interested exclusively in women. An Alpha could be with an Omega of the opposite sex or the same sex and still be considered straight; the Alpha/Omega dynamic was what mattered. Cliff just happened to have no interest in men whatsoever. He liked women. Always had. No amount of societal acceptance of male Alpha/Omega pairings was going to change that.

But even a completely straight guy had eyes. Shane Hollander was one of the top supermodels on the planet for a reason. The guy was ridiculously, absurdly good-looking, with the kind of effortless visual charisma that made high-fashion brands throw millions of dollars at his agency. Cliff might not want him, but he wasn't blind.

However, as Cliff watched Carmichael's eyes linger a second too long on Shane, a cold, instinctive alarm went off in the back of Cliff's head.

Because Carmichael didn't know Ilya Rozanov. Not really.

Cliff knew how Head Coach Leclaire looked at Ilya. The entire locker room joked about it behind closed doors—Coach Leclaire was the team’s resident "Papa Bear." Leclaire looked at Ilya with this protective, paternal sympathy, convinced that Ilya was just a poor, damaged kid who had been victimized and drained by the Russian Hockey Federation, someone who needed a safe space to heal his soul.

Cliff knew that narrative was, at best, only half the story.

From the very first day Ilya stepped into the Boston locker room years ago, Cliff had seen something far more dangerous in the Russian’s eyes. It wasn't the dead-fish stare of a victim. It was the flat, terrifying gaze of a predator who looked at the rest of humanity and felt absolute detachment. Ilya looked at people as if he could watch a man burn alive right in front of him and not even blink. He didn't care about corporate rules, or societal expectations, and he certainly didn't care about being liked.

And yet, paradoxically, Ilya was the most magnetic leader Cliff had ever skated beside.

When Ilya stood up in the locker room before a Game Seven, his voice sharp and dripping with absolute certainty, he could make twenty grown men feel like they were completely invincible. He pumped you up, dragged you into the trench, and made you want to go to war for him—even if you secretly knew that if you dropped dead on the ice, Ilya would probably just step over your body and score the winning goal anyway.

It was terrifying. But it worked.

The only thing that had ever humanized Ilya Rozanov—the only anchor that had pulled him back from that dark, sociopathic edge—was Shane.

Since mating with Shane, Ilya had softened just enough to resemble a functioning human being. He laughed more, he communicated on the bench, and he was genuinely devoted to his family. The rule in the Boston Bears locker room was unwritten, unspoken, but universally understood: Keep Shane happy, keep Shane safe, and Ilya will be the greatest captain you could ever dream of.

But if anyone ever threatened that? If anyone ever tried to court Shane, seduce him, or even disrespect the bond between them?

Cliff didn't put it past Ilya for a single second to murder a guy, haul his corpse out into the Massachusetts woods, and hide the body so deep nobody would ever find it. With that in mind, he stepped directly into Carmichael's line of sight, blocking his view of the armchair under the pergola.

Carmichael blinked, snapped out of his trance, and looked up at Cliff in surprise.

"Look, kid," Cliff began, keeping his tone casual, but razor-sharp. "I'm gonna give you a piece of veteran advice, and I need you to listen to me very carefully."

Carmichael straightened his posture. "Okay... sure, Cliff. What is it?"

Cliff took a slow sip of his beer, leaning in slightly. "Stop gay-staring at our captain's mate."

Carmichael’s face instantly flushed a violent, bright red. His jaw dropped, and he stumbled backward a half-step, waving his hands in frantic, high-pitched denial.

"What?! No! Oh my god, no, no, no!" Carmichael squeaked, his voice cracking slightly as he looked around in sheer terror to see if anyone had heard. "Cliff, no! I am one-hundred-percent straight! I swear to God! I am not—I'm not staring at him like that! At all!"

Cliff raised an eyebrow, entirely unmoved by the panic. "Carmichael, you've been staring over at that armchair for the last five minutes like he's a steak and you haven't eaten in a week. Ilya has eyes on the back of his head, kid. If he thinks you're making a play for his husband, you won't make it to the first pre-season game. You'll just quietly disappear from the roster, and we'll all be told you got traded to a minor league team in Siberia."

"I wasn't making a play!" Carmichael practically whined, clutching his Corona with white knuckles, sweating profusely now despite the pleasant breeze. "I swear, Cliff! I don't want to court Shane! I don't want to get murdered!"

"Then why are you staring at him like he's the Holy Grail?" Cliff asked, crossing his arms.

Carmichael swallowed hard, taking a ragged breath. He looked over Cliff's shoulder toward the pergola, his expression shifting from blind panic to something surprisingly vulnerable.

"I... I just wanted to thank him," Carmichael said quietly, his voice dropping into a tone of genuine reverence.

Cliff frowned, caught entirely off guard. "Thank him? For what? Model advice?"

"No," Carmichael shook his head, looking down at his sneakers for a second before meeting Cliff's eyes. "Shane... he means a lot to my family. My younger sister... she's an Omega. Growing up in our town, it was really hard on her. People treated her like she was fragile and couldn't have a real career, as if she had to just accept whatever life handed her. She was really depressed for a long time."

Carmichael took a deep breath, his hands stabilizing on his drink.

“And then she discovered Shane. An Omega supermodel, who owned his identity and didn't let the media push him around. He built this incredible, high-profile life on his own terms. My sister... she bought every magazine he was ever on. Shane gave her the confidence to stand up for herself, to go to college, to believe she actually had a future."

Carmichael looked back toward the armchair where Shane was currently laughing, gently lifting Sofia onto his lap while Yuri rested her head against his knee.

"I just... I've wanted to thank him in person for years," Carmichael muttered softly, a embarrassed flush lingering on his cheeks. "My mom told me before I flew out to Boston that if I ever met Shane Hollander, I had to tell him what he did for my sister. That's why I was looking over there. I was just trying to figure out if I'd sound like an idiot if I walked up to him."

Cliff stood motionless against the patio railing, the cold beer bottle resting loosely in his hand.

Mentally, Cliff just stopped.

What the fuck, Cliff thought, staring at the twenty-one-year-old winger with a mixture of profound relief and utter disbelief.

He had prepared himself to run interference on a hopeless, suicidal crush to save a new traded player from being turned into shark bait by their Russian captain. Instead, he was standing next to a wholesome, family-oriented kid who just wanted to deliver a sweet fan message from his little sister.

Cliff sighed, shaking his head with a faint, amused smile.

"Jesus Christ, kid," Cliff muttered, rolling his shoulders. "You could've just led with that."

"I tried!" Carmichael protested defensively. "You jumped straight to telling me I was gay-staring at the captain's mate!"

"Because you were looking at him like a lost puppy!" Cliff countered, chuckling as he patted Carmichael on the shoulder. "Alright, look. Here's how we're gonna handle this. You're not going over there by yourself, because if Ilya sees a twenty-one-year-old guy hovering over Shane's armchair looking emotional, he will misinterpret it."

Carmichael paled again. "Right. Good point."

"We're gonna wait until Ilya finishes up at the smoker," Cliff instructed, turning the kid toward the grill area where Ilya was currently wiping his hands on a towel. "Then, I am going to walk over there with you. I will introduce you to Ilya first. You will be polite, you will talk about hockey for two minutes, and then we will walk over to Shane together. You say your piece, you thank him for your sister, and then you step back."

Carmichael let out an audible sigh of relief, his shoulders visibly dropping three inches. "Thank you, Cliff. Seriously. I owe you one."

"Yeah, yeah," Cliff grinned, taking a long swig of his beer as he watched Ilya head toward the patio tables with a tray of fresh brisket. "Just score twenty goals this season and don't make me explain Omega fashion dynamics to the captain ever again."

As they headed down the patio steps toward the host of the party, Cliff glanced back one last time at Shane, who was looking up at Ilya with a radiant smile as the giant Russian dropped a soft kiss on top of his husband's head before handing him a plate of food.

Keep Shane happy, Cliff thought with a contented smirk. Keep Shane happy, and we might just win another Cup.

With his husband thoroughly pampered and settled into his armchair, Ilya turned on his heel and sauntered back toward the open-air grilling station. The heavy iron lid of the massive smoker was lifted once more, sending a fresh billow of savory, hickory-scented smoke curling up into the late afternoon sky. Ilya picked up his metal tongs, casually turning the remaining slabs of charred brisket and checking the internal heat.

Cliff caught Carmichael’s elbow, nudging the wide-eyed player forward as they approached the epicenter of the backyard’s culinary operation.

Ilya Rozanov was dressed casually—a dark, fitted short-sleeved shirt that stretched tight across his chest and shoulders, light linen trousers, and a pair of dark sunglasses pushed up into his thick blonde hair. To anyone else at the party, Ilya looked like the ultimate picture of relaxed luxury. He had a slight, lazy smirk resting on his lips, and a cold beer held casually between two thick fingers.

But Cliff had skated beside Ilya for years. Cliff knew how to read the finer details.

Behind those clear blue eyes, behind that deceptive, charming Russian smirk, there was a sharp, calculating focus that was currently locked straight onto Carmichael. The look in Ilya's eyes wasn't just protective; it was dark, territorial, and completely uncompromising. Cliff could practically see the mental gears turning in his captain’s head—Ilya was already calculating the logistics, evaluating Carmichael like a potential threat, and likely deciding which deep stretch of the Atlantic Ocean would be best suited for dumping a body if the kid took one wrong step toward his mate.

Cliff felt a subtle knot form in his stomach, but he kept his posture relaxed, slapping a friendly hand onto Carmichael's shoulder as they closed the final few feet.

"Hey, Cap," Cliff called out, his voice smooth and jovial, acting as the human shield he had promised to be. "Got a minute? The new guy wanted to say hello before he gets swallowed up by the food line."

Ilya slowly turned his head. The smirk remained, but his blue eyes narrowed just a fraction as his gaze slid from Cliff down to Carmichael. The pressure radiating off the giant Russian was immediate and stifling.

"Carmichael," Ilya said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carried that thick, velvet Russian accent. He didn't move. He didn't offer a handshake. He just stood there, towering over the twenty-one-year-old, exuding an effortless, terrifying dominance. "Are you enjoying the party?"

Carmichael swallowed hard. Cliff could feel the kid's shoulder muscles tense up under his hand like steel cables. "Yes, Mr. Rozanov—I mean, Cap," Carmichael corrected himself quickly, his voice tight. "It's... it's an incredible setup. Thank you for having us."

"Is good," Ilya replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of his beer without breaking eye contact. "We like to feed the new guys before we break them in training camp. Make sure you have enough energy to skate laps."

It was phrased as a joke, but there was zero humor in Ilya's eyes. The unspoken warning hung in the air: I am watching you.

Cliff didn't waste time letting the tension fester. "Cap, the kid actually came over here because he wanted to talk to Shane. He’s got something he wanted to say to him."

The shift in the atmosphere was instantaneous.

The lazy smirk vanished from Ilya's face. His jaw set into a firm, rigid line, and his eyes flashed with cold, sharp skepticism. Ilya didn't like people approaching Shane without a reason. He was fiercely, insanely possessive of his husband, guarding Shane's peace and privacy with the kind of ruthlessness that made opposition players steer clear of him on and off the ice.

"Shane is busy with the girls," Ilya said flatly, his tone dropping an octave.

"Please, Cap," Carmichael blurted out, his desperation cutting through his fear. He looked Ilya dead in the eye, his face flushing, but his expression entirely earnest. "I just... I want to thank him. He means a lot to my family. That's all. I promise."

Ilya stared at the kid for two agonizing seconds. He didn't believe him—not entirely. Ilya was too paranoid, too protective, and far too accustomed to people having ulterior motives around his family.

However, there was one universal truth about Ilya Rozanov that every veteran on the Boston Bears understood: Ilya could never, under any circumstances, resist hearing someone praise his husband.

Ilya loved Shane with an intensity that bordered on obsessive. He worshipped the ground Shane walked on, and while he hated fake flattery or media attention, genuine admiration for Shane was the one bypass switch in his brain. If someone genuinely recognized how extraordinary his mate was, Ilya would allow it.

The blond let out a short, rough breath through his nose, turning his head slightly toward the pergola. "Shane," he called out, his tone softening, filled with affection.

Over by the large outdoor lounge chair, Shane looked up.

He was holding a small glass of iced tea, looking entirely relaxed surrounded by the other wives and girlfriends. Hearing his name, Shane offered a warm, radiant smile, sliding out of the chair with grace. But before Shane could take two steps, a frantic commotion broke out on the picnic blanket near his feet.

"Papa! Papa!"

The twins had spotted Ilya.

At a year and three months old, the girls were no longer stationary infants. They were fully mobile, chaotic little humans who spent every waking hour testing their balance. Their movement wasn't a polished walk yet—it was a wide-legged, adorable, hasty waddle that looked like they were constantly on the verge of toppling over forward.

Yuri, wearing a small denim sun hat, abandoned her wooden blocks and began chugging across the lawn toward Ilya as fast as her tiny legs could carry her. Right behind her, Sofia let out a high-pitched squeal, abandoning a plush toy and waddling in hot pursuit, her small arms waving in the air for balance.

"Woah, woah, hold on," Shane called out softly, hovering right behind them like a protective shadow.

Shane bent at the waist, his long arms extending, his dark eyes wide and alert as he stayed exactly two inches behind the girls, ready to catch them the second a stray patch of grass or an uneven stone caused a stumble. His movement was so instinctive, so full of gentle, maternal vigilance, as he shepherded them safely across the lawn.

"Slow down, little monsters," Shane laughed softly, his voice light and musical, catching Yuri by the waist just as she misstepped near the edge of the patio stone, righting her smoothly before she could hit the ground.

Ilya dropped down to one knee in an instant.

The change in the captain was jarring. The terrifying, cold Alpha who had been subtly threatening a teammate two seconds ago vanished entirely. Ilya opened his arms, a wide, genuine, helpless smile breaking across his broad face as both girls slammed into his chest simultaneously.

"Look at you," Ilya murmured, wrapping his arms around them, pulling them tight against his neck as Sofia immediately grabbed his ear with a sticky hand. "You run so fast now. Where you go, huh? Who gave you permission to run?"

"Papa!" Yuri babbled, pressing her face into Ilya's linen shirt, giggling as he blew a raspberry against her cheek.

Shane stopped beside them, adjusting Yuri’s sun hat with a fond, affectionate touch, his hand resting casually on Ilya's shoulder. Shane looked up, his dark eyes sweeping over them. "Hey, Cliff," Shane greeted him warmly, offering a gentle smile. Then his gaze shifted to the new player. "Hi. You must be Carmichael. Welcome to Boston."

Carmichael froze. Up close, Shane Hollander was even more striking. The supermodel carried an air of warmth and poise that completely commanded the space around him, yet he stood there in an oversized linen shirt, holding a tiny shoe that one of the twins had kicked off, looking completely accessible and kind.

Carmichael took a steadying breath. He stepped forward, completely ignoring the lingering glare Ilya threw at him from his spot on the grass, and looked straight at Shane. "Mr. Hollander—Shane," Carmichael began, his voice shaking slightly before finding a firm, grounded rhythm. "I just... I wanted to take a minute to thank you. Properly."

Shane blinked, surprised, but his expression remained open and gentle. "Thank me? For what?"

"Two years ago," Carmichael said, his eyes bright with an intense, raw emotion that took everyone by surprise, "you did that big interview and cover story for Vogue. The one where you talked about your career, but you also spoke completely openly about your eating disorder. About the pressure, the restricted diets, and how close you came to destroying your health when you were younger."

Shane’s breath hitched slightly. The casual posture he held stiffened just a fraction, a shadow of old, painful memories flickering across his features before settling back into a solemn, attentive look. Ilya, still sitting on the grass with his arms wrapped securely around both twins, went motionless. His head snapped up, his blue eyes locking onto Carmichael with unyielding focus.

"My younger sister, Maya," Carmichael continued, his voice thick with a profound, aching honesty. "She was sixteen at the time. She was suffering from severe anorexia. It was... it was terrifying, Shane. She was hiding food, exercising until she fainted, and dropping weight so fast that my parents were out of their minds with fear. We tried everything. Doctors, therapists, arguments... nothing reached her. She was starving herself to death, and for a long time, my family genuinely thought we were going to lose her."

Shane swallowed hard, his hand tightening slightly on Ilya's shoulder.

"And then she read your article," Carmichael said, a small, trembling smile breaking through his serious face. "She had your picture on her wall because she loved your fashion work, but reading a global icon—a guy who looked completely invincible—admit that he was hurting, that he had an illness, and that getting help saved his life... it broke something open in her. That night, she walked into my parents' bedroom and said she wanted to go to a clinic."

Cliff felt a sudden, sharp tightness in his chest. He stood frozen beside the grill, his eyes wide, completely floored. He had expected a sweet fan story about a sister liking Shane's magazines and giving her the courage to pull forward as an Omega in an Alpha’s world, but he had no idea it ran this deep.

"She spent six months in an inpatient eating disorder facility," Carmichael explained, his voice brimming with gratitude. "She got proper treatment and learned how to manage it. Now, two years later, she’s healthy. She’s in college and has these daily alarms set on her phone—bright, loud alarms that tell her exactly when it’s time to eat, what nutrients she needs, and remind her to take care of herself. She hasn't slipped back once."

Carmichael took a step closer, placing his hand over his heart, looking at Shane with unfiltered reverence.

"My sister is alive today because you had the courage to be honest when you didn't have to be," Carmichael whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "You saved her life, Shane. You saved my family. And my mom told me that if I ever met you, I had to look you in the eye and tell you that the Carmichael family owes you everything."

The silence that followed was immense and overwhelming.

Shane stood motionless, his mouth slightly open, a sheen of tears brimming in his dark eyes. He brought a hand up to cover his mouth, taking a ragged, shuddering breath as the weight of Carmichael's words washed over him. Shane had done that interview to purge his own demons, never truly knowing the life-saving ripples it would send across the world to strangers in small towns.

"Oh," Shane breathed out, his voice thick with emotion. He stepped forward, abandoning any professional distance, and pulled Carmichael into a hug. "Oh, Carmichael... thank you. Tell your sister... tell Maya that she is so strong. Tell her I am so, so proud of her."

Carmichael hugged him back briefly, patting Shane's shoulder with respect before stepping back, wiping a quick, light trace of moisture from his eye, looking entirely relieved and at peace.

Cliff looked down at the grass, his own chest tight with genuine emotion, deeply moved by the scene.

Then, Cliff looked at Ilya.

The transformation in their captain was staggering.

Ilya was still on his knees on the lawn, both twins resting comfortably in his lap, but the dark, icy paranoia in his eyes had completely dissolved. His blue eyes were bright, soft, and shining with a mixture of intense, protective pride and deep warmth.

Ilya looked at Shane, who was wiping a stray tear from his cheek with a soft laugh, and then Ilya looked up at Carmichael.

The smirk returned to Ilya's face, but this time, it wasn't the terrifying, predatory threat from five minutes ago. It was a warm and welcoming smile, the kind of look Ilya reserved exclusively for the people he deemed worthy of his inner circle.

Cliff suppressed a sudden, amused grin as he realized what had just happened.

Carmichael had just bypassed every single test, every single initiation, and every hurdle in the book. By coming over here, humbling himself, and making Shane feel deeply moved and valued, the kid had secured the golden ticket.

In the space of three minutes, Carmichael had gone from being a potential body buried in the woods to instantly locking down a spot in the top five favorite Boston Bears on Ilya Rozanov's personal list. Ilya would jump in front of a puck, start a bench-clearing brawl, or fight an entire opposing roster to protect this kid now—all because he made Shane happy.

Ilya stood up smoothly, holding both twins securely against his chest with one massive arm, and extended his free, right hand toward Carmichael.

"Carmichael," Ilya said, his tone entirely sincere as he gripped the younger player's hand in a firm, powerful shake. "You eat as much brisket as you want today. Anything you need in Boston—housing, car, advice—you come to me or Cliff. You are family now."

Carmichael blinked, entirely unaware of the bullet he had just dodged, smiling brightly as he shook his captain's hand. "Thanks, Cap. Thank you so much."

"Go get food," Ilya added, nodding toward the patio table with a genuine grin. "Before the defensemen eat everything."

"Yes, sir!" Carmichael said happily, offering Shane one last respectful nod before turning and bounding toward the grill area with a light, energetic step.

Shane turned to Ilya, leaning his head against his husband's shoulder, letting out a long, emotional sigh as Ilya wrapped his heavy arm around Shane's waist, pulling him close and kissing the side of his temple with tender devotion.

Cliff took a slow sip of his beer, letting out a quiet, amused breath as he leaned back against the patio rail, watching his team's core stand strong in the afternoon sun.

Yeah, Cliff thought to himself, a dry, satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he looked at Carmichael chatting happily with the rest of the guys by the patio table. The kid's definitely gonna survive the season.

The afternoon sun shifted toward a warm, amber horizon, casting long shadows across the green expanse of the backyard. With the emotional tension surrounding Carmichael’s arrival completely cleared, the gathering slid into its familiar, comfortable rhythm.

Plates piled high with smoked brisket, charred sausages, roasted corn, and grilled vegetables were carried across the lawn to the wooden patio tables. Ice chests filled with craft beers, lemonades, and sparkling waters were emptied and restocked. The atmosphere was loud, relaxed, and brimming with the easy camaraderie that defined a team on the cusp of a new season.

Cliff sat at the head of one of the long tables, a fresh beer in hand, casually watching the dynamics play out across the yard.

At the far end of the patio, a massive tactical debate had broken out. Ilya was standing beside Shane, who had settled back into his large armchair with a plate of food resting on his knee. Surrounding them were Hammersmith, Koslov, and Simon, all leaning forward with intense expressions.

They were analyzing their second-round elimination from the previous spring.

"We were completely out-matched on the neutral zone transitions against the Admirals," Hammersmith was insisting, gesturing emphatically with a rib bone. "Their defense was pinching down every time we tried to chip and chase, and if we'd crossed over to face Florida later on, those turnovers would have buried us just as fast."

"Because you were chipping blindly into the left corner without looking at the weak-side winger," Shane spoke up smoothly, his tone remarkably calm as he set his fork down.

The entire table went still.

Shane took a small sip of his iced tea and looked directly at Hammersmith. "In Game Four, you had three distinct opportunities in the second period where the Admirals left the high slot wide open. Every time Ilya carried the puck over the blue line, you and St-Simon were dropping too deep into the perimeter instead of supporting the center lane. You gave their backcheckers an extra two seconds to trap Ilya along the boards. If your blueliners had step up three feet and offered a drop-pass option, their defense would have collapsed, and Ilya would have gotten a clear lane to the net."

Hammersmith blinked, his mouth dropping open slightly as he mentally replayed the game tape from four months ago. He opened his mouth to argue, stopped himself, and let out a dry, defeated whistle. "Damn. He's right. That's... exactly what happened."

Shane offered a modest, elegant shrug, leaning back into his cushions. "You don't need to rebuild your power play from scratch this season. You just need tighter gap control on the entry. If you guys commit to working on high-slot support during the first two weeks of camp, nobody in the Eastern Conference—not the Admirals, or even the Panthers—is going to stop your line transitions."

Cliff sat back against his wooden bench, staring at Shane in absolute, stunned silence.

Fucking Alphas, Cliff thought to himself, a mixture of profound respect and mild frustration swirling in his chest.

Cliff was still pissed about what hockey had lost when Shane left the sport behind for modeling. Being an Omega had already made Shane’s life harder than it needed to be, and Cliff knew how much bullshit he had dealt with because of it. He understood why Shane had chosen modeling. He just hated that hockey had given him a reason to.

Because Shane could have been something special behind the bench, too.

If he hadn’t become one of the biggest supermodels in the world, Cliff could easily picture him as a head coach or general manager someday. Shane saw the game differently. His spatial awareness was ridiculous, his hockey IQ was even better, and he could pick apart a play before most people had even realized what was happening. The NHL hadn't just lost a great player when Shane walked away from hockey. It had probably lost one hell of a hockey mind, too.

Beside Shane, Ilya was practically glowing.

The captain was standing tall, his broad chest puffed out like a proud peacock, a smug, arrogant smirk plastered across his face. Ilya looked around the gathering with his arms crossed, his blue eyes gleaming as if to say, Yes, look at my husband. He is smarter than all of you combined.

Cliff snorted into his beer, shaking his head at the sight. He couldn't resist.

"Hey, Cap," Cliff called out over the chatter, raising his glass toward Ilya. "Careful there. Puff any harder and your shirt's gonna burst at the seams."

A few of the veteran players burst into loud, boisterous laughter. But Ilya didn't even flinch. He simply threw his head back, letting out a booming laugh that echoed across the lawn, planting an unapologetic kiss right on the crown of Shane's head. Shane flushed slightly, swatting playfully at Ilya's hip, though an affectionate smile betrayed his amusement.

Cliff’s eyes shifted slightly to the left, taking in the young players standing near the edge of the patio stone.

Carmichael was still there, holding a plate of food, staring at Shane with the exact same wide-eyed, reverent awe he had displayed earlier. But right next to Carmichael stood Connors.

Cliff felt a sudden wave of fond nostalgia wash over him as he looked at Connors.

Back in 2014—the historic season where the Boston Bears had won their very first Stanley Cup in over a decade—Connors had been a wide-eyed nineteen-year-old rookie, and the first player on the Bears roster to win the Calder Memorial Trophy for Rookie of the Year since Ilya Rozanov himself had claimed it years prior.

In those early days, Connors had been like an eager, loyal puppy trailing after the team's leadership. When Shane had first entered Ilya’s life, Connors hadn't viewed Shane with romantic or sexual interest, not even close. To Connors, Shane was a mythical, revered figure, someone he looked up to with unconditional adoration. Connors would have happily marched into battle or skated through a brick wall if Shane or Ilya had asked him to.

Now, three years later, Connors was a core veteran on the team but seeing him stand next to Carmichael was like looking at a mirror image across time.

Both young players were standing side-by-side, practically vibrating with the exact same hero-worship, hanging on every word Shane uttered about neutral zone traps and power-play breakouts.

Connors leaned over to Carmichael, whispering loudly, "See? I told you. Shane knows the game better than half the coaching staff in the league. When he tells you where to position yourself on the ice, you listen."

Carmichael nodded feverishly, taking a hurried bite of his brisket like a student taking notes before an exam. "Yeah. Man, he's incredible."

Cliff chuckled softly, taking another swig of his beer. The Bears had a habit of collecting bright-eyed young talents who ended up completely devoted to the captain’s family.

As the sun sank lower, the gathering naturally split into distinct groups across the expansive estate, and Cliff’s attention drifted toward the sunroom area near the back garden.

The WAGs—the wives and girlfriends of the Boston Bears—were gathered around a long set of patio sofas, enjoying glasses of white wine and laughter.

In many other professional sports franchises across North America, the player spouses' group was notorious for being an absolute nightmare. Cliff had played long enough and heard enough horror stories from guys traded from other teams, to know how toxic those environments could be. On other rosters, the group dynamics were often crippled by catfighting, petty backstabbing, social ladder-climbing, and bitter jealousy over ice time, contracts, and media spotlight.

The Boston Bears, however, operated on a completely different planet.

Their spouses were a tight-knit, fiercely protective, highly organized elite unit.

If a player took a hard hit on a road trip and sustained a concussion, or if Koslov or a young call-up got unexpectedly summoned from the AHL affiliate in Providence in the middle of the night, the WAGs had a response protocol that rivaled a military operation.

They had an entire shared digital network. If a player was away on a two-week road trip and his wife fell ill at home with a newborn, the other spouses didn't just send text messages—they initiated an organized shift system. Meals were cooked and delivered, childcare and daycare pickups were seamlessly rotated, emergency grocery runs were executed, and emotional support was provided around the clock without a single drop of drama.

And the mastermind behind this entire flawless infrastructure was sitting right in the middle of them, holding a twin on his lap.

When Shane had officially moved to Boston after mating Ilya, he had taken one look at the chaotic, disorganized state of the team's family support system and quietly dismantled it. Using his elite organizational skills and corporate agency experience, Shane had designed a comprehensive, color-coded master schedule for the entire roster's families.

There were color-coded calendars for pediatric appointments, emergency contacts categorized by neighborhood, shared Google spreadsheets for carpooling to local schools, and a dedicated fund for family wellness days during the high-stress months of the playoffs.

Cliff watched as the wife of one of their defensemen pulled out her phone, showing Shane a color-coded notification on her screen. Shane looked at it, nodded with approval, and typed a quick note into his own device while offering her a reassuring smile.

The entire group of women surrounding Shane looked at him with an undeniable mix of deep affection, absolute trust, and profound respect. They looked, for all the world, like loyal subjects holding court with their undisputed queen.

Cliff covered his mouth with his hand to hide his broad, amused grin.

It was utterly hilarious to him. The terrifying, muscular, highly aggressive Boston Bears—a team of men who spent eight months a year smashing opponents into glass partitions and blocking hundred-mile-an-hour slapshots—were completely anchored by a color-coded organization system run by a global supermodel.

If any opposing team in the NHL knew that the secret weapon behind Boston's locker room stability and back-to-back championship runs was a shared, color-coded calendar managed by Shane Hollander, the sports media world would lose its collective mind.

"What are you smirking at, Marleau?"

Cliff turned his head to find Koslov stepping up to the picnic table, holding a fresh plate of grilled vegetables and looking surprisingly relaxed.

"Just enjoying the view," Cliff said smoothly, leaning back against the bench and gesturing toward the bustling yard. "Look at this place. The new kid's integrated, the veterans are arguing about game film, the kids are fed, and the spouses are running the front office better than the GM."

Koslov let out a short laugh, taking a seat across from Cliff on the bench, looking out over the crowded lawn.

"I won't even argue with you on that last point," Koslov admitted, taking a sip of his drink. "Shane’s emergency childcare schedule saved three of our starting defensemen from losing their minds during the 2015 playoff run when the flu swept through the city. The guy runs that side of the organization tighter than a corporate board."

"He's impressive," Cliff agreed softly, his tone shifting into something more reflective as he watched Shane hand Sofia over to Ilya so Shane could stand up and help rearrange the dessert table. "They both are."

"They've come a long way," Koslov noted, his gaze lingering on Ilya. The captain was currently sitting on a wooden bench, carefully holding both little girls while letting them draw on a paper napkin with bright crayons. "Remember his first two years here?"

"I do," Cliff replied gravely. "I remember thinking the kid was a time bomb. I thought he was either gonna end up banned from the league or back in Russia."

"And now?" Koslov asked.

Cliff looked across the yard.

Ilya was laughing openly as Sofia attempted to stick a colorful flower sticker right onto the bridge of his nose. Shane was walking over, holding a small plate of fresh strawberries, leaning down to place a warm, tender hand against the back of Ilya's neck. Around them, the entire Boston Bears roster—from twenty-one-year-old rookies like Carmichael to seasoned veterans like himself, St-Simon, Koslov, and Hammersmith—was thriving, relaxed, united, and completely ready to take on the brutal journey of the 2017 season.

"Now," Cliff said, raising his beer bottle toward the center of the patio in a silent, meaningful toast, "he's the best damn captain this franchise has ever seen. And he's got the family he deserves."

Koslov smiled, tapping his glass against Cliff's bottle. "To the 2017 season."

"To the Cup," Cliff corrected with a confident wink. "We're taking it back."

As the evening sky deepened into dark indigo and the outdoor fairy lights strung across the patio blinked to life, throwing a warm, golden glow over the laughing crowd, Cliff took a slow, satisfying drink. The road ahead would be brutal, long, and filled with pain, but looking around this yard, surrounded by his brothers, his leaders, and the family that held them all together, Cliff knew one thing for certain:

The Boston Bears were ready for war.

Chapter 10: Alexei Rozanov

The smell in the apartment was a permanent, sour cocktail of wet ash, cheap cabbage soup, and the copper tang of damp radiator pipes.

Alexei Rozanov sat at the chipped kitchen table in the dark, the faint, flickering glow of an old CRT television casting long, sickly blue shadows across the peeling yellow wallpaper. Outside the third-story window, the gray, suffocating sprawl of suburban Moscow stretched out under a heavy drizzle, the concrete apartment blocks standing like tombstones against the sky.

He raised a cracked teacup to his lips, but it wasn't tea inside. It was cheap, burning vodka that scraped down his throat like broken glass.

From the tiny bedroom down the narrow hallway came the sound of a dry, hacking cough, followed by a confused, slurred murmur. His father.

Grigori Rozanov—the man who had once walked through the police precincts of Moscow like a tsar, the proud, unyielding patriarch who had dictated every breath in this family with an iron fist—didn't even know what year it was anymore. The old man was ninety percent gone, his mind rotted away by time and stroke after stroke, trapped in a foggy loop where he constantly asked when the afternoon bus was coming to take him to work.

And across the hallway, behind a closed door that smelled faintly of burnt foil and chemical rot, slept Oksana.

Alexei squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenching so hard his back teeth groaned. His wife.

When Alexei had married her eight years ago, she was supposed to be his prize—the attractive daughter of a senior precinct chief, a respectable Russian woman who would keep his home clean, cook his meals, and bear him strong sons to carry on the Rozanov name. Instead, the universe had handed him a nightmare. Not only had the doctors confirmed early on that she was entirely infertile, but within three years, the boredom and the darkness of Moscow's underbelly had pulled her under.

Now, she was nothing more than a ghost shuffling through his apartment in a stained bathrobe, a crackhead and a needle addict who spent his hard-earned bribes on whatever chemical poison she could buy from the local street dealers. She didn't clean, nor did she cook. She sat in the dark, bleeding his pathetic income dry, shooting up until her veins collapsed while he was out on the streets doing the dirty work of a mid-level beat cop.

Alexei took another deep gulp of the vodka, his fingers trembling as he reached into his coat pocket on the back of the chair. He pulled out a small, crumpled foil packet, spilling a thin line of white powder onto the scarred wood of the table. He leaned down, blocking one nostril, and snorted it hard.

The burn hit his nasal cavity instantly, a sharp, icy surge of cocaine flooding his bloodstream, racing straight to his brain. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The numbness washed over him, but it didn't wash away the black, suffocating rage that lived in his chest every single second of his waking life.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Alexei was the oldest son. He was the firstborn. He was the one who had followed in his father's footsteps, stepping into the uniform, taking the beatings, bowing to the senior officers, and carrying the burden of the family name. By every right of God, tradition, and Russian blood, the success, the glory, and the wealth of the Rozanov family should have belonged to him.

Instead, all of it had been stolen by his useless, ungrateful little brother.

Ilya.

The name alone tasted like poison in Alexei’s mouth.

Ilya had always been the golden child. From the moment the boy was five years old and stood on the ice, their mother had looked at him like he was an angel sent directly from heaven. She had doted on him, smoothed his hair, and wiped his tears, giving him every scrap of tenderness she had ever denied Alexei. And their father—Grigori—had poured every single resource, every bribe he ever collected, and every ounce of his remaining ambition into that boy's hockey career.

Alexei remembered the cold, bitter winter mornings thirty years ago. Alexei would be ordered to stay home to scrub the floors or run errands, while Grigori personally walked Ilya to the rink, carrying the boy's heavy gear bag, screaming at the coaches to make sure his youngest son got first-line minutes.

“He is going to the NHL,” Grigori used to bark at the dinner table, slamming a fist on the wood while Alexei sat quietly in the corner, invisible. “He will earn millions of American dollars. He will buy us a villa in Sochi and make the Rozanov name famous. We are investing in him.”

It was supposed to be a family investment. Ilya’s talent was the property of the family. The plan had been crystal clear: Ilya would go across the ocean, sign a massive Western contract, and send millions of greenbacks straight back to Moscow every month. Alexei and his father would manage the money, buy real estate, secure high-ranking positions in the ministry, and live like kings off the kid's physical labor.

And what had that ungrateful, treacherous bastard done the moment he crossed the Atlantic?

He had severed the leash.

Alexei stood up so fast his chair screeched violently against the linoleum. He paced to the small, greasy window, staring out into the rain, his fist slamming hard against the glass frame.

Ilya hadn't sent millions back to Moscow. He hadn't bought his father a villa. He hadn't helped Alexei get a promotion in the department. The moment Ilya realized he didn't need them anymore—the moment he tasted Western freedom and signed his own checks—he had completely cut contact. He stopped answering Grigori’s calls and refused to send wire transfers. He left his father and his older brother to rot in this decaying two-room shithole while he lived in unfathomable, disgusting luxury on the other side of the world.

Alexei’s jaw twitched violently. He pulled out his phone, his thumb tapping aggressively on the cracked glass screen. He didn't even need to look up the news; the Western media shoved Ilya’s perfect, pristine life in his face every single day.

He pulled up a Canadian sports article published just that week.

There he was. Ilya Rozanov.

The image on the screen made Alexei’s stomach turn with a black, nauseating envy. Ilya was standing on the back lawn of a massive, multi-million-dollar cottage in Ottawa—a modern masterpiece of wood, glass, and manicured green grass that looked bigger than Alexei’s entire neighborhood precinct.

Ilya looked gigantic, healthy, and infuriatingly handsome. He wasn't wearing a uniform; he was dressed in tailored, expensive clothes, his blonde hair caught in the afternoon sunlight. And standing right beside him, leaning into his broad chest, was his mate—Shane Hollander.

Alexei sneered, his lips curling in disgust. Shane Hollander. A global supermodel. A man so ridiculously beautiful and famous that his face was plastered on billboards from New York to Tokyo.

And to make the mockery complete, Ilya was holding two little girls in his arms—his twin daughters. Healthy, beautiful, adored children who would grow up surrounded by nannies, private schools, security teams, and unlimited wealth. Ilya even had a Canadian passport now, completely untethered from the motherland, and immune to the misery of Moscow.

Alexei let out a harsh, rasping laugh that sounded like a cough.

"Look at him," Alexei whispered into the empty, cold kitchen, his voice trembling with a terrifying, unhinged fury. "Look at the golden boy."

How was any of this fair?

How could a traitor—a boy who betrayed his own father, turned his back on his blood, and abandoned his family—be rewarded with absolute paradise? Ilya had three Stanley Cup rings and tens of millions of dollars sitting in American bank accounts. He had a supermodel mate who adored him, two healthy daughters, two mansions, and the entire Western world worshipping him as a hockey god.

Meanwhile, Alexei—the dutiful son, the officer of the law, the one who stayed behind—was sitting in a filthy apartment with a senile father who wet his bed and a wife who sold her body's health for a hit of heroin.

"Alexei..."

The weak, cracking voice drifted from the hallway.

Alexei turned slowly. His father was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, clutching the frame with a pale, vein-riddled hand. Grigori was wearing an old, threadbare undershirt, his eyes milky and unfocused, his jaw slack as he stared blankly at his eldest son.

"Alexei?" the old man slurred, his voice trembling with confusion. "Where... where is the boy? Is Ilya back from practice? His gear... his gear needs to be dried for the morning game. Did he score today?"

A cold, razor-sharp spike of hatred drove straight through Alexei’s heart. Even now, with his brain turned to mush, the old man was still asking about Ilya. Still dreaming about the golden child who had abandoned them both.

Alexei stepped across the kitchen, grabbing his father roughly by the shoulder and shoving him backward down the hallway toward his dark room.

"Shut up, old man!" Alexei spat, his breath reeking of cheap vodka and chemical drain cleaner. "Ilya isn't coming back! He doesn't give a damn about you! He’s in Canada living in a palace while you die in your own shit!"

The old man blinked, his pale eyes filling with a vague, helpless terror, but he didn't understand. He just whimpered softly as Alexei pushed him onto the sagging mattress and slammed the bedroom door shut.

Alexei stood in the dark hallway, his broad chest heaving, his heart hammering in his throat from the cocaine.

From Oksana’s room, the low, metallic scrape of a lighter striking flickered twice, followed by the sweet, sickening smell of synthetic smoke drifting under the door. She didn't care about his anger, nor did she care about his father. She was already floating away in her own chemical abyss.

Alexei walked back into the kitchen, his boots heavy on the linoleum. He grabbed the vodka bottle, pouring another three fingers into his glass, his eyes fixing once more on the glowing phone screen resting on the table.

He stared at the photo of Ilya laughing under the Canadian sun, holding his daughters, his supermodel mate’s arm wrapped securely around his waist.

That was supposed to be mine, Alexei thought, the words repeating in his brain like a dark, relentless drumbeat. The money. The fame. The paradise. It was all supposed to be mine.

Ilya had stolen his life. Every luxury Ilya enjoyed across the ocean was a piece of Alexei’s soul that had been ripped away and handed to a traitor.

Alexei raised the glass to his lips, draining the vodka in one desperate, burning gulp, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed the phone in his other hand until the plastic casing creaked under the pressure.

"Enjoy your sunshine, little brother," Alexei whispered into the dark, cold silence of the Moscow apartment, his eyes burning with an endless, unholy hatred. "Enjoy your little family. Because every breath you take over there is a theft. And I hope you rot in hell for it."

He threw the phone onto the scarred wooden table, unable to look at the screen for another second. The suffocating silence of the kitchen pressed in on him, broken only by the distant, wet coughing of his father down the hall. Seeking anything to drown out the silence and the chaotic rushing in his ears, Alexei snatched up the remote.

The only TV in the apartment was an ancient, boxy piece of junk with a flickering cathode-ray tube, static buzzing constantly through its blown-out speaker.

Alexei sat in the dim glow, his blood running hot with cocaine and cheap vodka, his thumb jamming down on the greasy buttons of the plastic remote. Channel after channel flashed by—drab state news broadcasts, mindless game shows, soap operas—until he landed on Russia’s primary state sports network.

The screen cut to a polished studio, where two pundits in tailored suits sat behind a glowing desk, a large digital graphic floating between them.

Alexei’s hand froze on the remote.

On the screen was a montage of crisp, high-definition footage from two months prior. The ice was covered in silver confetti, the arena roaring with tens of thousands of screaming American fans. In the center of the frame, Ilya Rozanov was hoisting the Stanley Cup above his head, his face flushed, roaring with fierce, triumphant joy as his teammates swarmed him.

The banner at the bottom of the broadcast read in bold, red Cyrillic letters: BOSTON BEARS CLAIM 2017 STANLEY CUP — THIRD TITLE IN FOUR YEARS.

A third Cup, Alexei thought, his heart slamming against his ribs like a sledgehammer hitting concrete. Three in four years.

"Look at this glorious display," the older pundit on the screen spat, his tone dripping with condescending sarcasm as he adjusted his glasses. "The American media is calling him a legend. A generational talent. All while they parade him around Boston like a king."

The younger host leaned forward, a sneer crossing his face. "But what does any of this mean for Russia? Nothing. Absolutely zero. These are Western achievements paid for in American dollars. Ilya Rozanov hasn't worn the national jersey in years. He turned his back on the Federation, ignored his patriotic duties, and sold his soul to the highest bidder in Massachusetts."

"Worse than that," the first host chimed in, leaning toward the camera. "He officially renounced his allegiance to the motherland. He swore an oath to another flag, took a Canadian passport, and married a Western supermodel. The boy isn't Russian anymore. He is a traitor. A branded deserter who threw away his heritage to live like a decadent oligarch across the ocean."

The broadcast shifted to a phone-in segment, displaying social media quotes from Russian hockey fans. Every single comment echoed the same venom: Traitor. Deserter. Shame of Moscow. Let him stay in Canada.

In the eyes of the public, in the eyes of the state media, Ilya was a pariah. A branded villain hated by millions of his own countrymen. And yet, watching those two pundits talk, Alexei felt no satisfaction. He didn't feel vindicated. He didn't care that Russia hated Ilya.

Because none of that hatred changed the reality of his life.

"Who cares?!" Alexei suddenly roared at the television screen, his voice breaking into a ragged, guttural rasp as he slammed his fist onto the wooden table so hard the teacup rattled and spilled vodka across the linoleum. "Who cares if they call him a traitor?! Look at him! Look at his life!"

The state media could call Ilya a traitor all they wanted. They could strip his name from the hall of fame in Moscow and burn his old jerseys in the street. It didn't matter. Ilya was still a multi-millionaire. He was still sleeping in an estate in Canada, kissing his beautiful mate, holding his healthy twin daughters, and living in absolute, untouchable luxury. The hatred of a few million poor Russians in gray apartment blocks didn't reach him across the Atlantic. It didn't take away his money, his health, his fame, or his paradise.

The state media’s insults were just empty words, a pathetic cope for a country that couldn't touch him anymore.

A white-hot, blinding wave of unhinged rage violently snapped something inside Alexei’s brain. The cocaine in his bloodstream surged, magnifying every drop of jealousy, every bitter humiliation, and every ounce of misery he had swallowed for so many years.

"It's not fair!" Alexei screamed, standing up so fast his chair flew backward and crashed hard against the wall. "IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MINE!"

He grabbed the glass vodka bottle off the table and hurled it with all his strength directly at the television screen.

CRASH.

The bottle shattered the glass tube with a loud, sparking pop. Smoke curled out from the side of the plastic frame as the picture instantly dissolved into jagged lines and died.

"Alexei?!"

The bedroom door scraped open, and Oksana stepped out into the hallway.

She looked horrifying in the dim light. Her face was pale and sunken, dark purple bruises ringed her hollow eyes, and her stained bathrobe hung off her bony shoulders like a shroud. She reeked of burnt chemicals and sweat, her pupils dilated to tiny black pins as she stared at the shattered glass and the smoking TV on the floor.

"What are you doing?!" she shrieked, her voice thin, grating, and full of high-pitched panic. "Are you insane?! The neighbors are going to call the militia! Stop this madness!"

Alexei slowly turned his head toward her. His eyes were bloodshot, wide, and entirely devoid of reason. The dark, sociopathic rage that had been festering in his chest for years completely consumed him.

"Shut up," Alexei growled, stepping over the shattered glass.

"You're going to get us evicted!" Oksana yelled, her trembling hands clutching the lapels of her robe as she stepped backward down the hallway. "You worthless drunk! You spend all our money on blow and vodka and then you smash the house! Look at you! You're nothing! You're half the man your father was!"

You're nothing.

The words echoed in his skull like a gunshot.

"I said SHUT UP!" Alexei screamed, his vision tunneling into a red, blinding haze.

He lunged forward, closing the distance between them in a split second. He grabbed Oksana by the collar of her bathrobe, his hand ripping the fabric as he slammed her violently against the hallway wall.

"Alexei, no—!" she gasped, her hands clawing futilely at his wrists, her small, frail frame shuddering with sudden, real terror.

He didn't see his wife anymore. He didn't even see a human being. In his drug-addled, shattered mind, he saw every failure, insult, rejection, and every drop of misery that had dragged him into the dirt while his brother soared. All the hatred meant for Ilya, for his father, for his ruined career, and for his miserable life turned entirely onto the fragile woman in his grip.

He raised his heavy fist, his knuckles white, his chest heaving with ragged, terrifying breaths.

"You ruined me!" Alexei shouted, his voice cracking with an unhinged, guttural fury as he pulled her forward to strike her again. "You're a leech! You're a useless, infertile whore! I should have left you in the gutter!"

Oksana screamed, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the apartment wall, but Alexei didn't care. He hauled her back, his muscle memory as a beat cop taking over, preparing to rain down brutal, merciless force.

BOOM.

The front door of the apartment blew inward with a deafening, splintering crack. The wood tore straight off its metal frame, crashing loudly into the entryway in a cloud of plaster dust and shattered deadbolts.

Alexei froze, his fist still raised in the air, his head snapping toward the front entry in confused shock.

Before his brain could even process who had smashed through the door, a dark silhouette stepped out of the dust-filled threshold into the narrow hallway. The figure moved with lightning, terrifying speed—too fast for a normal man, moving like a heavily armored freight train.

A split second later, a solid, brutal impact exploded directly into the back of Alexei's head.

It wasn't a fist. It felt like being hit by a flying steel beam.

The pressure wave shattered his inner ear instantly. A loud, high-pitched ringing roared in his skull, blinding white sparks exploding across his vision as the blow drove him forward. His grip on Oksana snapped, and his feet completely gave out beneath him.

Alexei crashed face-first onto the cold, filthy floorboards of the hallway.

Pain didn't even have time to register. The shock wave from the strike rattled his brain against his skull, short-circuiting his nervous system. His limbs went completely limp and unresponsive, as if his body had been instantly turned to lead.

From somewhere high above him, through the thick, foggy haze settling over his consciousness, he heard a boot step right beside his head. He heard Oksana sobbing hysterically on the floor, her frantic, terrified whimpers echoing down the hall. He heard the weak, confused voice of his father calling out from the back room, entirely lost in his own mind.

Alexei tried to open his eyes, tried to lift his chin off the cold floor, but his muscles refused to obey.

The light in the hallway began to rapidly recede, shrinking into a tiny, flickering dot at the end of a long, dark tunnel. The roar of the TV, the screaming, the cocaine-fueled heartbeat in his chest—all of it faded out, replaced by an absolute, freezing cold.

The return to consciousness was slow, painful, and drowning in a suffocating fog.

Alexei’s head throbbed with a rhythmic, sickening pulse, as if a rusted spike was being driven into the base of his skull with every heartbeat. His mouth tasted like ash and copper, his tongue thick and dry against his teeth. The sharp, icy rush of cocaine was long gone, leaving behind a hollow, agonizing crash that made his bones ache.

He blinked, his eyelids feeling as heavy as lead.

The light above him was harsh and clinical, a humming fluorescent tube that burned his retinas. The air didn't smell like wet ash or cabbage soup anymore. It smelled of bleach, rubbing alcohol, and cheap floor wax—the unmistakable, sterile stench of a state hospital.

Disoriented, Alexei tried to raise his right hand to rub his throbbing temples, but his arm refused to move. He frowned, shifting his shoulder, pushing against the weight. A harsh, metallic clink echoed through the small room.

Alexei’s eyes snapped open wider, forcing himself to focus through the blur. His right wrist was wrapped in a thick leather restraint, locked tightly with a steel handcuff to the cold iron side-rail of the hospital bed. He tried his left arm—chained. He shifted his legs—thick canvas straps bound his ankles securely to the frame.

"What..." he rasped, his voice a dry, ruined whisper. "What is..."

He thrashed against the metal, his heart hammering in panic. He was a police officer. He was the one who put cuffs on people. He was the one who dragged drunks and addicts into holding cells. Being pinned to a bed like a rabid dog set off a primal, furious alarm in his chest.

"I wouldn't pull on those," a voice spoke from the corner of the room. "The leather is old, but the steel is solid. You'll only tear your skin."

Alexei froze. He turned his head slowly, the movement sending a sharp wave of nausea through him.

Sitting in a vinyl armchair near the window was a man dressed in a dark, tailored woolen coat, a silver-topped walking cane resting between his knees. His hair was slicked back, graying at the temples, and his face was carved into hard, unforgiving lines.

Sergei Vetrov.

Alexei stared at him, his mouth agape.

Vetrov was a powerful man—a high-ranking municipal official with deep ties to the regional ministries and old party favors. But more than that, Vetrov was another soul in Moscow whom Ilya Rozanov had left in the dirt.

Years ago, before Ilya had crossed the ocean, there had been an unspoken arrangement. Vetrov’s daughter—a spoiled, status-obsessed girl—was supposed to be wed to Ilya once his career took off. It was meant to be a grand political alliance, securing Vetrov’s influence and elevating the Rozanov family into the elite tiers of Moscow society.

Instead, Ilya had treated the arrangement like trash. He had ignored her calls, boarded a plane to North America, and eventually mated a Canadian supermodel, leaving Vetrov’s daughter humiliated, unmarried, and a laughingstock among her social peers.

Seeing Vetrov sitting in this sterile hospital room felt like a fever dream.

"How the mighty have fallen," Vetrov looked down at Alexei with a disgusted sneer. "Look at you, Alexei. Chained to a bed, reeking of cheap vodka and street powder, bleeding out of your ears."

Alexei’s jaw clenched, his eyes flaring with venomous rage. "Vetrov... you old bastard," he spat, his raspy voice rising as he pulled violently against the handcuffs. "Who the fuck do you think you are?! Unchain me! I am an officer of the law! I am a Rozanov! You have no right—"

"Shut up."

The command wasn't yelled. It was delivered with the flat, absolute authority of a man who held every card in the room. Vetrov raised his cane half an inch and brought it down hard against the linoleum floor.

BANG.

The sudden noise rang like a gunshot in the tiny room. Alexei flinched, his words cutting off as Vetrov leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits.

"You will shut your mouth and listen to me," Vetrov growled, his tone dripping with contempt. "You are not an officer of the law anymore, Alexei. You haven't been one since last night. And the only reason you are breathing right now without a pipe down your throat is because I am an old friend of your father."

Alexei panted, his chest heaving under the hospital gown, his blood running hot with fury, but he stayed silent, glaring at the older man.

"While Grigori had never been a good man, once he had been a strong one," Vetrov continued coldly, a shadow of genuine pity passing over his harsh features. "It disgusts me to see what his household has become because of you. Because of your pathetic, weak-willed incompetence."

"My father..." Alexei rasped, his eyes darting toward the door. "Where is he?"

"Where he belongs," Vetrov replied flatly. "I had my people transfer Grigori to a private medical facility outside the city this morning. It is a clean institution. He has a bed, nurses to take care of him, and he will be fed three meals a day until his body gives out completely. It is a mercy. A mercy paid for entirely out of my own pocket, because your father deserved better than to die in his own filth while his oldest son snorted chemical dust in the kitchen."

"And me?" Alexei demanded, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the iron bedrail. "What about me?! Call the precinct! You call Captain Markov! Tell him to get these cuffs off me! My father still has political leverage—"

"Your father has nothing!" Vetrov interrupted harshly, his voice cutting through Alexei’s frantic delusion like an axe. "Your father has dementia, Alexei! His mind is rot! Whatever political protection he built thirty years ago dried up the moment he stopped remembering his own name!"

Vetrov leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixing on Alexei with detachment.

"What kept you out of prison all these years?" Vetrov asked rhetorically. "It wasn't your skill, nor was it your intelligence. You were a corrupt, drunken beat cop who stole from crime scenes and took bribes from street dealers. The only reason the department didn't throw you into a labor camp ten years ago was because the precinct chiefs still respected Grigori. But that shield is gone now."

Vetrov gestured vaguely toward the door. "Last night, the neighbors called the militia. You destroyed your own TV, smashed the apartment to pieces, and brutally beat your wife. You were caught in the act, Alexei. Red-handed. By three active officers who saw you holding a unconscious woman by her hair."

Alexei’s breath hitched. "Oksana..."

"She is in the Intensive Care Unit three floors down," Vetrov said coldly. "Concussion, fractured jaw, and severe internal bleeding. The doctors say she will survive, but her body is ruined. And because she is a high-risk addict, the state has taken over her medical guardianship."

Vetrov reached inside his dark wool coat, pulled out a thick manila envelope, and tossed it onto the thin blanket covering Alexei’s legs.

"What is this?" Alexei growled, staring at the paper.

"Divorce papers," Vetrov stated plainly. "And a full, legally binding release of all assets, claims, and property rights. You will sign them. You will allow Oksana her freedom and surrender whatever pathetic remnants of your family's estate remain."

Alexei stared at the envelope, his vision blurring with a fresh wave of blinding, unhinged fury.

"Divorce?!" Alexei screamed, his voice tearing out of his throat, echoes bouncing wildly off the tile walls. "She is my wife! She's a useless, infertile crackhead! She bled me dry! I'm not signing shit! You hear me, Vetrov?! I'll see her rot in the street before I give her a single ruble!"

He thrashed violently against the bed, the leather straps groaning under the pressure, the steel handcuffs banging loudly against the metal frame.

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

"I am a Rozanov!" Alexei shrieked, his face turning a dark, dangerous crimson, veins bulging along his neck. "You can't do this to me! I'll kill her! I'll kill you! I'll rip your throat out, you old bastard! Unchain me! UNCHAIN ME!"

Vetrov didn't even blink at the display of wild, animalistic rage.

He simply stood up slowly, smoothing the front of his dark wool coat with one hand. He picked up his silver-topped cane, looking down at Alexei with the kind of clinical pity one reserved for a rabid dog being led to a cage.

"You are going to prison, Alexei," Vetrov told him, his tone entirely devoid of warmth. "A state penal colony. With Grigori incapacitated and the department washing its hands of you, you will face maximum sentencing for aggravated assault, domestic violence, and possession of controlled substances. You will spend the next fifteen years rotting in a cell with the very men you used to arrest."

"GO TO HELL!" Alexei roared, spitting wildly toward Vetrov’s shoes. "YOU TRAITOROUS OLD SWINE! I'LL HAVE YOU KILLED! I'LL HAVE MY BROTHER KILL YOU!"

Vetrov stopped at the threshold of the door. He turned his head slightly, a small, bitter smile touching his thin lips.

"Your brother?" Vetrov asked mockingly. "Ilya doesn't even know you exist anymore, Alexei. He is in North America, revered by fans as a champion. He has a life you couldn't even dream of. If I called him right now and told him you were going to a penal colony, he wouldn't even lift a finger to save you."

Vetrov opened the door, stepped out into the bright hallway, and pulled the door shut behind him, the latch clicking firmly into place.

"VETROV!" Alexei screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice breaking into a ragged, pathetic shriek. "VETROV, YOU BASTARD! COME BACK HERE! UNCHAIN ME! UNCHAIN ME!"

He thrashed with all his strength. He kicked his legs, pulling against the ankle restraints until the coarse canvas bit deep into his flesh, tearing his skin, but the metal frame held firm. The leather digged into his wrists, cutting off his circulation, but he didn't care. He was a storm of helpless fury.

Within seconds, the hospital door burst open again.

Two male orderlies in scrubs rushed into the room, followed closely by a senior female doctor holding a stainless-steel tray.

"Get off me!" Alexei spat, trying to bite the hand of the first orderly who reached down to pin his shoulders to the mattress. "Don't touch me! I'll kill you all! I'm an officer of the law! I'm a Rozanov!"

"Hold his arm!" the doctor commanded sharply, her tone professionally and unimpressed by his screaming. "He's going to tear his stitches! Prepare the sedative!"

The orderlies leaned their full body weight onto Alexei, pinning his chest and shoulders flush against the hard mattress. Alexei writhed, his legs kicking against the foot of the bed, his throat raw and bleeding as he screamed obscenities into the ceiling.

"You're all dead!" he choked out, tears of blinding rage spilling over his eyelashes. "Every single one of you! I'll burn this hospital down!"

The doctor stepped up to the side of the bed, her fingers expertly locating a vein in his arm. She wiped the skin with an alcohol swab, unrolled a syringe filled with a thick, milky liquid, and plunged the needle straight into his skin.

"Injecting ten milligrams of haloperidol," she noted flatly. "Sedating the patient."

The chemical hit his bloodstream instantly.

It wasn't a gentle wave; it was a cold, heavy sledgehammer that struck his central nervous system. Within five seconds, the wild, frantic strength in Alexei’s limbs began to wither. His muscles turned to lead, as his fingers loosened their grip on the iron bedrail, slipping uselessly onto the sheets.

His loud, screaming throat choked down into a wet, pathetic gurgle.

"No..." Alexei slurred, his tongue growing heavy, his jaw going entirely slack as the heavy anti-psychotic flooded his brain. "No... let me... let me go..."

The ceiling lights above him began to spin, blurring into a swirling vortex of harsh white and sickly gray. The faces of the orderlies drifted away, becoming featureless gray shapes in the haze.

The dark, suffocating fog returned, rising up from the base of his skull to swallow his consciousness whole. As his eyelids grew impossibly heavy, forcing themselves shut, one final, poisonous thought burned through the dying embers of his brain.

It wasn't his fault. None of this was his fault.

He was the dutiful son. He was the officer. He had done everything right.

It was Ilya.

It was always Ilya.

If Ilya hadn't been born, their mother would have loved Alexei. If Ilya hadn't been the golden child, their father wouldn't have spent all their money on hockey. If Ilya had stayed in Moscow and married Vetrov's daughter, their family would be rich. If Ilya hadn't abandoned them, Alexei wouldn't be chained to a bed in a state hospital waiting for a prison transport.

Ilya had stolen his life. Ilya had destroyed his family. Ilya was the monster who had condemned him to hell while living in paradise across the ocean.

I hate you, Alexei thought, the words echoing in the deep, freezing darkness of his mind as the drug pulled him under. I hate you, Ilya. I hope you burn. I hope you rot. I hate you...

The world snapped shut, and Alexei Rozanov plummeted into total darkness.

Chapter 11: David Hollander

The wilderness surrounding the lakes of Ottawa was bathed in the golden light of late summer. The air smelled of pine needles, earth, and water.

Ten minutes down the winding gravel road sat Yuna and David Hollander’s cabin, but today they were sitting in the living room of Shane and Ilya’s lakeside cottage. High timber beams vaulted over glass windows that opened up to a view of the water. It was a secluded home, far away from the cameras.

David Hollander sat on the sofa, a cup of warm chamomile tea resting between his palms.

As a male omega—a trait he had passed directly down to his son—David possessed a sharp sensitivity. He understood dynamics that most people, including his wife Yuna, missed entirely. To Yuna, Shane was their golden boy, a disciplined supermodel and icon who had conquered the world through grace and composure.

While Yuna saw the angel, David saw the whole picture.

David loved his son, but he was under no illusions. Beneath Shane’s polished exterior, the smiles, and the color-coded calendars lived a mind that was sharp, calculated, and possessive. Shane was a master strategist who locked onto his goals with absolute tenacity. David had watched Shane navigate his life, career, and relationship with Ilya Rozanov for years, turning a blind eye to his son's subtle manipulations because Shane never hurt anyone who did not deserve it.

Which brought them to the present moment.

An hour ago, David had received a call at his own cabin. Sergei Vetrov—an influential figure from Moscow who the Hollander parents had met once at a gala—had used one of David’s state contacts to reach out across the ocean and deliver the final news regarding Ilya’s family in Russia. Grigori’s mind had given way to dementia, landing him permanently in a care institution outside Moscow, while Ilya’s bitter older brother, Alexei, had been arrested after a domestic assault and was headed straight to a penal colony for a decade or more.

When David and Yuna had driven over to the cottage to deliver the news, the reaction in the living room had been stark. Ilya had sat in complete silence for three minutes before standing up, walking out the sliding glass doors, and heading down the grassy slope toward the edge of the lake, the twin girls following closely behind their Papa. Yuna had immediately followed him outside to offer support, leaving David alone in the living room with Shane.

David set his teacup down on the coffee table and looked across at his son.

Shane was standing near the fireplace, leaning against the stone hearth with his hands tucked into the pockets of his cream cashmere sweater, watching his father with a schooled composure. To anyone else, Shane looked like a concerned, supportive spouse processing tragic news, but David saw the spark deep behind his dark eyes. Underneath that calm exterior, Shane was practically vibrating with unadulterated joy.

David let out a sigh, shaking his head. "Son, rein it in."

Shane blinked as a look of wide-eyed, innocent confusion immediately washed over his face, his dark eyes softening into a blameless, angelic expression. "What do you mean, Dad? I'm just processing what you said about his family."

David let out a dry cough of amusement, leaning back against the sofa cushions. "Oh, stop it. Save that angelic puppy-eyed look for your mother; you know I see right through you."

Shane’s angelic mask held for two seconds before dissolving into a gleaming brilliance, his shoulders relaxing into a cool, calculating posture as a smirk touched his lips.

"I know exactly what you're thinking right now," David continued, his tone warm but firm. "With Grigori in an institution and Alexei in a penal colony, every last tie Ilya had to Russia is severed. You're ecstatic because in your mind, Ilya is now entirely, untetheredly yours forever."

Shane did not deny it. Instead, a dark, possessive look spread across his features, his eyes burning with intense triumph as the purr deep in his chest—a vibration unique to his secondary gender—echoed softly in the room. For Shane, Ilya’s family in Moscow had been a parasitic shadow draining the peace of the home they had built. Now that shadow was eradicated, leaving Ilya fully bound to this life, this home, and this family.

"Your acting is fantastic," David remarked, an amused glint in his eyes. "If you hadn't gone into modeling, you could have followed Rose straight into acting and won an Oscar to put right next to Ilya’s Stanley Cup rings. But listen to me, Shane—I raised you, so I know the intensity underneath all your perfection, but that doesn't mean I love you any less. I know you love Ilya with a devotion most people cannot comprehend, but right now, you need to remember he is going through a tragedy."

Shane’s eyes focused intently on his father, the possessive gleam tempering into attention.

"Even if his father was a bastard and his brother was a nightmare, they were still his blood," David explained gently. "So, hearing this will bring a hollow kind of grief. I know you feel like a weight has been lifted, but put your satisfaction aside for a few days, be his shelter, and don't let him see how happy you are about this."

Shane looked down at his father, his possessiveness softening into genuine warmth as he placed his hand over David's, squeezing his fingers. Knowing his father saw his darkest traits and still loved him unconditionally touched Shane deeply.

"I promise, Dad," Shane assured him, his voice sincere and grounded. "I'll be careful, give him space, and make sure he gets all the comfort he needs."

Shane paused, his grip tightening as the smirk returned to his lips, his eyes flashing with territorial fire once more. "But I am happy, Dad. He's safe, completely ours, and nobody in Russia can ever touch him again."

David looked into his son's eyes, feeling the sheer power of Shane’s devotion, and shook his head with a fond sigh. "I know you are, sweetheart. Now, put that angelic face back on, fix your hair, and let's go outside before your mother starts wondering what's keeping us."

Shane let out a lighthearted laugh, the dark intensity melting away as he smoothed down his cashmere sweater, ran a hand through his hair, and seamlessly slipped back into the picture-perfect, innocent golden boy his mother adored.

"How do I look?" Shane asked, offering David a flawless, angelic smile.

David rolled his eyes, laughing as he headed toward the glass doors. "Terrifyingly convincing. Come on."

Together, father and son stepped out onto the sunlit patio, walking down the grassy slope toward the lake where Ilya was sitting with the twins. A few paces ahead, Yuna stood near the edge of the lawn, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection as she stared down toward the lake. Her brow was furrowed with motherly worry, her eyes fixed entirely on her son-in-law.

David stepped up beside his wife, placing a calm, reassuring hand on the small of her back. She leaned into his touch instantly, letting out a soft, breathy sigh that carried all the anxiety she had been holding inside since they delivered the news from Moscow.

Down by the shoreline, Sofia was chattering loudly about a flat, smooth stone she had found, attempting to press it into Ilya’s palm, while Yuri was busy sticking yellow dandelion heads into the fabric of his shirt. Ilya was nodding, his hands carefully stabilizing Sofia so she wouldn't slip on the wet gravel, but his gaze was fixed blankly on the rippling surface of the lake. He was somewhere else entirely, lost in the murky fog of his own thoughts.

Shane walked past David and Yuna, his steps deliberately and unhurried as he made his way down the slope. David watched his son closely, as he settled into the grass right beside his husband, his long legs stretching out, his shoulder brushing solidly against Ilya’s broad arm. Shane reached out, gently taking Yuri into his lap to untangle a weed from her hair. He didn't say a word. He just stayed there, an anchor in the storm, offering his steady warmth without demanding anything in return.

David felt a subtle shift in the air as the tension in the Russian captain’s shoulders dropped half an inch. Ilya didn't look up, but his hand drifted sideways across the grass, his fingers finding Shane’s hip and resting there, anchoring himself to his mate.

"I'm so worried about him, David," Yuna murmured quietly, her eyes softening as she watched the small family near the water. "He looks so hollow. No matter what those terrible people in Moscow did to him, Grigori was still his father, and Alexei his brother. To have it all end like this... in prison and an asylum... it’s a terrible kind of grief. I just hope Shane knows how to help him through it."

David squeezed her waist gently, a fond, private smile touching the corner of his lips. "Shane knows exactly what to do, sweetheart. Trust me."

Yuna patted David's arm, letting out another soft breath before turning back toward the house. "I'm going to make a fresh pot of tea and slice up that berry tart I brought over. They'll need something to eat."

"Sounds perfect, love," David said softly, watching his wife walk back up the wooden steps into the house.

Once the patio door clicked shut, David turned his full attention back down toward the lake, leaning his weight against the railing. He looked at Shane and Ilya, watching the subtle conversation happening between them without words.

Earlier, in the living room, David had chastised Shane for his hidden joy over the news. He had reminded his son that Ilya would feel grief and confusion over the destruction of his birth family. But as David stood there watching the two of them under the golden afternoon sun, he was reminded of the deeper, fundamental truth of their bond.

The world saw Ilya Rozanov as a force of nature—a fierce, emotional, towering Russian hockey god who was saved and domesticated by the sweet, pristine, disciplined perfection of Shane Hollander. The media loved that narrative. Yuna loved that narrative. They viewed Shane as the stabilizing angel who had pulled Ilya out of the darkness and brought him into the light.

David knew better.

David allowed Shane to get away with his dark, possessive, calculating tendencies for two simple reasons. The first was that Shane never targeted anyone who didn't thoroughly deserve it; his ruthlessness was strictly protective, a barrier built to guard the people he loved. The second reason, however, was far more profound: Ilya Rozanov was not a victim of Shane’s control.

Ilya was just like Shane.

Underneath the boisterous laughter, the fierce charm, and the golden-retriever energy Ilya presented to the world, there lived a hunger just as dark, just as consuming, and just as terrifyingly possessive as the one burning inside Shane.

David watched as Ilya finally turned his head to look at Shane. The Alpha reached up, his calloused hand cupping the back of the Omega’s neck, his thumb sliding over the sensitive skin behind Shane’s ear.

The look in Ilya’s blue eyes wasn't just gratitude or quiet sorrow. It was an intense, territorial devotion.

If Shane was a master strategist who manipulated the world to keep Ilya safe and bound to him, Ilya was the exact same way with Shane. Ilya knew every single one of Shane’s buttons. He knew how to trigger Shane’s protective instincts, how to lean into his own vulnerability just enough to draw Shane in deeper, and how to wrap his entire existence around Shane so completely that neither of them could ever break free.

Maybe once upon a time Shane had the upper hand, but after years of marriage and two kids? No, Ilya was on the same level as David’s son now.

They weren't an angel and a rogue. They were two predator-level minds who had looked at each other across a club years ago and recognized the exact same beautiful, dangerous hunger in the other’s eyes.

David let out an amused chuckle. It was a fascinating thing to witness. The two of them possessed the absolute perfect amount of sharpness and wickedness, balanced so precisely that they neutralized the danger in each other, turning what could have been a destructive fire into an impenetrable fortress.

Down by the water, Shane tilted his head back into Ilya’s touch, offering his husband a soft smile. Shane reached up, placing his hand over Ilya’s, his fingers lacing tightly through the Russian's. Shane whispered something low—a private reassurance meant only for the two of them—and David saw the subtle shift in Ilya’s face.

Ilya didn't look fooled by Shane's gentle demeanor. In fact, a faint, dark glint passed through Ilya’s blue eyes—a realization that Shane was relieved, that Shane was secretly glad the nightmare in Moscow was over.

And instead of being hurt or offended, Ilya simply leaned down and pressed a deep, lingering kiss against the crown of Shane’s dark hair. Ilya liked it. He liked that his mate was fiercely protective. He liked that Shane wanted him entirely to himself. Ilya surrendered to Shane’s possessiveness willingly, eagerly, because it matched the exact intensity of his own desires.

They were bound together by something far stronger than simple affection. They were anchored by a shared, absolute need to claim and protect what was theirs.

Sofia let out a loud squeal as a small frog hopped across the wet grass near her boots, breaking the quiet moment. Shane laughed—a genuine, warm sound that carried across the lawn—and reached down to pick up the twin before she could chase the frog into the mud. Ilya leaned back against the grassy bank, his arm resting over Shane’s knee, his eyes following his mate's every move.

David smiled warmly, leaning his arms against the patio rail as the cool breeze blew off the lake.

The last ties to Moscow were broken, shattered under the weight of prison walls and hospital doors, but sitting on the grass in the Canadian wilderness, surrounded by his true family, Ilya Rozanov was finally, completely home.

And David Hollander knew that his son—and the man his son loved—were going to be just fine.

Chapter 12: @shanehollander-rozanov

@shanehollander-rozanov

[Photo]

Black and gold confetti scattered across the ice beneath Ilya’s skates, who is wearing his helmet, his captain's jersey soaked through with sweat, and the Stanley Cup was on the frame behind him. Shane is standing directly in front of him, one hand curled around the back of Ilya's neck as they kiss. Ilya's other arm is wrapped firmly around Shane's waist, pulling him close.

Caption:

Three Cups in four years.

I don't think there are enough words to express how proud I am of what you've accomplished.

I've watched you work for every single one of these. I've watched the early mornings, the late nights, the injuries you played through, the games where you came home exhausted and still woke up the next morning ready to do it all again.

I've watched you grow into the captain you are now. And I've watched you carry the weight of this team without ever making it about yourself.

I'm so unbelievably proud of you, Ilya.

Proud of the player you are. Proud of the captain you've become. Proud of the man I get to come home to.

You deserve every second of this, and I hope you know that I'll always be standing here when you lift it.

Congratulations, my love.

Ya tebya lyublyu ❤️🏆

#StanleyCup #BostonBears #Champions #Hollanov
#MyCaptain #Three-Peat
#ProudHusband

Comments:

@BearsNation81

THREE CUPS IN FOUR YEARS.

THREE.

IN.

FOUR.

YEARS.

AND SHANE JUST POSTED A PHOTO OF HIM KISSING HIS HUSBAND ON THE ICE WITH THE CUP BEHIND THEM.

I AM NOT OKAY 😭

 

@BearsPuck617

THE CAPTION.

THE FUCKING CAPTION.

SHANE YOU CANNOT DO THIS TO ME.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

I'M SORRY BUT THIS IS THE CUTEST FUCKING COUPLE IN THE WORLD.

LOOK AT THEM.

LOOK AT THE WAY ILYA IS HOLDING HIM.

LOOK AT SHANE'S HAND ON HIS NECK.

THE CUP IS LITERALLY RIGHT THERE.

😭❤️🏆🏆🏆

 

@BostonBorn

Hollanov is the OTP.

I don't make the rules.

 

@BearsFanTillIDie

Three Cups in four years is absolutely fucking ridiculous.

And somehow Shane's first instinct after watching his husband win is: "Let me kiss him in front of the entire Garden."

Correct.

No notes.

 

@LuluLives

I HAVE BEEN PREPARING MYSELF FOR THIS.

And somehow, I was STILL NOT PREPARED.

MY OTP IS TOO MUCH!

I NEED TO LIE DOWN.

 

@TDGarden81

The Cup: "Congratulations."

Ilya: "Yeah, I do not care about that. Where's my husband?"

😭

 

@HockeyHistory

Three championships in four years is an absurd legacy already.

And he's still young.

Boston is going to be talking about the Rozanov era for decades.

 

@BearsNation81

ROZANOV ERA???

WE ARE IN THE ROZANOV ERA.

WE LIVE HERE NOW.

 

@BostonHockeyTalk

I don't think people understand how fucking insane this is.

Youngest captain in franchise history.

Three Stanley Cups in four years.

And he's married to Shane Hollander.

This man is living someone's professionally written fantasy.

 

@FashionWeekly

Shane looks ridiculously happy.

That's my contribution.

 

@CanadianFan24

The way Shane talks about him is what gets me.

He is SO proud of him. 😭

 

@RozzyAndShaneFanClub

THEY MAKE EACH OTHER SO HAPPY.

THAT'S IT.

THAT'S THE COMMENT.

 

@BearsForever

Remember when we didn't even know they were dating?

😭

THREE YEARS OF SECRET RELATIONSHIP.

AND NOW SHANE IS POSTING ICE KISSES WITH THE STANLEY CUP.

 

@HollanderFanClub

We went from: "WHO IS THIS MYSTERIOUS MAN?"

to: "THAT IS SHANE'S HUSBAND AND HE JUST WON HIS THIRD CUP."

Character development.

 

@PuckAndPride

There is something really beautiful about seeing this.

Two incredibly successful men at the absolute peak of their careers, openly celebrating each other.

 

@HockeyMom24

"the man I get to come home to"

GOODBYE.

I'M DONE.

😭❤️

 

@BearsPuck617

SHANE.

SIR.

YOU CANNOT WRITE "THE MAN I GET TO COME HOME TO" UNDER A PHOTO OF YOU KISSING HIM WITH THE STANLEY CUP.

SOME OF US HAVE FEELINGS.

 

@HollanovDaily

Husband secured.

Cup secured.

Championship secured.

Life secured.

Ilya Rozanov really said, "I'm good."

 

@HollanovForever

Hollanov isn't just an OTP anymore.

They're MARRIED.

They have CHILDREN.

They have STANLEY CUPS.

WE WON.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

WE WON THE SHIPPING WAR.

THE SHIP GOT MARRIED.

THE SHIP HAD TWINS.

THE SHIP WON THREE FUCKING STANLEY CUPS.

WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM US.

😭🏆❤️

 

@BearsPuck617

I started following this man because he played hockey.

Now I'm emotionally invested in his marriage.

I don't know when this happened.

 

@ShaneAndIlyaUpdates

It happened the second we saw that first postgame kiss.

There was no going back.

 

@BearsForever

Hollanov is the OTP.

I will be taking no questions.

---

@LuluLives

Okay, I have been staring at this family for years, and I have reached the only conclusion available to me, which is that Shane and Ilya Hollander-Rozanov might actually be the most offensively perfect couple to ever exist.

Look at them. Seriously. Look. At. Them.

Because somehow, after everything these two have been through, after years of rivalry and secrecy and everyone on the internet collectively losing their minds when they finally admitted they had been together for three years, we have arrived at the point where Shane is posting photographs of himself kissing his husband on the ice after Ilya had won the Stanley Cup, and neither of them looks remotely interested in the cameras because they are too busy looking at each other.

And they also have Yuri and Sofia.

Their TWINS.

Who, by the way, are quite possibly the most adorable toddlers I have ever seen in my entire life, and I am not saying that merely because I have spent an unhealthy amount of time following their parents. Yuri looks so much like Shane that I genuinely had to stare at the photograph for several seconds before my brain registered that I was looking at a newborn and not a tiny, extremely expensive miniature Shane. She has his dark hair, his brown eyes, those delicate features, that beautiful little face—and then Ilya's unmistakable moles. Meanwhile Sofia looks like someone took Ilya and shrank him down into a baby, complete with the blonde hair and blue eyes, except Shane's freckles somehow found their way onto her face.

THE GENETICS.

Honestly, I cannot cope.

But can we talk about their names for a second? Because I don't think enough people appreciate how beautiful the choices were.

Yuri Yuna Hollander-Rozanov.

First of all, Yuri Yuna is a completely Japanese name, and I love how much thought seems to have gone into the meaning behind it. Yuri comes from the Japanese word yuri (百合), meaning lily. The lily has long carried associations with purity, beauty, grace, and innocence, which gives the first part of her name that delicate, almost timeless quality.

But the meaning doesn't stop there. Yuna can be written with different kanji depending on the intended meaning, and here it carries the idea of connection and bringing people together. Put those meanings together, and Yuri Yuna becomes “a pure lily who brings people together.”

And honestly, what a beautiful thing to give a child as a name. It isn't just describing something pretty. It feels like a wish for the person she will grow into: someone graceful and pure-hearted, but also someone whose presence creates connection. Someone who brings people closer rather than pushing them apart.

Then there is Sofia Irina Hollander-Rozanov, and the linguistic background is completely different.

Unlike Yuri Yuna, Sofia Irina isn't Japanese at all. Both names ultimately come from Greek, and their meanings are remarkably straightforward. Sofia comes from the Greek sophia, meaning “wisdom.” It carries the idea of knowledge, understanding, intelligence, and good judgment—not simply being clever, but possessing the wisdom to understand the world and the people in it.

Irina, meanwhile, comes from the Greek eirēnē, meaning “peace.” The name is connected to the ancient Greek concept of peace and harmony, which is why Irina has carried that meaning across centuries and eventually into Russian and other Eastern European naming traditions.

So, when you put the two together, Sofia Irina becomes “a woman of wisdom who brings peace.”

And I swear, that is such a beautiful meaning for a little girl.

What I love most is that the names feel intentional without being overly elaborate. Yuri Yuna is rooted completely in Japanese language and imagery, with the softness of the lily and the idea of human connection. Sofia Irina reaches back to ancient Greek, combining wisdom with peace.

They are completely different linguistic traditions, but the meanings complement each other beautifully.

One name is about purity and bringing people together.

The other is about wisdom and bringing peace.

I am obsessed.

And I need everyone to remember that I WAS HERE FIRST.

Before half of you even knew what "Hollanov" meant.

I patented this ship.

Okay, technically I did not legally patent it, because apparently the government has no mechanism for registering a hockey-player/model husbands OTP, but spiritually? Historically? Culturally?

I patented Hollanov.

I was in the trenches.

So, as the original Hollanov patent holder, I would once again like to welcome every single new member of this OTP. Whether you arrived because of the Stanley Cup photograph, the wedding, the twins, the grocery-store sightings, the fashion campaigns, or because you simply saw Shane and Ilya together and thought, "Oh, they're disgustingly in love," you are welcome here.

There is no application process.

There is no membership fee.

There is only one requirement.

You must acknowledge that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are ridiculously, unbearably, offensively perfect for each other.

And if you disagree, that's fine.

You can be wrong somewhere else.

Welcome to Hollanov ❤️🏆🏆🏆👶🏻👶🏻          

Comments:

@BearsNation81:
“you can be wrong somewhere else” 😭😭😭 Lulu woke up and chose violence.

Also, Ilya kissing Shane on the ice after winning the Cup while Shane is looking at him like there aren't 20,000 people screaming around them is genuinely one of the most insane photographs ever taken of these two.

 

@HollanovForever:
THEY LITERALLY FORGOT THEY WERE IN PUBLIC.

 

@BostonBorn:
I think that is the thing that gets me about them.

They've been photographed together approximately nine billion times at this point and somehow, they still look at each other like they've just discovered the other person exists.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial:
“tiny, extremely expensive miniature Shane” IS SO RUDE 😭😭😭 but also completely accurate. Yuri genuinely looks like someone copied Shane's face and selected “make baby.”

 

@CanadianFan24:
And Sofia is literally Ilya in baby form.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, and the same cheekbones.

I was looking at the picture like WHERE DID SHANE'S GENETICS GO.

 

@BearsPuck617:
Shane's freckles said, “I will be contributing to this baby” and personally delivered them to Sofia.

 

@ShaneAndIlyaUpdates:
The funniest part is that Yuri got Ilya's moles and Sofia got Shane's freckles.

The genetics really said, “we're splitting the accessories.”

 

@HollanderFanClub:
Lulu saying she patented Hollanov is actually historically accurate.

Some of us remember the trenches.

 

@BostonHockeyTalk:
THE TRENCHES WERE REAL.

 

@FashionWeekly:
I came here for the fashion campaigns and stayed for the etymology lesson and honestly this is the best use of the internet.

 

@LuluLives:
THANK YOU.

Someone appreciates the educational portion of my work.

 

@FashionWeekly:
Also “a pure lily who brings people together” is genuinely gorgeous.

 

@CanadianFan24:
And “a woman of wisdom who brings peace”???

They really named their daughters like they were assigning them character arcs.

 

@BostonBorn:
Imagine being born into a family where your father is a Stanley Cup champion, your other father is a model legend, your grandmother is Yuna “Momager” Hollander, your grandfather is part of the Fucking Treasury Board of Canada, and your name translates into a philosophical statement.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial:
I know everyone is talking about Yuri because she looks like Shane, but can we appreciate how PERFECT Sofia Irina sounds???

Sofia Irina Hollander-Rozanov.

That is a NAME.

That child was born with diplomatic immunity.

 

@BearsNation81:
She sounds like she owns a vineyard in Tuscany and has never once checked her own email.

 

@BostonSportsGirl:
Yuri sounds like she would quietly observe everyone and then say something devastatingly intelligent.

 

@BearsPuck617:
Meanwhile Sofia sounds like she would climb onto the kitchen counter and then blame the dog.

 

@CanadianFan24:
Also I appreciate that Lulu actually explained the Greek origin because people constantly assume Irina is originally Russian.

 

@BostonBorn:
That is so right. Greek origin, later hugely established across Eastern Europe.

Sofia is also ancient Greek.

Meanwhile Yuri Yuna is entirely Japanese in construction.

The names are culturally different but somehow sound beautiful together.

 

@FashionWeekly:
The Hollander-Rozanov children are going to have the most interesting introductions at school.

“Hi, I'm Yuri.”

“Nice to meet you, what does your name mean?”

“Pure lily who brings people together.”

“…okay.”

“And yours?”

“My parents named me Kevin.”

 

@BearsNation81:
Can we also acknowledge that Lulu managed to turn a post about two famous married men and their babies into a declaration of intellectual property rights.

 

@HollanderFanClub:
She has been trying to establish legal ownership of Hollanov since the beginning.

 

@LuluLives:
I HAVE DOCUMENTATION.

EXHIBIT A THROUGH L.

 

@BostonHockeyTalk:
What? There are no exhibits M through Z?

Did you run out of storage?

 

@LuluLives:
FALSE.

I recently purchased additional storage.

 

@BearsPuck617:
I love how the original post starts with “offensively perfect couple” and ends with “you can be wrong somewhere else.”

This is the full Hollanov fandom experience.

 

@HollanovForever:
There are no neutral observers anymore.

You either understand Hollanov or you are simply choosing ignorance.

 

@BostonSportsGirl:
“choosing ignorance” 😭

 

@BostonBorn:
I need everyone to appreciate the phrase “extremely expensive miniature Shane” because that is exactly what Yuri looks like.

She's not just a baby, but a luxury baby.

 

@FashionWeekly:
Born ready for the Vogue September issue.

 

@ShaneAndIlyaUpdates:
Please don't give Yuna any ideas.

 

@HollanderFanClub:
Too late. Yuna has probably already negotiated the contract.

 

@BostonSportsGirl:
Lulu: “I patented this ship.”

Every lawyer in Massachusetts: ma'am, that's not how patents work.

Lulu: “Spiritually? Historically? Culturally?”

Every lawyer in Massachusetts: …actually, carry on.

 

@LuluLives:
THANK YOU.

 

@BearsNation81:
She's going to put “Founder & CEO of Hollanov” in her bio next.

 

@LuluLives:
Already did.

 

@BostonHockeyTalk:
The funniest possible ending would have been if Lulu stopped after “Welcome to Hollanov.”

But no.

She needed three more paragraphs and a legal declaration.

 

@HollanovForever:
And thank God she did.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial:
This fandom would not survive without her.

 

@LuluLives:
You're welcome, everyone. ❤️

 

@HollanderFanClub:
Anyway, official ruling from the Hollander Fan Club:

Yuri is perfect.
Sofia is perfect.
Shane is perfect.
Ilya is unfortunately also perfect.

And Lulu is still annoying.

10/10 post.

 

@LuluLives:
I accept this ruling.

 

@BearsPuck617:
You literally wrote the ruling.

 

@LuluLives:
And yet it passed unanimously.

 

@CanadianFan24:
“a pure lily who brings people together” + “a woman of wisdom who brings peace.”

I genuinely love that these aren't just names that sound beautiful. They have meanings that feel like hopes for the girls themselves.

Also, the fact that Shane and Ilya somehow managed to produce two children who already sound more emotionally mature than both of their fathers is sending me.

 

@BostonBorn:
Yuri at age four: “Father, perhaps we should discuss our conflict.”

Sofia: “I agree. Peace is preferable.”

Ilya: stares

Shane: “Where did they get this?”

 

@BearsNation81:
NOT FROM THEIR FATHERS 💀

---

@Carmichael17

[Photo]

A shirtless locker-room selfie, with Carmichael standing in the middle, Cliff on his right and Connors on his left. All three are grinning at the camera, sweaty and clearly fresh off the ice. Across the left side of each man's chest is the same tattoo: a roaring bear, its mouth open, rendered in the same style and roughly the same size. The design sits over their hearts, dark ink standing out clearly against their skin.

Caption:

Finally joined the team. 🐻

Took me long enough.

Comments:

@BearsNation81

Wait.

What do you mean "finally joined the team"???

You've literally been on the Bears since September.

 

@BostonPuckGirl

Carmichael, I am genuinely confused because I distinctly remember watching you play for Boston all season.

You have worn the jersey.

Several times.

 

@CliffMarleau7

He's referring to something else.

 

@BearsNation81

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN.

 

@BostonHockeyTalk

Hold on.

Is that the tattoo?

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

OH.

OH MY GOD.

THE FAMOUS BEAR.

 

@CopleySquareCommuter

Wait, wait, wait.

Why are they all matching?

 

@BostonPuckGirl

You're telling me this is a TEAM thing???

 

@HockeyHistory

Yes.

The 2014 Bears players got matching roaring bear tattoos after the Cup run.

It became a kind of unofficial championship tradition.

 

@BearsNation81

OH MY GOD.

So, Carmichael got his because they won in 2017???

 

@BostonHockeyTalk

THAT'S WHAT HE MEANS BY "FINALLY JOINED THE TEAM."

HE'S BEEN A BEARS PLAYER ALL SEASON.

HE JUST FINALLY GOT THE BEAR.

 

@Carmichael17

Exactly.

 

@BearsForever

Okay, that is actually fucking adorable.

He won the Cup with them and then got the same tattoo as the guys who won in 2014.

That's such a cool way of saying you're part of the history now.

 

@BostonBorn

And I love that Cliff and Connors are in the photo because they were there for the original group.

It makes the whole thing feel less like Carmichael getting a random tattoo and more like the older players welcoming him into something that existed before him.

 

@Connors21

That's basically what it is.

 

@HollanderFanClub

There is something incredibly wholesome about a championship team having traditions that aren't officially part of the organization but still mean something to the players.

They win.

They get their rings.

And apparently, they also get matching angry bears permanently tattooed onto their chests.

I support this completely.

 

@BearsNation81

Boston sports culture is insane.

 

@BostonPuckGirl

Honestly, though, I love it.

There's something really nice about knowing the players aren't just coworkers who happen to wear the same jersey.

They actually have their own traditions and history together.

 

@Carmichael17

That's exactly why I wanted it.

 

@BearsForever

Okay, now I'm emotional.

 

@CliffMarleau7

He asked about it at the start of the season.

 

@BostonHockeyTalk

AND YOU GUYS JUST LEFT HIM WAITING???

 

@CliffMarleau7

He had to earn it.

 

@Carmichael17

Apparently surviving a full season with these idiots wasn't enough.

 

@Connors21

It wasn't.

 

@BearsNation81

This is genuinely the best team morale thing I've seen.

The fact that the tradition survived from 2014 and the newer players are still choosing to participate in it says a lot about this group.

 

@BostonSportsGirl

Especially because Carmichael could have just treated it as something the old guys did and left it alone, but instead he wanted to be part of it after winning his own championship with Boston.

That's really sweet.

 

@HockeyMom617

I imagine it must mean something different when you have actually won with the team.

You're not borrowing someone else's history; you're adding your own chapter to it.

 

@BearsForever

Also, the placement over the heart is making this approximately 400% more sentimental than it needed to be.

 

@HollanovDaily

Well now I'm crying over hockey players getting matching bear tattoos.

This fandom has taken a strange turn.

 

@HollanderFanClub

The Bears family just got a little bigger.

And apparently a little more permanently tattooed.

Congratulations, Carmichael. 🐻🏆

 

@BostonBorn

This is why I love this team.

The Cups are obviously the point, but these little traditions are what make a championship group feel like a family.

The veterans keep pieces of the old teams alive, the new guys get brought into it, and suddenly three different seasons of Bears hockey are connected by the same stupid roaring bear tattoo.

That's pretty damn special.

 

@Carmichael17

Couldn't agree more.

Worth every second.

🐻

---

@ilyahollander-rozanov81

[Photo]

Ilya is standing in what looks like his cottage home in Canada, wearing a tight black tank shirt that fits close across his shoulders and chest. His blonde hair is still damp, pushed messily away from his forehead, and there is the faintest suggestion of a post-practice flush across his face. A large loon tattoo curves over his right biceps, the bird rendered in black and grey with its long neck angled upward and wings partially spread.

Caption:

I love Ottawa but hate the stupid Canadian wolf-birds.

Comments:

@BearsNation81

Canadian wolf-birds.

Ilya.

What the fuck is a Canadian wolf-bird.

 

@LuluLives

I AM SORRY.

CANADIAN WOLF-BIRDS???

I have been following this man for years and I genuinely do not know what the hell he's talking about.

 

@HollanderFanClub

Wait.

Is that a loon tattoo?

 

@BostonPuckGirl

THAT IS A LOON???

I thought it was some kind of weird prehistoric bird.

 

@OttawaHockeyGirl

It IS a loon.

The loon is a Canadian bird.

 

@BearsNation81

Okay, so the bird is Canadian.

That still doesn't explain why our Russian captain is calling it a wolf-bird.

 

@OttawaHockeyGirl

Because of the sound they make.

 

@BostonPuckGirl

What sound?

 

@OttawaHockeyGirl

You know how a wolf howls?

 

@BostonPuckGirl

Yes.

 

@OttawaHockeyGirl

A loon sounds like that.

 

@BearsNation81

You're telling me the loon is basically a bird that heard a wolf howl and said, "I can do that."

 

@LuluLives

WAIT.

THAT ACTUALLY MAKES SENSE.

 

@HockeyHistory

The loon call is often described as eerie or haunting.

It carries over the water, especially at night, and if you don't know what you're hearing, it absolutely sounds like some kind of animal howling in the distance.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

So, Ilya, a Russian man who grew up nowhere near Canadian loons, has apparently decided the correct scientific classification is:

bird that sounds like wolf = wolf-bird.

Honestly?

Sound reasoning.

 

@CopleySquareCommuter

I'm more interested in the fact that he clearly got a giant Canadian bird tattoo because of Shane.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

THANK YOU.

Everyone is discussing wolf-birds and I'm sitting here looking at the giant loon permanently attached to his biceps like:

Oh.

That's a mate tattoo.

 

@LuluLives

IT IS ABSOLUTELY A MATE TATTOO.

You cannot convince me otherwise.

The man is Russian, plays hockey in Boston, has absolutely no reason to voluntarily decorate his arm with a Canadian bird unless that Canadian bird is somehow connected to the Canadian man he married.

 

@BearsNation81

Wait.

Is the loon connected to Shane?

 

@HollanderFanClub

Shane is Canadian.

Ilya is Russian.

Ilya lives in Canada for part of the year because of Shane.

Ilya has now tattooed a Canadian bird on himself.

Do the math.

 

@LuluLives

EXACTLY.

He got a little piece of Shane's country permanently put on his body and then immediately insulted the national bird because apparently affection is illegal if you're Ilya Rozanov.

 

@IlyaHollander-Rozanov81

It is ugly.

 

@LuluLives

YOU GOT IT TATTOOED ON YOUR ARM.

 

@IlyaHollander-Rozanov81

I love my mate.

I do not have to love his birds.

 

@BostonPuckGirl

OH MY GOD.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

There it is.

That's the entire post.

He loves Shane.

He hates the wolf-birds.

Marriage is beautiful.

 

@OttawaHockeyGirl

I'm still stuck on him calling them wolf-birds with such confidence.

 

@BearsNation81

I'm imagining someone from Ottawa explaining to him, "That's a loon."

And Ilya just going, "No. Wolf-bird."

 

@OttawaHockeyGirl

I do not need to picture it.

This is exactly what happened.

 

@LuluLives

I am losing my mind over the fact that this has apparently become a permanent part of his vocabulary.

 

@HollanderFanClub

The funniest thing is that everyone is treating this like Ilya invented a completely new species when "wolf-bird" is actually a disturbingly effective description once you hear the call.

 

@BearsNation81

I just watched a video of a loon.

Why does it sound like that.

 

@BostonPuckGirl

I KNOW.

I was expecting a normal bird noise.

Instead, it sounds like something in the forest has just realized you are there.

 

@HockeyMom617

Loons are beautiful until they open their mouths.

Then suddenly you're in a horror movie.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

The bird itself: 🐦

The noise it makes: 👹

Ilya's classification: 🐺🐦

 

@LuluLives

And now I'm picturing Shane trying to explain Canadian wildlife to his Russian husband.

"That's a loon."

"No. Wolf-bird."

"Ilya, it's called a loon."

"It sounds like wolf."

"That doesn't make it a wolf-bird."

"It is bird. It sounds like wolf. Wolf-bird."

And apparently this argument has now lasted long enough for him to get the fucking thing tattooed.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

The fact that Shane hasn't corrected him publicly tells me he secretly thinks this is hilarious.

 

@HollanderFanClub

Oh, absolutely.

There is no way Shane doesn't hear "wolf-bird" and immediately start laughing.

 

@IlyaHollander-Rozanov81

He does.

 

@LuluLives

OF COURSE HE DOES.

 

@BearsNation81

Okay but can we talk about the tattoo itself for a second?

Because that's actually really sweet.

Ilya could have gotten anything.

He has a million things in his life that could have become a tattoo.

Instead, he chose something specifically connected to Ottawa and Shane.

 

@BostonBorn

That's what gets me.

He insults the bird in the caption, but the tattoo itself is incredibly affectionate.

It's basically Ilya's version of saying, "This is part of my mate's home, so now it's part of me."

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Exactly. He's complaining about Canadian wildlife while permanently carrying Canadian wildlife around on his arm.

That is the most Ilya thing imaginable.

 

@OttawaHockeyGirl

As an Ottawa person, I would like to formally welcome Ilya to the city and apologize for the wolf-birds.

 

@IlyaHollander-Rozanov81

Thank you.

 

@BearsNation81

HE ACCEPTED THE APOLOGY.

 

@BostonPuckGirl

I'm sorry but is anyone else unsettled by the red eyes on the tattoo?

 

@HockeyMom617

YES.

Thank God I thought I was the only one.

 

@LuluLives

WAIT.

THE EYES ARE RED???

 

@BostonPuckGirl

YES.

Look at the photo again.

The bird has these tiny red eyes and suddenly I understand why Ilya hates them.

 

@BearsNation81

Oh.

Oh, I don't like that.

 

@OttawaHockeyGirl

The red eyes are actually one of the things people notice about loons.

 

@BostonPuckGirl

NO.

You cannot tell me the real bird already has red eyes.

 

@OttawaHockeyGirl

It does.

 

@HollanderFanClub

So let me summarize.

Canada has a bird that:

sounds like a wolf,

has red eyes,

lives around lakes,

and Ilya has decided to call it a wolf-bird.

Honestly, I think he's onto something.

 

@IlyaHollander-Rozanov81

Finally, someone understands me!

 

@LuluLives

I CANNOT BELIEVE WE ENDED UP WITH THE ENTIRE FANDOM LEARNING ABOUT CANADIAN WILDLIFE BECAUSE ILYA GOT A MATE TATTOO AND REFUSED TO USE THE CORRECT NAME FOR THE BIRD.

 

@HollanderFanClub

Canadian wolf-bird supremacy.

 

@BearsNation81

I came here because I thought Ilya was posting a thirst trap.

I am leaving with an unwanted education about terrifying Canadian birds.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

And somehow the tattoo is still adorable.

Because underneath all the "stupid wolf-birds" complaining, this man clearly got a permanent reminder of his mate's home on his arm.

He's just physically incapable of being sentimental without insulting something first.

 

@LuluLives

This is why I love them.

Ilya: gets tattoo representing Shane's country

Also Ilya: calls the loon a wolf-bird and complains about it

Shane: probably laughing somewhere

Everyone else: learning ornithology against their will.

Perfect marriage.

Chapter 13: Playlist

1. Scott Hunter - The Killing Moon, by Echo & the Bunnymen.

2. Yuna Hollander - To Zion, by Mrs. Lauryn Hill.

3. Rose Landry - Friend, by Benson Boone.

4. Ilya Rozanov - Animals, by Maroon 5.

5. Shane Hollander - The Horror of Our Love, by Ludo.

6. @ilyahollander-rozanov81 - Dog Days Are Over, by Florence + the Machine.

7. Svetlana Vetrova - Somebody That I Used To Know, by Gotye.

8. Coach LeClaire - Father Figure, by Taylor Swift. 

9. Cliff Marleau - Uprising, by Muse.

10. Alexei Rozanov - Animal I Have Become, by Three Days Grace.

11. David Hollander - Father, by Mother Mother.

12. @shanehollander-rozanov - Praise, by Fatboy Slim.