Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/F, F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV) RPF

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, Rose Landry/Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry & Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Connors (Heated Rivalry) & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Original Children of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Rose Landry, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Brad Hammersmith, St-Simon (Heated Rivalry), Koslov (Heated Rivalry), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders WAGs Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Red Sox Ensemble

Additional Tags:

Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Omega Shane Hollander, Omega David Hollander, Alpha Yuna Hollander, Alpha Svetlana Vetrova, Omega Rose Landry, Alpha Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Alpha Connors (Heated Rivalry), Beta Brad Hammersmith, Beta Koslov (Heated Rivalry), Beta St-Simon (Heated Rivalry), BAMF Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Good With Children, Good Significant Other Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander is Good With Children, Shane Hollander Was Never a Professional Hockey Player, Baseball Player Shane Hollander, Confident Shane Hollander, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Good Friend Rose Landry, Good Significant Other Shane Hollander, Misunderstandings, locker room culture, Homophobia, Racism, Sexism, Sugar Baby Ilya Rozanov, Sugar Daddy Shane Hollander, Joking they are both millionaires but the MLB salaries are ridiculous, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander's Freckles, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander's Glasses, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov's Curls, Freak4Freak Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Loverboy Ilya Rozanov, BAMF Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Hollander Catnip, Momager Yuna Hollander, Girl Dad Shane Hollander, Girl Dad Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 7 of Hollanov Lulu-verse

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-04 Updated: 2026-08-31 Words: 43,556 Chapters: 12/50

Out of Left Field

Summary

After spending an embarrassing amount of time researching baseball, I came to a realization: if Shane isn't playing hockey, then baseball is absolutely his next great love. It's a sport with one of the largest percentages of Asian players among the major North American leagues, and one that lets him push himself to the absolute limit as a rare two-way player. Honestly, what more could Shane ask for?

Yuri, from Tadaima, Okaeri, is back! This time, she's the daughter of Alpha!Ilya and Omega!Shane, who are now captains of the Boston Bears and the Boston Red Sox, respectively.

I really hope you'll enjoy Out of Left Field. ❤️

Chapter 1: I Cliff

The scent of liniment, damp leather, and sweat was thick enough to chew on, but Cliff Marleau hardly paid it any mind. He was sitting on the wooden bench with his knees spread, methodically lacing his left skate while the dull, rhythmic clack of taping rattled through the locker room.

Across from him, Hammersmith was wrestling his shoulder pads over his head, his face flushed red from the effort, while St-Simon leaned back against his locker, absentmindedly tossing a roll of black stick tape from hand to hand. Two stalls over, Koslov sat with one skate propped on his knee, carefully tightening the laces before reaching for the other.

Everything about the room felt completely normal—except for the gaping, empty stall at the far end where the number 81 jersey usually hung.

"LeClaire said 'family emergency,' right?" Hammersmith puffed out, wrestling his shoulder pads into place before giving his hair a futile ruffle. "That's what he said at morning skate yesterday."

St-Simon caught the tape roll in a tight fist, his brow knotting. "Yeah, but since when does Rozzy have a family?"

"Everyone’s got a family, St," Hammersmith scoffed, though there was a distinct lack of bite in his tone. "He didn't just spawn out of a snowbank in Moscow with an eight-hundred-gram stick."

"You know what I mean," St-Simon shot back, gesturing vaguely toward the empty stall with the roll of tape. "We’ve skated on the same ice for six years, three whole seasons with him as our captain. But have you ever heard the guy drop a single name? A parent, a brother, a cousin, a girl? Hell, a dog?"

Silence settled over their corner for a brief heartbeat.

Cliff paused, his fingers lingering on the stiff leather laces of his right boot. He ran a mental inventory, mentally rewinding through four years of post-game dinners, long charter flights across the continent, and late-night hotel room debauches. St-Simon wasn't wrong.

Rozzy was always there. When they hit the bars after a big win, he was right in the middle of the booth, downing cheap shots with a dark, satisfied glint in his eye. He gave the pre-game speeches that made a man feel like he could skate through a brick wall. He paid for team dinners without blinking, led the stretch off the ice, and stood between any of them and a referee's bad call without a second thought.

But the moment the team bus dropped them back at the arena in Boston? He vanished.

Nobody had ever been to his place. Nobody knew if he lived in a penthouse on the water or a bare apartment with a mattress on the floor. He didn't bring dates to the team galas, didn't talk about home, and certainly never offered up details about whatever ghosts he’d left behind in Russia.

"Maybe he’s just private," Koslov offered quietly. The older Russian didn't look up from his skate blade, his voice smooth and measured. "In the motherland, you learn quickly that keeping your mouth shut about home keeps home safe. Not everything is a story for the locker room."

"Yeah, but for six years, Kos?" Hammersmith leaned back, resting his elbows on his knees, his broad face genuinely puzzled. "When he was a rookie, sure. I figured the guy was just adjusting to the States. His English was spotty, he was trying not to get overwhelmed, and he spent every off-day probably trying to translate American television. But he’s fluent now. He knows how to tell a ref to fuck off in three different accents."

"It's an Alpha thing," St-Simon chimed in, echoing the exact theory Cliff had laid out over beers a few years back when the team had first started asking questions. St-Simon pointed a finger at Cliff. "Right? Like you told us."

Cliff let out a soft huff through his nose, tying his other boot and pulling the tongue forward. "Some of us like a pack," Cliff said, offering a small, easy shrug. "Some of us want the noise, the crowd, the whole mess of people around all the time. But a guy like Rozzy? You back him into a corner about his personal space, or try to dig into his territory, and he won't give you an explanation—he’ll just tear your throat out."

Hammersmith grimaced slightly, nodding as if the image made terrifyingly clear sense. "Yeah. Fair enough. I like my windpipe right where it is."

"Still," St-Simon murmured, his eyes drifting back to the empty locker, the absence of their terrifying, indestructible captain hanging over the room like a sudden drop in barometric pressure. "A family emergency means someone had to call him. And whatever they said... it kept Ilya Rozanov off the ice."

It was then, that the sharp, heavy snap of the locker room door echoed off the concrete walls, instantly cutting through the low hum of conversation.

Ilya stepped into the room.

He didn't look like a man who’d just taken two days off for a family crisis. His hair was slicked back, wet from the rain outside, his leather jacket tailored impeccably, and his expression was as unreadable as polished granite. The sheer presence of him seemed to shrink the room by half a foot.

"Hey, Cap," Hammersmith called out, raising a hand.

"Welcome back, Rozzy," St-Simon added, leaning off his locker.

Ilya merely let out a low, guttural grunt in response—a sound that barely registered as acknowledgment—before sweeping past them toward his stall at the end of the bench. He set his duffel down without a sound, unbuttoned his coat, and began shedding his jacket with fluid, practiced efficiency.

Cliff didn't say anything immediately. He just leaned back against his stall, his jersey draped over his broad shoulders, watching his captain through carefully neutral eyes.

As Ilya peeled off his shirt, the pale expanse of his back and shoulders came into view, marked by the thick, corded muscle built from years of relentless training. But as he turned toward his locker, the fluorescent overhead lights caught the dark ink etched over his left chest, right above his heart.

Cliff’s gaze lingered on it for a beat longer than it should have.

Nearly half the guys in the room had ink in that exact spot. After they’d won the Cup back in 2014, half the roster had gotten plastered during the parade, stumbled into a local shop in South Boston, and gotten matching, aggressive outlines of a roaring grizzly bear to mark the title. Ilya had been there that night, downing shots alongside them—but when it came time to sit in the chair, he’d flatly refused the bear.

Instead, he’d gotten a single, delicately detailed lily, its stem curling tightly around the number 24.

It made zero sense whatsoever. If it had been the number 14, Cliff could have written it off as a subtle nod to the 2014 championship year. But 24? Ilya wore 81. He’d worn 81 since he was a kid in the Russian junior leagues. And a lily—a soft, fragile flower—looked entirely alien stamped across the chest of a six-foot-three powerhouse who broke opponent sticks for fun.

Cliff had never asked about it. Nobody had. You didn't push Ilya on things he didn't offer up, even when you were his alternate captain. Yet sitting there, watching Ilya calmly pull his practice shirt over his head, the contradiction of the man grated against Cliff’s instincts.

When the guys had started asking questions a while back, Cliff had protected his captain's privacy. He’d given Hammersmith and St-Simon the whole speech about Alphas—how some leaders were social, pack-oriented men, while others were territorial, silent guardians who kept their inner sanctums locked tight. It was a good story. It made sense to the rest of the locker room, and it gave Ilya the distance he clearly wanted.

But the truth was, even Cliff felt the wall.

It wasn't that Ilya was cold. On the ice, he’d throw his body in front of a hundred-mile-an-hour slapshot to protect his goalie. Off the ice, if a rookie was struggling with rent, Ilya quietly handled it. He came to the bars, he bought the round, he celebrated the wins, and he took the heat from the press whenever the team dropped an ugly game.

He did everything a great captain was supposed to do. But he did it with the precise, detached execution of an executive running a corporation. He treated the Boston Bears as his primary responsibility, and his teammates like high-performing colleagues he respected—never once letting them slip past the velvet rope into his actual life.

Coworkers don't down six shots of vodka with you at two in the morning after beating Montreal, Cliff thought, finally putting on his jersey. Coworkers don't carry themselves like they're protecting a secret that would ruin them if it got out.

Across the room, Ilya slammed his locker door shut with a sharp clack, turning to lace up his skates, completely unaware—or entirely uncaring—of the eyes on his back.

Connors, still carrying the bright, starry-eyed innocence of a rookie who hadn't learned the unspoken landmines of the locker room, broke the silence without a second thought.

"Hey, Cap," Connors called out from three stalls down, pulling a clean sock over his foot. "How’s the family situation? Coach LeClaire said yesterday you missed morning skate because of that."

The air in the room instantly curdled. St-Simon winced, Hammersmith froze mid-reach for his water bottle, and Cliff braced himself for the immediate fallout. Instead, something miraculous happened. The harsh line of Ilya's jaw relaxed, his posture unspooling just a fraction as his blue eyes landed on the young rookie.

"My daughter was ill," Ilya explained, his thick accent softening around the edges. "High fever. She is fine now, but she wanted her papa to stay home with her, so... I stayed."

The locker room went dead, terrifyingly silent.

Hammersmith dropped his water bottle, the plastic clattering against the concrete. Koslov, who had just finished tapping his stick, dropped it in shock, while St-Simon was staring at Ilya as if the captain had suddenly broken into fluent Mandarin.

Connors, blissfully immune to the collective heart attack happening around him, just nodded with sweet, oblivious sympathy. "Oh, man, that sucks, Cap. How is she doing now?"

"Much better," Ilya replied, pulling his jersey over his head. "Just a small flu. It is going around. The nanny took her to the playground last weekend, and well... she must have caught it there."

"What's her name?" Connors asked easily.

"Yuri," Ilya answered softly. "Her name is Yuri."

Behind Cliff, St-Simon let out a low, breathless French curse under his breath, while Koslov let out a bewildered, muffled, "What the fuck?"

Cliff sat glued to his bench, unable to process the words coming out of his captain's mouth. He stared at the man he had considered his closest confidant on the team—the man whose back he’d covered in every brutal brawl, whose territory he had defended from gossiping teammates—as if he were looking at a complete stranger.

Ilya pulled his arms through his sleeves, finally noticing the suffocating silence hanging over the stalls. He looked around, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "What?"

Cliff couldn't hold it back anymore. "You... you have a daughter?"

"Yeah. I do,” Ilya blinked at him, completely unbothered. “What about it?"

"Since when?!" Cliff demanded, his voice cracking slightly under the sheer absurdity of the moment.

"Since rookie season," Ilya replied nonchalantly, adjusting his collar.

The room exploded into a chorus of stunned exclamations.

Koslov pointed a trembling finger at their captain. "Is that why you always vanished back then?! Every time we didn't have training or a game, you were completely unaccounted for!"

"Of course," Ilya scoffed, as if state secrets were as simple as basic math. "My mate was pregnant, and later he gave birth. I had to be there for them."

St-Simon’s head snapped up, his jaw practically hitting the floor. "He?! You mated a male Omega?!"

Cliff’s stomach plummeted. Omegas were already a rarity, but male Omegas? They were practically mythic. The kind of biological marvel people read about in textbooks, guarded with insane, ferocious possessiveness by their Alphas.

Ilya just raised a single, arrogant eyebrow, looking at St-Simon like he was an idiot. "Duh."

"But—but wait!" Hammersmith stammered, his face twisting in utter confusion as he pointed at Ilya. "After your rookie year, you started coming out to the bars with us! You picked up thousands of girls! Were you... were you fucking cheating on your mate?!"

The temperature in the room plummeted to absolute zero.

In a fraction of a second, the amused captain vanished. Ilya snapped around, his eyes flashing with a lethal, terrifying rage that made even six-foot-four Hammersmith flinch back against his locker.

"Don't you fucking dare to say that," Ilya growled, his voice dropping into a guttural, terrifying register that vibrated through the floorboards. "Or even insinuate it. Ever since I was seventeen years old, there has only ever been one person for me, and that is my Shanya. Do you understand me?"

Cliff sat paralyzed on his bench, staring at the man in front of him as if he were looking through a tear in the fabric of reality. He had spent years defending this guy's honor, convincing the rest of the room that Ilya was just a private Alpha with a thick shell.

But it seems like Cliff didn't know Ilya at all.

The blond Alpha swept a cold, contemptuous glance across the room, completely ignoring their stunned silence as he tapped his stick. "Why would you even think I was picking up girls? Or anyone else?"

Koslov cleared his throat, looking unusually small as he shifted his weight. "Well... on the road, you would always leave the bar early. And when we saw you back at the hotel, you always had this... satisfied look on your face. So, we assumed you got laid."

"I left early because I had to call my daughter and read her a bedtime story over the phone because she missed me," Ilya replied flatly. "And I looked satisfied because sexting, phone sex, and actual video calls exist. If all of you choose to forget your partners the second you step onto a team charter and decide to have a little fun on the side, that is on you. Not me. Do not bring that bullshit into my marriage."

A suffocating weight settled right in the pit of Cliff's stomach. A hot wave of guilt washed over him. He’d left a trail of casual, meaningless hookups in hotel rooms across half the cities in the league, never giving a second thought to the people waiting back home. Sitting there under Ilya’s searing, disgusted gaze, Cliff felt like absolute trash.

But right behind that shame came a flare of raw anger. The Alpha in Cliff surged to the surface, his chest tightening, his jaw grinding until a low, harsh growl scraped past his teeth.

"Why wouldn't you tell us?!" Cliff barked, stepping forward, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "We are your friends, Ilya! Why keep all of this hidden?!"

Ilya let out a laugh—a sharp, mean, mocking sound that he usually reserved for riling up opposing centers during a heated face-off. "Friends?" he mocked, tilting his head with dark amusement. "You are my teammates. My coworkers. Not my friends. I decided that a long time ago. Ever since my rookie season, when I walked into this exact locker room for the first time and all I heard was slurs about fags, racist shit, and endless, disgusting talk about Omegas."

Ilya stepped right into Cliff’s space, his towering presence filling the corridor between the lockers.

"Why would I ever bring my Shanya around you?" Ilya sneered, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble. "When all you do is talk about Omegas so rudely? So, crude?"

The shame in the room turned toxic. St-Simon stared at his own skates, his face burning red, while Koslov looked like he’d been slapped.

"Cap, come on..." Hammersmith stammered out, holding his hands up defensively, his voice weak. "That's—that's just locker room talk."

Ilya’s eyes snapped to Hammersmith like two burning ice cubes. "Is that so? Have you ever heard me use that kind of language for chirps? I am known as the most annoying player in this league. The chirping king. Yet I do not lower myself to insulting people like that, because that kind of language does not pass through my lips."

Silence slammed back down over the room, heavy and absolute. Nobody had a counter to that. Because it was true. Ilya tore opponents apart on the ice using their stat lines, their weak backhands, or their terrible positioning—he never used slurs.

Koslov swallowed hard, looking genuinely confused. "Then... why go out with us? Why come to the bars for drinks after games if you hated us that much?"

Ilya raised a single, unbothered eyebrow as he reached for his gloves. "My mate is half-Japanese, half-Canadian. We visit his family in Japan every off-season. His grandfather speaks to me often, teaching me how to be a proper leader and a good captain. In Japan, going out with your colleagues after work for drinks is a crucial part of building group cohesion."

He pulled his right glove on, flexing his fingers with a leather-tight snap.

"Shanya’s family has never led me astray," Ilya continued coldly, meeting Cliff’s wide, stunned eyes one last time. "So of course I followed their advice. It has worked well for this team so far. But those outings are business. Not friendship."

Cliff felt completely destroyed. Shame, guilt, and a bitter, hollow heartbreak slammed into him all at once, leaving him standing there feeling like an utter piece of shit.

“That’s just locker room talk.” What a pathetic, spineless excuse.

For years, Cliff had convinced himself he was one of the good guys—a solid leader, a respectable Alpha, and a good teammate. But looking back through Ilya’s eyes, the truth was sickening. Ilya had arrived in Boston as an eighteen-year-old kid—alone in a foreign country, struggling with a new language, carrying the terrifying, incredible secret that he was about to become a father with his male Omega mate. He had probably walked into that room eager, expectant, maybe even hoping to find a brotherhood to lean on.

And what had they given him? A toxic wall of crude, racist bullshit, casual slurs, and men talking about Omegas like they were nothing more than disposable sex toys. Ilya hadn't kept his life secret because he was cold or arrogant. He had hidden his half-Japanese mate away to protect him from them.

"I'm... I'm so sorry, Cap," a small voice broke through the thick awkwardness.

Connors was standing near his stall, looking up at Ilya with wide, devastated eyes. The rookie looked genuinely sickened, his shoulders slumped in genuine remorse for the room he'd inherited.

Ilya stopped. He turned back, and in a split second, the sharp, lethal edge in his posture melted away. His blue eyes softened as he looked down at the young Alpha pup.

"Not you, rook," Ilya said, his tone shockingly gentle compared to the ice he’d just poured over the rest of them. "You are one of the good ones. I have not heard you say any shit like that."

Ilya reached out, tossing an arm over Connors' shoulders and pulling the kid easily against his side. He turned toward the double doors, slinging his helmet into his other hand without looking back.

"Move it, boys," Ilya called out coldly over his shoulder, his voice returning to its sharp, commanding rattle. "Get on the ice. If you are not on the rink in five minutes, I will make you skate suicides until you vomit."

Neither the threat nor the slamming of the heavy locker room doors made anyone flinch.

No one moved. Nobody rushed to pull on their gloves or reach for their helmets. The remaining men stood frozen in their stalls, staring at the empty doorway like men who had just watched a bomb go off in the center of the room.

Koslov slowly lowered himself onto the wooden bench, running two trembling hands over his face before letting out a long, shuddering breath. "We fucked up," he whispered into the dead silence, his voice raspy and devoid of any fight. "God... we really fucked up."

Cliff swallowed the bitter lump in his throat, his heart aching as he stared at the spot where his captain had just been standing. "Yeah," he managed to choke out, the word feeling like ash on his tongue. "We did."

Chapter 2: I Ilya

Ilya let out a weary sigh, stepping through the exit doors of the TD Garden rink and pulling his coat tight against the crisp Boston chill.

Training today had been an absolute nightmare.

It wasn't because the drills were difficult or because LeClaire was pushing them hard. It was the suffocating, bizarre atmosphere hanging over the ice. The moment they had skated out of the tunnel, the entire team had acted like they were walking on eggshells around him. Hammersmith couldn't look him in the eye during the forechecking drills. St-Simon was double-guessing his passes, constantly shooting Ilya these wide-eyed, mournful glances. Even Koslov had moved around him with a strange, tip-toeing deference that completely threw off their rhythm.

It had ruined the team's cohesion, turning a routine Tuesday practice into a clumsy, disjointed disaster.

What the fuck is wrong with them? Ilya thought, shaking his head as he unlocked his car.

He had spent years establishing crystal-clear boundaries with these men. From the moment he walked into that locker room as an eighteen-year-old rookie, he had made a deliberate choice. He was there to play elite hockey, to win, and to collect his paycheck. He wasn't there to make lifelong friends, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let a group of guys who tossed around casual slurs and crude Omega jokes anywhere near Shanya or Yuri—the two best things that had ever happened to his life.

They were coworkers. He had never lied about that. He came in, did his job with absolute perfection, led them on the ice, and went home to his family. So why were they acting like he’d personally stabbed them in the heart just because they finally realized where the line was drawn?

Ilya slammed the driver's side door shut, gripping the steering wheel as his jaw tightened.

He didn't have time for their sudden emotional crisis. They had won the Stanley Cup in 2014, but 2015 had been an embarrassment. Zane Boodman and the LA Kings had taken the trophy, and the league wasn't getting any easier. The Kings had just traded for Wyatt Hayes—that incredible goalie from Toronto—giving them a netminder on par with Koslov himself.

The 2016 season was going to be a bloodbath. Ilya wanted a second ring. He wanted his name on that silver cup again, and he needed every single man on the roster locked in, sharp, and focused on the ice. He was not about to let his teammates' sudden, pathetic guilt-trip stand between him and another championship.

If they wanted to wallow in shame over things they had said years ago, they could do it on their own time. On the ice, Ilya expected them to do their fucking jobs.

A sharp knock against the glass jolted Ilya out of his thoughts.

He closed his eyes for a split second, letting out a heavy sigh and silently offering a brief prayer up to his mamma in heaven. Give me patience, he thought, bracing himself for whichever guilt-ridden teammate was standing outside his car door.

He lowered the window, but the annoyance melted off his face the instant he saw who it was.

Standing in the cold parking lot, shifting nervously from foot to foot, was Connors. Ilya couldn't help how his expression softened—he genuinely liked the kid. Connors was sharp, respectful, and completely untainted by the toxic locker room culture. Instinctively, Ilya fell into the same calm, patient register he used with Yuri.

"What is wrong, rook?" Ilya asked gently.

Connors swallowed hard, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. "I'm—I'm sorry to bug you, Cap. You don't have to answer if you don't want to! Of course, you won't answer if you don't want to, I mean, you're the captain, so—"

A rare flicker of genuine amusement danced in Ilya's blue eyes. "Kid. Breathe."

Connors took a comically exaggerated gulp of air, his shoulders rising and falling dramatically. Ilya let out a chuckle, resting his forearm against the open window frame.

"Is your mate Shane Hollander?!" Connors blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush. "I mean—he's Shane Rozanov now, right? Or—"

"It is Hollander-Rozanov," Ilya corrected smoothly, unbothered by the sudden interrogation. "Though we keep our single names for our sports. It is... branding, I think. My mother-in-law Yuna understands these things better than I do."

Connors practically vibrated on the asphalt, his jaw dropping. "Oh my god. I was right. I was right! I mean—Omegas are already rare, but male Omegas are practically legend! And Shane Hollander is literally the most famous male Omega in North America! Gosh, I mean... you're Ilya Rozanov. You always aim for the absolute highest, and of course the highest you could go is the captain of the Red Sox!"

Connors rubbed his forehead, practically short-circuiting right there in the Garden lot. "Holy shit, Cap! I am such a massive fan of his, I—"

Under normal circumstances, an elite, generational talent like Ilya Rozanov might have taken offense. When Connors had first met Ilya after getting drafted, the kid had been terrified and reverent, but he’d never lost his mind like this. He hadn't even met Shane yet, and he was already hyperventilating in the parking lot.

However, instead of taking offense, a swell of fierce, unadulterated pride bloomed in Ilya’s chest.

He loved his mate. He was fiercely, unapologetically proud of everything Shane was—the incredible athlete, the brilliant leader, the fierce Omega who had captured his heart at seventeen. Hearing this wide-eyed rookie lose his mind over Shane was standard as far as Ilya was concerned.

A warm, open laugh rumbled out of Ilya's chest, cutting right through Connors' frantic rant.

"Breathe, rook," Ilya repeated, his voice brimming with fond amusement as he shook his head. "Before you pass out on the pavement."

Connors obediently drew in another comically dramatic gulp of air, his whole chest expanding before he let it out with a loud whistle.

Ilya threw his head back, a rich, genuine laugh echoing off the concrete surrounding his car. "You are a big fan of baseball, then?"

"No, not really!" Connors protested instantly, waving his hands. "I mean, my entire family are die-hard baseball nuts. I'm literally the black sheep because I went crazy for hockey."

Ilya tilted his head, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Are you sure? Because that reaction makes it look like you sleep in a Red Sox jersey."

"Man, I am Boston born and raised!" Connors declared, tapping his own chest with fierce pride. "Do you have any idea what that means?! It means you inhale the Red Sox with the fresh air! And your mate brought back-to-back World Series trophies to this city in 2014 and 2015. He is quite literally Boston’s pride and joy—no offense, Cap, but way more than you!"

Instead of bristling, Ilya’s grin only widened. "I know," he said softly, a warm swell of pride settling in his chest. "I am very proud of him."

He leaned his elbow back on the window frame, studying the eager kid standing in the chill. "You know, your story is actually very similar to Shanya’s."

Connors blinked, his jaw slackening. "Is it?"

"Yes," Ilya chuckled. "His family is huge on hockey. My father-in-law, David, played for the Redbirds at McGill University. It is why Shane wears number 24—it was his dad's old college number. And his mom, Yuna... she is the biggest hockey fan you will ever meet. It took me a long time to convert her from a Metros fan to the Bears, but when we won in 2014, she finally gave in."

Connors practically vibrated on his sneakers, his face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Oh my god. I have something in common with Shane Hollander."

Then, mid-bounce, Connors completely froze, as his eyes went wide as saucers.

"Wait... 24?" Connors gasped, pointing a finger at Ilya's chest. "Is that why you have it tattooed?! You have his number etched right over your heart?!"

Ilya didn't get a chance to answer before Connors let out a soft, genuine sigh, his shoulders relaxing. "Man... that is so sweet. Does the lily have a special meaning too?"

The simple, unprompted reaction caught Ilya entirely off guard.

For six years in that locker room, whenever a player mentioned their partner or showed any affection, the response was always crude jokes, jabs about the 'ball and chain,' or mocking chirps about being whipped. Yet here was this nineteen-year-old kid, looking at a terrifying six-foot-three Russian captain, and his unfiltered thought was just pure, heartfelt appreciation.

Ilya felt a wave of affection for the rookie. It was an instinct so strong he didn't even bother putting up his usual guards. "Yuri," he shared, his voice softening, "means lily in Japanese."

Connors stared at him, awe written across every inch of his face. "You have your daughter and your husband tattooed right over your heart..." He shook his head, a bright, admiring smile breaking across his face. "Cap, that’s seriously so sweet."

Ilya let out another warm laugh, shaking his head as he looked at the rookie.

God, Ilya thought, gripping the steering wheel as a fierce, protective affection settled over him. He was completely sold on this kid. There was no way in hell he was letting management trade Connors. If the GM even hinted at putting the rookie on the block, Ilya would march straight into the front office and shut it down himself.

"Get some rest tonight, rook," Ilya said, his tone full of easy warmth as he put the car in drive. "We have a long season ahead."

The drive back through the Boston streets felt shorter than usual, the tension from practice finally draining out of Ilya’s shoulders. He pulled into the gated driveway of their home, sliding his Porsche neatly into the garage right beside Shane’s matte-black Range Rover.

It was a running joke between them—Ilya was a multimillionaire in his own right, but Shane was unquestionably the real "sugar daddy" of the relationship. Hockey contracts were generous, but they couldn't touch the astronomical money floating around Major League Baseball. Shane was the captain of the Boston Red Sox, a generational two-way talent who had delivered back-to-back World Series titles to the city. Between his staggering contract and an empire of high-end endorsements, his paycheck was entirely out of this world. Even with Mama Yuna acting as Ilya's ferocious manager and landing him every top-tier brand deal in Canada and North America, Shane’s earnings were still on another level.

Yet, for all that wealth, Shane drove a practical Range Rover. It was safe, spacious, and perfect for hauling a child around. In fact, whenever Yuri was with Ilya, he left his own sports cars in the garage and took the Rover too.

Ilya killed the engine, grabbed his bag, and let himself into the silent house.

He headed straight upstairs, keeping his footsteps light as he approached Yuri’s bedroom. The door was cracked open, but the room inside was dark—a clear sign that his five-year-old was already fast asleep. Ilya felt a little pang of disappointment; he’d missed her bedtime, but he slipped inside anyway, moving with practiced silence across the plush carpet.

He leaned over the bed, carefully brushing a stray lock of soft hair from her forehead before pressing a tender kiss against her skin. He lingered there in the dim glow of the nightlight, simply staring down at her.

She was breathless perfection. His five years-old daughter was turning six in a couple of months, and she looked so much like Shane—who, in turn, was the spitting image of Yuna—that she was essentially a mini-Yuna running around their house. She hadn't inherited Shane’s adorable dusting of freckles, a fact Ilya had playfully pouted about in the hospital room the day she was born, but she had inherited Ilya’s moles.

Who in turn had inherited them from his mamma.

Ilya felt a profound, overwhelming wave of gratitude wash over his chest. Thank you, Shanya, he thought silently, giving her forehead one last, feather-light kiss before slipping out of the room.

As he stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, his mind drifted back to the dark, fiercely protective surge that always gripped him whenever his thoughts dared to place the Boston Bears anywhere near his family. His jaw tightened flexibly in the dark. His teammates' casual, careless locker room talk was a disease, and he would burn TD Garden to the ground before he ever let that filth breach the sanctuary of his home.

He loved his Shanya with an intensity that bordered on devotion—a love that had taken root years ago at the Prospect Cup in Saskatchewan, when a seventeen-year-old Ilya had been sharply scolded for smoking behind the rink by a breathtaking, freckled Omega.

Later that evening, the universe had tipped on its axis. Ilya’s body had plummeted into his very first Alpha rut, forcing the team to rush him to the nearest hospital. There, in the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors, he learned that the beautiful Omega from the alleyway had been brought in at the exact same time, dragged into a sudden, agonizing heat.

They were fated pairs.

Fairy tales glorified fated pairs as magical soulmates written in the stars, but reality was far more pragmatic. Being fated simply meant two biological systems were so hyper-compatible that the mere presence of one another violently kickstarted their second-gender biology. To stabilize each other from the dangerously intense fever of their combined rut and heat, they had been forced to share those days together.

And from that explosive, chemically driven chaos, Yuri was conceived.

Beautiful, perfect Yuri. Ilya would love and adore her until his final breath, but her arrival had been a shockwave. Biology had given them a child, but it hadn't given them a fairytale. "Fated" didn't automatically mean a happy ending.

At seventeen, it had meant bitter resentment from Shane, who was forced to postpone his long-awaited rookie season with the Red Sox to carry the pregnancy. It had meant suffocating guilt for Ilya—guilt for upending Shane’s dreams, and a dark, shameful guilt for feeling secretly relieved. Yuri’s upcoming arrival had given Ilya the perfect, bulletproof excuse to sever ties with Russia forever. He could cut off Grigori’s violent, crushing shadow and Alexei’s bitter malice without looking back. Yet, every time he felt that sweet relief, he hated himself for finding comfort in a situation that had cost Shane so much.

He also hated himself for being relieved that he no longer had to keep contact with his only remaining blood relations in Russia.

Fated pairs didn't fix trauma and biology didn't heal wounds.

What saved them was years of agonizing, honest work. It was hours of therapy, endless late-night conversations, unlearning their defenses, and choosing each other every single day until the resentment melted into an unbreakable, earned devotion. They had clawed their way to this happiness with their bare hands. Which was why Ilya guarded it like a dragon over its hoard.

He walked down the hall to the master bedroom, pushing the door open to find Shane propped up against the padded headboard, a pair of reading glasses resting delicately on the bridge of his nose as he flipped through a thick book.

It was a hockey biography. Shane strictly read two genres: hockey books and baseball books. There was one absurd volume currently sitting on Shane's nightstand about the weird, arcane superstitions and bizarre pre-game rituals of legendary baseball players, which Ilya had actually stolen a week ago because he had found it hilarious.

None of that mattered right now, though. All Ilya could see were those glasses.

God, I love him in those glasses, Ilya thought, his pulse quickening.

Before Shane could even look up to greet him, Ilya crossed the room, plucked the book straight out of his mate's hands, and tossed it carelessly onto the mattress.

"Hey!" Shane protested, his voice a soft, amused murmur.

Ilya didn't let him finish. He leaned down, capturing Shane's lips in a deep, thorough kiss that immediately melted all of Shane's mild annoyance into a content sigh. Ilya framed Shane's jaw with his large hands, pulling him close, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of his mate.

Looking at Shane, hearing Yuri’s soft breathing down the hall, Ilya knew with absolute certainty that he had made the right choice in the locker room today. He would never let the Bears near this family. They were too precious, too beautiful, his absolute world. The crude, ugly words his teammates tossed around had no place anywhere near this house.

Though... as Ilya slowly pulled back, catching his breath while resting his forehead against Shane's, a thought crossed his mind.

Maybe—if he asked Shane for permission first—he might let Connors meet them one day.

The kid would probably faint on the spot, but Ilya had a feeling his mate and his daughter would absolutely adore him.

Chapter 3: Interlude - Red & Gold

The Athletic

The Standard Every Captain Is Measured Against: How Shane Hollander Became the Face of Baseball's New Era

There are great baseball players, there are franchise players, and then there are the athletes who redefine what an organization expects from the captain's armband.

Shane Hollander has become that player for the Boston Red Sox.

Just five seasons into his Major League career, the Canadian superstar has already assembled the kind of résumé most players spend two decades chasing. A two-time World Series champion, captain of one of baseball's most iconic franchises, and one of its exceedingly rare two-way players, Hollander has become as synonymous with modern baseball as the Red Sox logo stitched across his chest.

What makes his career remarkable, however, extends well beyond championships.

Baseball has always celebrated specialization. Power hitters rarely steal bases. Elite defenders often sacrifice offense. Starting pitchers dedicate every aspect of their preparation to taking the mound once every five days. Excelling in every phase of the sport is extraordinarily uncommon, which is why scouts reserve the term "five-tool player" for only the rarest talents—players capable of hitting for average, hitting for power, running the bases, fielding at an elite level, and possessing an exceptional throwing arm.

Hollander somehow manages to exceed even that description.

While already regarded as one of baseball's premier offensive players, combining remarkable bat control with game-changing power, he has simultaneously established himself as one of the sport's elite pitchers. In an era where almost every professional player is asked to specialize as early as adolescence, Hollander has stubbornly refused to choose between the mound and the batter's box, embracing the physical and mental demands of mastering both.

The workload borders on absurd.

Pitchers and everyday hitters train differently, recover differently, and study the game through entirely different lenses. Excelling at one is difficult enough. Remaining among the league's very best at both requires a level of discipline rarely seen in professional sports.

Yet teammates insist that what separates Hollander from everyone else has less to do with talent than preparation.

Opposing hitters have joked that he seems to know their tendencies before they do. Catchers describe pregame meetings that resemble university lectures, with Hollander arriving carrying pages of handwritten scouting notes, carefully studying swing paths, release points, defensive positioning, and historical matchups. Position players speak just as highly of his batting preparation, describing hours spent inside video rooms analyzing opposing pitchers until he can predict sequencing patterns several pitches in advance.

His obsession with detail has earned respect throughout baseball.

Ask players around the league about Shane Hollander and the answers sound remarkably similar.

Nobody works harder.

Nobody prepares more thoroughly.

Nobody competes more fiercely.

Perhaps most impressively, that respect extends well beyond Boston. Rival managers routinely describe Hollander as the player they least enjoy facing—not because of arrogance or theatrics, but because he offers opponents almost no weaknesses to exploit. He can beat a team from the mound, with his bat, or simply by controlling the rhythm of an entire game through intelligent leadership.

That same professionalism has transformed the Red Sox.

Veterans describe a captain who arrives before sunrise and often leaves long after everyone else has gone home. Rookies speak about receiving scouting reports slipped quietly into their lockers before difficult series. Coaches frequently note that Hollander rarely raises his voice. Instead, he establishes standards through consistency, making it difficult for anyone around him to justify giving less than their best.

Those standards have produced extraordinary results.

Back-to-back World Series championships in 2014 and 2015 restored Boston to the summit of baseball while cementing Hollander's reputation as one of the defining leaders of his generation. Inside Fenway Park, chants of "Hollander!" have become as familiar as the seventh-inning stretch, while opposing stadiums have learned that even hostile crowds often pause to applaud particularly remarkable performances.

His influence extends far beyond the diamond.

As one of the most recognizable athletes in North America, Hollander has become the face of an unusually diverse portfolio of international brands. Luxury watchmaker Rolex has featured him in campaigns emphasizing timeless excellence. Reebok has built global advertisements around his relentless work ethic. Canada Dry, long known to be his favorite soft drink, turned that genuine affection into one of sports marketing's most successful partnerships, while fragrance house Creed positioned Hollander as the embodiment of understated sophistication.

Unlike many endorsement portfolios assembled around celebrity alone, each partnership reflects the same image Hollander has cultivated throughout his career: disciplined, elegant, and relentlessly professional.

That authenticity has become one of his greatest strengths.

Fans admire the championships, marvel at the statistics, and celebrate the highlight-reel plays, but players often point toward something less tangible. They speak about consistency and the expectation that excellence is not an occasional achievement but the baseline.

In a sport that reveres tradition, Shane Hollander has become something remarkably rare: a player respected equally for honoring baseball's history while demonstrating what its future can look like.

Championships built his reputation.

Everything else has made him one of the faces of the game.

Comments:

@FenwayFaithful

The thing that always gets lost in these conversations is that Shane isn't just a superstar. He's one of the smartest baseball players I've ever watched. The way he reads pitchers is almost unfair.

 

@BaseballHistorian

People will spend years debating whether he's the greatest two-way player ever. What they won't debate is that he completely changed how organizations think about developing elite talent.

 

@PitchingLab

As a pitching coach, I cannot stress enough how absurd his workload is.

Being an elite starter is a full-time job.

Being an elite hitter is a full-time job.

He's somehow doing both.

 

@SoxNation617

Every rookie who comes through Boston says the same thing: the captain is already in the video room when they arrive.

 

@MLBScout

Scouts love talking about tools.

Shane has all of them, but his biggest tool is his brain.

He prepares better than almost anyone in the league.

 

@FenwayTeacher

My students don't talk about his endorsements.

They talk about how he never throws a teammate under the bus after a loss.

 

@BaseballDad44

My son wants to be Shane Hollander because he says, "He works harder than everyone else."

That's a pretty incredible legacy.

 

@GreenMonster34

People keep saying Boston worships him.

They're right, but not just because of the championships.

He made the Red Sox feel like a family again.

 

@BaseballAnalytics

He doesn't just hit mistakes.

He creates mistakes.

Pitchers start second-guessing themselves because they know he's studying them as much as they're studying him.

 

@TorontoBlue

Rival fan here.

I hate playing Boston because of him.

You never feel safe, because he can beat you from the mound, with the bat, or by stealing a base at the worst possible moment.

 

@CatcherPerspective

Everyone talks about his home runs.

The thing that impresses me most is his command.

He can throw four different pitches for strikes on any count.

 

@FenwaySouth

The leadership part is real.

You can see it even on television.

He notices when a rookie is overwhelmed and is the first one talking to him between innings.

 

@SportsWriterDan

The endorsements make sense because he feels authentic. Rolex gets elegance. Canada Dry gets comfort. Creed gets sophistication. Reebok gets work ethic.

None of it feels manufactured.

 

@BaseballMom22

I appreciate that he never pretends to be perfect.

He talks openly about failure, preparation, and learning.

My kids hear that and understand that greatness is built, not inherited.

 

@PrideAtFenway

I know some people get tired of the conversation about him being a male Omega, but for a lot of young athletes that mattered.

The important thing is that he never let it become the most interesting thing about him.

 

@DiamondDigest

Exactly. His identity is part of his story.

It is not the reason he is a legend.

 

@RedSoxForever

The best compliment I can give him is this: when the game is on the line, everyone in Boston expects him to do something incredible.

And somehow, he keeps meeting that expectation.

 

@MLBFuture

Twenty years from now, kids are going to grow up assuming that a player can be a pitcher, a hitter, a captain, and the face of a franchise all at once.

They'll think it's normal.

Shane Hollander is the reason they'll think that.

 

@OldSchoolBaseball

I'm sixty-eight.

At first, I didn't understand any of this woke culture.

Then I watched the kid play.

Turns out baseball is a language everyone understands.

---

@BostonHockeyHistory

[Photo]

-Ilya Rozanov, drenched in sweat and champagne, raises the Stanley Cup above his head as black and gold confetti rains around him. His mouth is open in a triumphant yell while his teammates crowd around him, reaching for the trophy.

Still my favorite sports photo ever.

Twenty-one-year-old Ilya Rozanov lifting the Stanley Cup over his head after delivering Boston its first championship in years. I cannot wait for our captain to bring it home again.

Comments:

@SouthiePride

That picture gives me goosebumps every single time.

 

@BearsTillIDie

Youngest captain in franchise history.

 

@OriginalSixGuy

And somehow, he already carried himself like he'd been captain for fifteen years.

 

@GoalieUnion

Still one of the greatest playoff performances I've ever watched.

The guy just refused to lose.

 

@BruinHeart

It's crazy how little we actually know about him.

We know he's from Moscow.

We know he's an Alpha.

We know he wears 81.

That's... basically it.

 

@NHLHistoryBuff

Seriously.

Every other superstar has documentaries, childhood stories, family interviews...

Rozanov?

Nothing.

 

@PuckTalk

I've been following him since he was drafted.

I honestly couldn't tell you if he has siblings.

Or parents.

Or pets.

Or what music he listens to.

 

@HockeyNerd87

The man shows up, wins hockey games, and then he disappears.

Only to return the next day.

 

@BeanTownBorn

Even his teammates admit nobody knows anything about him.

 

@EastCoastRink

The mystery honestly adds to the legend.

 

@SouthBostonSports

Remember the tattoo thing after the Cup?

Half the roster went together and got matching Bears tattoos.

 

@StanleyCup2014

Yep.

The roaring grizzly.

Almost everyone from that championship team has it.

 

@InkAndIce

Except Rozanov.

 

@BeanTownBorn

Exactly!

Instead he got...

a lily.

And the number 24.

 

@TattooTalk

Which has never made any sense.

 

@PuckObsessed

I've spent YEARS trying to figure that tattoo out.

A delicate lily on the chest of the most terrifying captain in hockey?

 

@OriginalSixGuy

And why twenty-four?

Eighty-one is on his jersey.

He has always worn eighty-one, even in Juniors!

 

@HockeyRabbitHole

The funniest part is nobody has ever asked him.

Or if they have, he clearly didn't answer.

 

@PressBoxPete

Boston media learned very quickly there are two things Rozanov doesn't discuss.

His private life and that tattoo.

 

@SouthiePride

Every time a reporter tries, the interview goes the same way.

Reporter: "What's the lily mean?"

Rozzy: "Next question."

 

@BlueLineBreakdown

I've heard every theory imaginable.

His mother's birthday.

Someone who died.

A religious symbol.

Military service.

A promise.

Nobody knows.

 

@MoscowHockey

Even Russian reporters don't know.

Which is saying something.

 

@BeanTownSports

Honestly, I hope nobody ever finds out.

It's kind of become part of who he is.

 

@PuckTalk

Exactly.

Every great sports city has that one athlete surrounded by mythology.

Jordan had the cigar stories.

Gretzky had the endless legends.

Boston has Ilya Rozanov and whatever the hell that lily means.

 

@FrozenPond

The funniest thing is how impossible he is to read.

He'll chirp someone for sixty minutes straight.

Smile after scoring an overtime winner.

Then answer every interview like he's reading from an instruction manual.

 

@SouthBostonSports

The reporters have given up trying to crack him.

 

@GoalHornDaily

The only thing everyone agrees on is this:

Whatever the story behind that flower is...

it's important enough that he chose it over immortalizing the greatest night of his career.

 

@BearsTillIDie

And somehow that just makes him even cooler.

 

@BeanTownBorn

Second Cup this year.

Then maybe we'll finally convince him to get the bear tattoo.

 

@SouthiePride

He'll probably get another mysterious flower just to keep on confusing us.

---

The Boston Globe

The Standard Every Center Is Measured Against: Inside the Extraordinary Career of Ilya Rozanov

Every generation produces a handful of players who redefine what excellence looks like.

For the Boston Bears, that player is Ilya Rozanov.

At just twenty-five years old, the Moscow-born captain has already assembled a résumé that many Hall of Famers spend entire careers chasing. A Stanley Cup champion, a perennial Hart Trophy and Selke Trophy contender, the youngest captain in franchise history, and widely regarded as the finest center in hockey, Rozanov has become the player coaches point to when explaining how the position should be played.

He is also, perhaps fittingly, one of the league's greatest enigmas.

Fans know remarkably little about the man away from the rink. Teammates describe him as intensely private, disciplined almost to a fault, and utterly consumed by hockey. He rarely grants lengthy interviews, almost never discusses his personal life, and has carefully avoided the celebrity culture that often follows athletes of his stature.

Once the puck drops, however, every mystery disappears.

Rozanov speaks fluently in the language of hockey.

From the moment he entered the NHL as an eighteen-year-old rookie, scouts immediately recognized something unusual. His physical tools were elite—standing six-foot-three with exceptional strength, explosive acceleration, and remarkable balance—but what truly separated him was the speed at which he processed the game.

"I don't know if I've ever coached another player who saw the ice like Ilya," Bears coach LeClaire once said. "Most players react to the game. He dictates it."

That ability to control the flow of play has become the defining characteristic of his career.

Elite centers are often described as quarterbacks on skates, responsible for connecting every area of the ice. Rozanov performs that role better than anyone in the league. Every shift begins with him touching the puck, surveying the ice, and determining whether Boston attacks with speed, slows the pace to maintain possession, or cycles patiently until a defensive breakdown appears.

He might be considered an emotional player, never shying away from dropping the glove. But do not underestimate him, his hockey IQ borders on astonishing.

He seems to recognize passing lanes before they develop, anticipate defensive rotations several seconds in advance, and identify weaknesses almost instantly. Opposing coaches regularly speak about the frustration of preparing game plans against him, only to watch Rozanov calmly dismantle those plans by the second period.

His playmaking has become one of the league's great spectacles.

Rather than forcing highlight-reel passes through impossible traffic, Rozanov consistently makes the correct decision. He draws defenders toward him before slipping pucks into newly created space, creating scoring chances that often appear deceptively simple. His patience with the puck routinely turns broken plays into dangerous offensive opportunities, and his vision has elevated nearly every winger who has spent significant time on his line.

His offensive production reflects that consistency.

Season after season, Rozanov ranks among the NHL's scoring leaders while maintaining the responsibility of matching up against the opposing team's best forwards every night. He combines thirty- and forty-goal scoring ability with elite playmaking, making him one of the rare centers capable of controlling games regardless of whether he finishes the play himself or creates opportunities for teammates.

Yet offense tells only half the story.

What separates Rozanov from many of hockey's other elite scorers is his relentless commitment to the defensive side of the game.

Few forwards backcheck with the same determination. He routinely breaks up odd-man rushes by tracking back through the neutral zone, strips pucks from opposing stars before they reach dangerous scoring areas, and consistently turns defensive recoveries into immediate counterattacks. Coaches across the league often describe him as playing "three-zone hockey," influencing every inch of the rink from one end boards to the other.

His dominance in the face-off circle has become equally important.

Possession begins with winning draws, and few players do so more consistently than Rozanov. Whether protecting a one-goal lead late in the third period or opening an overtime power play, Boston's coaching staff rarely hesitates before sending number 81 over the boards. Those seemingly routine faceoff victories frequently become the difference between sustained offensive pressure and immediate defensive responsibility.

Special teams offer another demonstration of his versatility.

On the power play, Rozanov orchestrates Boston's attack with calm precision, manipulating penalty killers through subtle movement before finding open teammates or firing his own heavy wrist shot through layers of traffic. On the penalty kill, he becomes equally dangerous, using anticipation and an active stick to disrupt passing lanes before quickly turning defensive stops into shorthanded scoring chances.

His skating ties every aspect of his game together.

Despite his powerful frame, Rozanov moves with remarkable efficiency, using long, effortless strides to cover enormous amounts of ice while protecting the puck exceptionally well. Defenders often struggle to separate him from possession once he establishes body position, allowing him to extend offensive-zone time and wear opponents down shift after shift.

Inside the Bears' locker room, that same intensity defines Rozanov's leadership.

Veterans and rookies alike describe him as relentlessly demanding but impeccably fair. He sets impossibly high standards for conditioning, preparation, and professionalism, yet never asks teammates to meet expectations he does not already exceed himself. He is almost always among the first players on the ice and frequently one of the last to leave, treating even routine practices with the urgency of a playoff elimination game.

Former teammates often joke that Rozanov possesses two completely different personalities inside the rink.

Before games, he is the emotional heartbeat of the room. His pre-game speeches have become legendary within the organization, capable of turning pregame nerves into absolute conviction. Players routinely credit his ability to make every man in the locker room believe they can outwork, outskate, and outlast whoever lines up across from them.

That leadership continues after the final horn.

Following significant victories, Rozanov is almost always the one to find a bar willing to host half the roster, or insisting that everyone—from veteran stars to the newest rookie—join the celebration. Within the organization, those nights have become as much a part of the team's culture as morning skate, reinforcing the sense of unity that has defined the Bears throughout his captaincy.

Opposing players, however, experience an entirely different side of him.

Around the league, Rozanov has earned a reputation as hockey's undisputed Chirping King. He talks incessantly from the opening faceoff until the final whistle, dissecting opponents' games with relentless precision. Rather than relying on profanity or personal insults, he weaponizes hockey itself—mocking blown coverages, reminding goaltenders about soft goals from the previous week, questioning faceoff percentages, criticizing defensive positioning, or congratulating a winger for finally completing a pass after three failed attempts.

It is a style that has driven opponents to countless retaliation penalties over the years.

Remarkably, despite being one of the league's most notorious agitators, Rozanov has never developed a reputation for crossing the line. Even rival captains acknowledge that while he may be infuriating to play against, his chirping never descends into racist, homophobic, or otherwise personal attacks. For Rozanov, everything begins and ends with hockey—a philosophy that has earned him the respect of officials and opponents alike, even as they openly admit they cannot stand spending sixty minutes listening to him.

Coaches designing game plans against Boston often speak of a unique challenge: stopping Rozanov's production is only half the battle. The other half is preventing him from getting inside their players' heads before the night is over.

Off the ice, his influence has expanded far beyond hockey.

Rozanov has become one of the NHL's most recognizable international ambassadors, fronting campaigns for Calvin Klein, CCM, Speedo, and Dunking’. His combination of imposing athleticism, understated confidence, and unmistakable screen presence has made him equally comfortable on fashion billboards and sports commercials without ever diminishing his reputation as one of hockey's fiercest competitors.

It is a balance few athletes manage successfully.

Many become celebrities first and players second.

With Rozanov, the opposite remains true.

Every endorsement, magazine cover, and global advertising campaign exists because of what he continues to accomplish inside NHL arenas.

As the Bears pursue another Stanley Cup in 2016, Boston once again finds itself following a captain whose standards rarely appear to have a ceiling.

For the rest of the league, that remains a daunting reality.

For Boston, it has simply become the expectation.

Comments:

@BearsForever81

People keep calling him the best player in hockey.

I actually think that's underselling him.

He's the best center I've watched in twenty years.

 

@PuckAnalytics

If you want to teach a kid how to play center...

Don't start with highlight reels.

Start with Ilya Rozanov.

Every shift is a clinic.

 

@FaceoffNerd

The article barely touched on his face-offs.

Go look at the numbers.

Late in the third.

Defensive-zone draw.

Penalty kill.

Game Seven.

If the puck absolutely has to be won...

LeClaire sends out 81.

 

@BostonBorn617

The amount of games we've won because Rozzy took one faceoff with forty seconds left is ridiculous.

 

@CoachMiller

I coach high school hockey.

My centers are tired of hearing me say, "Watch Rozanov."

Watch how he supports the defense.

Watch how low he comes in his own zone.

Watch how he never cheats for offense.

 

@NeutralZoneGuru

People think elite centers score.

Great centers control possession.

Rozanov practically owns the puck.

 

@WingerPerspective

Every winger who gets promoted to his line suddenly has career numbers.

That isn't luck.

 

@HockeyIQ

He doesn't force plays.

He waits and manipulates defenders.

Then suddenly somebody is standing alone at the back post.

 

@DetroitRed

Playing Boston feels like trying to chase smoke.

Every breakout starts with him.

 

@KingsHockey

As a Kings fan...

I hate that this article is right.

You don't stop Rozanov, you survive him.

We barely won 2015.

2016 will be a bloodbath.

 

@MontrealMetroFan

Every time we think we've shut him down...

He finishes with three assists.

 

@PuckPossession

The craziest thing is how calm he looks.

Everyone else seems rushed.

Rozanov always looks like the game is happening at half speed.

 

@617Hockey

The guy can score fifty goals...

...and he'll still spend the last minute of the game blocking passing lanes like a third-pair grinder.

 

@SelkeWatch

Give him the Selke already.

How many more years are we pretending there are better defensive forwards?

 

@HartDebate

Selke?

I'm talking Hart.

Take Rozanov off Boston and they're a playoff team.

Put him on Boston and they're a Stanley Cup contender.

That's value.

 

@OldSchoolPuck

He's one of those rare captains who makes everyone around him better without saying much.

The standard is simply: "If the captain is doing it, so are we."

 

@LockerRoomTalk

Every former Bear says the same thing.

He's the hardest worker in the room.

 

@CalvinKleinFan

I discovered him through Calvin Klein.

Now I own a Bears jersey.

Marketing works.

 

@voguefanatic

The CCM commercials made me curious.

The hockey made me stay.

 

@DunkingForLife

You know an athlete has crossover appeal when people who don't even watch hockey know exactly who he is.

 

@BostonSports

Boston has somehow ended up with Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.

The rest of us are just living in their era.

 

@NHLHistorian

The article calls him private.

That's putting it mildly.

Six years in Boston, countless interviews after, and not a single story about his personal life.

 

@IceMysteries

Seriously.

What do we actually know?

Moscow-born Alpha.

That's basically it.

 

@TattooTalk

And don't forget...

The lily.

 

@BearsArchive

I'll never get over that tattoo.

The entire 2014 Cup team got roaring bear tattoos during the parade.

Rozanov walked into the same tattoo shop...

...and came out with a lily and the number 24.

 

@InkDetective

People have been trying to figure out that tattoo for years.

Nothing.

 

@SportsConspiracies

My favorite theory changes every month.

 

@PuckLore

Honestly?

I hope he never explains it.

Some athletes need a little mythology around them.

 

@CenterIce

The mystery is part of why everyone is fascinated by him.

The NHL has plenty of stars.

It only has one Ilya Rozanov.

 

@BostonFaithful

When people ask why we trust this team every season, the answer is simple.

Number 81 takes the opening face-off.

Everything feels under control after that.

---

@FenwayFaithful

Can we talk about something that we've somehow normalized?

Our captain is a male Omega.

Do you all understand how statistically ridiculous that sentence is?

 

@SabermetricsNerd

People outside baseball don't.

Professional athletes are overwhelmingly Alphas and Betas.

Omegas in professional sports are already incredibly rare because of biology alone.

Male Omegas?

They're practically unheard of.

And ours happens to be the best player in baseball.

 

@BaseballHistorian

For younger fans who weren't around:

The media spent YEARS insisting an Omega could never survive a 162-game season.

They said the travel would be too much.

The physicality, the scenting, and the heats would overwhelm any Omega.

Then Shane Hollander showed up and won back-to-back World Series.

Turns out everyone else was just wrong.

 

@GreenMonsterLife

Not just won.

He captained them.

There's a difference.

 

@PitchClockProblems

And he's a TWO-WAY PLAYER.

You know how insane that already is?

Now add "male Omega."

The man basically told biology to sit down and shut up.

 

@BostonBorn617

The funniest part?

Remember when all the talking heads said he'd be "too emotional" to captain a clubhouse?

Meanwhile every interview from every teammate is basically: "I'd follow Shane into a volcano."

 

@RedSoxForever

I still remember his first Opening Day after he came out.

Half the sports channels were predicting the clubhouse would implode.

Instead, the team won the World Series.

 

@MLBMemories

Then they did it again.

 

@FenwaySouth

Back-to-back.

 

@BostonBorn617

Exactly.

It's almost impossible to argue against someone who keeps handing Boston championship parades.

 

@OmegaAdvocate

I don't think people realize what Shane means to Omega kids.

Especially boys.

Growing up, every athlete they saw was an Alpha.

Every action hero was an Alpha.

Every captain was an Alpha.

Then suddenly there's this ridiculously talented male Omega standing on the mound throwing ninety-eight, then driving in three RBIs that same night.

That changes what kids think is possible.

 

@RainbowDiamond

My little brother is an Omega.

When he was ten, he told my parents he wanted to quit baseball because "there aren't players like me."

Now he wears twenty-four every single game.

That's what representation actually looks like.

 

@FenwayTeacher

Teacher here.

Every Pride Month I ask my students who their heroes are.

Ten years ago?

Movie stars and musicians.

Now half the boys say Shane Hollander.

Half of THOSE boys are little Alphas.

The other half are Betas.

He's just... their captain.

 

@SoxSeasonTickets

That's the thing.

Boston doesn't love him because he's an Omega.

Boston loves him because he's Shane.

The Omega part just makes us want to fight anyone who says he doesn't belong.

 

@MapleLeafBaseball

As a Canadian, I only have one thing to say: He was ours first.

 

@BostonBorn617

Counterargument.

No.

 

@MapleLeafBaseball

I expected that response.

 

@BostonBorn617

We'll happily let Canada borrow him.

But we're keeping Shane.

 

@CanadianBaseball

Honestly?

Fair.

He belongs to Boston now.

 

@StatCastStan

One thing I love about Shane is that he never tried to become "the Omega spokesperson."

He just... played baseball.

Really, really well.

Then answered questions honestly when people asked.

He let excellence do the talking.

 

@DiamondDigest

Exactly.

Every interview is basically:

Reporter: "How does it feel being a male Omega?"

Shane: "I'd rather talk about my slider."

Absolute King.

 

@OldSchoolBaseball

I'll admit something.

When he first got drafted, I had doubts.

Not only because he was an Omega, but because I'd never seen anyone like him before.

I genuinely wondered if he could survive this league.

I've never been happier to be proven completely wrong.

The kid became one of the greatest players I've ever watched.

 

@BaseballMom22

Same here.

And I think admitting when you're wrong matters.

A lot of us had unconscious biases because we'd simply never seen an Omega at this level.

Then Shane showed us what excellence actually looks like.

 

@FenwayFaithful

People forget that he isn't just surviving.

He's redefining what baseball's ideal player looks like.

 

@BaseballAnalytics

He's probably going to end up in Cooperstown.

Read that sentence again.

A male Omega is on a Hall of Fame trajectory.

Future generations are going to think that's normal.

It wasn't.

He made it normal.

 

@SouthieSam

If someone told Boston twenty years ago that the greatest Red Sox captain of his generation would be a gay male Omega from Canada...

...we would've laughed.

Now?

You insult Shane within city limits and people start checking if your health insurance covers broken teeth.

 

@BostonEMS

Can confirm.

Please don't make us work overtime.

 

@FenwayFaithful

The city doesn't just cheer for Shane.

The city adopted him.

 

@BaseballHistorian

Ted Williams.

Carl Yastrzemski.

David Ortiz.

Shane Hollander.

Different eras.

Same conversation.

That's how beloved he is.

 

@BaseballTalk

And the craziest part?

For every kid growing up today, Shane isn't "the first great male Omega."

He's simply Captain Hollander.

Which means the barriers he had to break have already disappeared for the next generation.

That's probably his greatest legacy of all.

Chapter 4: I Shane

The morning sun filtered softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the kitchen, casting a warm, golden glow across the quartz countertops. Upstairs, the faint sounds of life were already underway—the muffled patter of small feet against hardwood, followed by Ilya’s deep, patient rumble as he helped Yuri navigate her morning routine, carefully brushing out her hair and picking out her outfit for the day.

Shane stood at the stove, the hum of the house wrapping around him like a worn blanket. A cast-iron pan rested on the burner, glistening with a light coat of oil. He held a small bowl in one hand, rhythmically whisking a batch of eggs, his phone propped up against a block of kitchen knives on speaker.

"The regional representatives reached out yesterday afternoon," Yuna's sharp, crisp voice sounded through the speaker. "Adidas wants to discuss signing Ilya to an endorsement deal ahead of the new season, and Porsche is pitching a flagship campaign for their North American line."

Shane tilted his head, expertly pouring a thin, delicate layer of golden egg into the square tamagoyaki pan, the soft sizzle filling the quiet kitchen.

"And for you," Yuna continued, the sound of papers rustling faintly in the background, "Ray-Ban wants to sign you for a summer lifestyle campaign, and Range Rover is pitching an ambassador partnership. They're offering a ridiculous figure to get you behind the wheel of this year's flagship model."

Shane picked up a pair of long wooden chopsticks, carefully rolling the thin sheet of cooked egg back toward the edge of the pan before pouring another silky layer underneath.

"Hmm," Shane hummed softly, his focus locked on the delicate fold. "Mom... 2016 is already stacked. Between my season schedule, Ilya’s road trips, and Yuri’s preschool, adding four massive commercial shoots is going to push us over the edge. Can we push those pitches to 2017? Or even early 2018?"

On the other end of the line, Yuna offered a long, thoughtful beat of silence before letting out a soft, satisfied click of her tongue. "Smart boy. You’re right—protecting your rest and family time comes first. I’ll stall both management teams, tell them your schedules are locked for the current calendar year, and set up preliminary talks for the 2017 off-season. Leave it to me."

"Thanks, Mom," Shane smiled, nudging the rolled egg gently with his chopsticks. "You're the best."

"Always," Yuna replied smoothly. Then, hearing the distinct, rhythmic scrape of wooden utensils against iron, her tone shifted with fond curiosity. "Are you making tamagoyaki?"

"Yeah," Shane murmured, picking up the phone and tilting the camera slightly so she could see the golden, perfectly layered roll forming in the pan. "Yuri asked for it last night before bed. You know she won't eat normal scrambled eggs unless Ilya drowns them in cheese."

"It looks perfect, Shane," Yuna chuckled, her eyes crinkling through the screen. "You inherited your father’s patience in the kitchen, that's for sure."

Shane’s expression softened at the mention of his dad. "How is Dad, by the way?"

"He’s good," Yuna said, her frame shifting as the camera captured a quick glimpse of a sleek leather suit bag being zipped up on their bed. "He’s downstairs double-checking his briefing notes. We’re preparing to drive down to Montreal in an hour for one of his summit events with the Canada Board of Treasury."

Shane adjusted his phone back against the knife block, pouring the last of the whisked egg into the pan. As he watched the yellow liquid set, his mind drifted to his father, David Hollander.

Growing up, David had always been Shane’s anchor—a constant, living proof of what an Omega could achieve. In a world that revered Omegas as precious, rare treasures to be cherished and protected, society has a habit of wrapping them in velvet. Because male Omegas were so exceedingly rare, people were instinctively cautious with them, eager to shield them from high-pressure environments, physical risk, or anything that might cause distress.

It wasn't done out of malice, but out of overprotectiveness. Society gently steered Omegas into safe, nurturing sanctuaries—celebrating them when they entered the culinary arts, or praising their innate warmth, intuition, and deep empathy in education, counseling, and child development. It was common knowledge that the world’s most brilliant psychologists were almost exclusively Omegas, thriving in spaces designed to keep them safe and valued.

But that very protectiveness had built comfortable, gilded boxes. It was still exceptionally rare to see a male Omega step out of those gentle havens to take on the physical strain of contact sports or the high-stress chaos of corporate finance.

Yet David Hollander had politely pushed those gilded walls aside. He had conquered finance anyway, rising through the ranks and navigating cutthroat boardrooms with unflinching authority, proving that an Omega’s brilliant mind didn't need to be sheltered from pressure. And through every promotion, late-night filing, and intense government summit, David had enjoyed the fierce, unwavering support of his Alpha wife.

Shane’s mom had never tried to wrap him in cotton wool or keep him safely tucked away at home; she had stood beside him as an equal partner, proud of his ambition.

It was David’s strength that had ignited the fire in Shane. It was the reason Shane had never let anyone tell him that a male Omega was too precious or delicate for the brutal demands of professional baseball, or that he couldn't handle captaining the Boston Red Sox while pitching and hitting at an elite level.

Ever since he was a little boy, Shane had dreamed of finding an Alpha who would love and support his ambition the exact same way Yuna supported his dad. An Alpha who wouldn't try to protect him into retirement or lock him away in a golden cage, but who would stand proudly in his corner, trust his strength, and cheer for his victories.

And now, he had Ilya.

Shane’s lips curved into a warm, deeply affectionate smile as he listened to the familiar thud of Ilya’s footsteps finally making their way down the grand staircase. Thinking about it now, the irony wasn't lost on him. He would never have found Ilya if it hadn't been for his dad’s career.

Six years ago, David had been preparing for a similar government finance summit—except that time, it hadn't been in Montreal. It had been in Saskatchewan. Yuna hadn't been able to make the trip due to a scheduling conflict with her agency, so Shane had tagged along with his dad for company. And in a cold alleyway behind a hockey rink in Saskatchewan, a chance scolding over a lit cigarette had tied his life to a terrifying, brilliant seventeen-year-old Russian Alpha forever.

If his dad hadn't taken that trip, Shane would never have met Ilya. He wouldn't have this house, this domestic morning, or the sound of their daughter giggling upstairs. Shane slid the golden, steaming tamagoyaki onto a bamboo cutting board, turning his focus back to the phone screen as his heart swelled with overwhelming gratitude.

"Mom?" Shane said softly into the speaker, his voice thick with earnest emotion.

"Yes, sweetie?" Yuna asked, pausing as she adjusted her coat.

"Before you guys leave for Montreal... please thank Dad for me," Shane murmured, his eyes lingering on the kitchen entryway where he could hear Yuri’s sweet voice chattering away to her papa. "And tell him I love him so much."

On the screen, Yuna’s sharp eyes softened completely, a rare, tender warmth spreading across her face. "I will, Shane. He loves you too. Have a wonderful morning, alright?"

"You too. Drive safe."

Shane tapped the screen to end the call, picking up his knife to slice the rolled egg into neat, beautiful bite-sized pieces. He turned to look at the doorway, his lips curving into an affectionate smile as Yuri came skipping into the kitchen, a hovering, fiercely protective Ilya following just two paces behind her.

She looked absolutely adorable. She was wearing a crisp red dress with her hair pulled into neat, bouncing pigtails. At the back of the dress, a vibrant marine blue bow was tied neatly to her waist, its ribbon trailing down her skirt. Shane’s smile widened into a fond, knowing grin—Ilya had dressed her specifically so her outfit would match the Red Sox colors.

Shane plated the sliced tamagoyaki alongside warm bowls of rice before stepping away from the counter to greet his daughter. He knelt, scooping Yuri up into his arms with an easy lift.

"Good morning, my sweet girl," Shane murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her temple before burying his nose gently into the scent gland at the side of her neck.

Yuri instantly let out a low, rumbling growl of deep satisfaction, her tiny hands clutching Shane’s shirt. Having presented as an Alpha like both Ilya and Yuna, she didn't purr the way Shane and his father David did as Omegas. Instead, she let out that tiny, protective Alpha growl that never failed to melt Shane's heart.

Her scent was a breathtaking, perfect blend of her fathers'. Most people expected an elite, terrifying hockey captain like Ilya to smell like harsh pine or ozone, but his natural scent was actually a rich, warm mocha—a smooth fusion of dark roasted coffee and rich chocolate, sweeter than most Alphas'.

Shane, on the other hand, carried a grounding, woody Omega scent of crisp cedar balanced with soft vanilla. Yuri had inherited the absolute best of both: a warm, delicious harmony of rich chocolate and soft vanilla that was gentle and comforting but never overpowering sweet.

Shane set Yuri down on her feet, and she immediately darted over to her spot at the dining table, clambering up into her chair with practiced eagerness.

As soon as her sandals cleared the floor, large, warm hands settled heavily over Shane's waist, pulling him flush against a broad chest. Shane leaned in to give him a simple, routine morning kiss, but Ilya instantly deepened it, angling his head to capture Shane’s lips with a thorough devotion that left Shane slightly breathless.

A high-pitched, mischievous giggle echoed from the dining table.

Shane's cheeks flushed a bright pink, as he playfully slapped Ilya’s broad chest, pulling back to scold his mate. "Ilya, she's watching!"

Ilya only threw his head back, letting out a rumbling laugh that vibrated through his ribs. He gave Shane's hip one final, affectionate squeeze before turning to take his own seat at the head of the table. Shane brought the steaming plates and bowls over, setting them down between them before taking his seat beside his mate.

The three of them clapped their hands gently together, their voices overlapping in a synchronized chorus: "Itadakimasu!"

Sitting there watching Ilya expertly handle his chopsticks, his heart bloomed with happiness. He was so deeply grateful for how effortlessly Ilya had embraced Japanese culture and built it into the foundation of their home. Just as Shane had embraced Ilya’s Russian roots, their household had naturally transformed into a beautiful, rich tapestry of both worlds.

Their kitchen rotated between delicate Japanese meals and hearty Russian dishes. When they drank tea, they oscillated between the traditional Japanese tea ceremonies Shane had grown up with and the rich, concentrated brews drawn from their heavy, antique iron samovar sitting proudly on the counter. During the year, they honored Shane’s Buddhist heritage by celebrating Obon, lighting lanterns to welcome ancestors, while every winter they celebrated Orthodox Christmas in January with traditional Russian feasts.

It was a unique, vibrant blend of traditions and ethnicity. And they wouldn’t want it any other way.

As they ate, the clatter of chopsticks and porcelain filled the dining room while they discussed how the day would unfold.

Yuri was practically vibrating in her chair, her eyes shining with unbridled excitement. Today was the day she officially started her training—she had finally chosen a sport. Neither Shane nor Ilya had ever pushed her to become an athlete. They had both agreed long ago that she could grow up to be whatever she wanted, whether that meant an artist, a scientist, or a chef. But growing up in a home with two fathers who excelled at the absolute peak of their respective sports—men who led their teams as captains and lived by strict, disciplined routines—had clearly left its mark.

And, much to Shane’s playful pouting, even though Yuri looked like a mini-Yuna and Shane, she had inherited her papa Ilya’s absolute, unwavering love for the ice.

The first time Ilya had taken her to an ice rink, his chest had puffed out with such immense, unfiltered pride that Shane couldn't even pretend to be annoyed. Shane was fiercely competitive by nature, but watching the utter awe and pure, child-like joy on Ilya’s face as he taught his daughter how to glide across the ice had completely melted Shane's heart.

However, while Yuri adored the ice, she had zero interest in ice hockey. The brutal hits and aggressive puck-chasing didn't appeal to her; instead, she had fallen completely in love with the elegance, grace, and beauty of figure skating.

Through Ilya’s remaining trusted contacts back in Russia, they had managed to connect with an elite figure skating coach currently living in North America. The coach had an exceptional reputation, but Shane could see the faint, tight crease between Ilya's eyebrows.

His Alpha was worried.

When breakfast finished, Shane smiled warmly at Yuri. "Sweetie, go upstairs and grab your gear bag from your room, okay?"

"Okay, Tosan!" Yuri chirped, sliding out of her chair and scrambling down the hall toward the stairs.

The moment her little footsteps faded up the staircase, Shane leaned across the table, placing his hand gently over Ilya’s broad, tense knuckles. "Are you okay? You’re worrying."

Ilya let out a heavy, quiet breath, looking down at their joined hands. "I know what Sasha's dad said. That Coach Yakov is good and the only reason he left Russia was because his daughter—an Alpha—married another woman who is a Beta, not an Omega, and that was not acceptable back home."

Shane’s expression softened into a sad, understanding nod. "Yeah. I know."

"Yakov has always been protective," Ilya continued, his thick accent heavy with concern. "He never allowed the Russian Figure Skating Federation to interfere with his methods. He fought them when they tried to push doping, drugs, and unhealthy weight cuts onto his young athletes. But still, Shanya... Russian coaches are forged in a brutal system. They are not like coaches here in North America."

Ilya looked up, his blue eyes filled with a raw, protective vulnerability. "The thought of Yuri suffering under that kind of cruelty... or having her love for the ice turned into a mindless, painful job... it breaks my heart. I cannot watch her go through what I went through."

Shane squeezed Ilya’s hand firmly, his thumb soothingly stroking the back of his knuckles.

"We only want the best for her, Ilya," Shane said softly, his tone resolute and unwavering. "And on paper, Coach Yakov is the best. But if 'the best' means she suffers, or if it takes the joy out of her heart, you and I will put a stop to it instantly. We're her parents. We control this."

Shane offered a reassuring, tender smile. "We won't know until we try. Let's just go meet Coach Yakov today and see how he treats her."

Ilya stared into Shane's kind eyes, the tension in his broad shoulders finally unspooling just a fraction as he nodded. "Okay. We try."

Still needing that extra reassurance, Ilya leaned in close, burying his face into the crook of Shane’s neck and scenting him deeply. He drew in the grounding, soothing scent of cedar and vanilla, letting the warmth of his mate quiet the frantic, protective Alphas instincts roaring in his chest.

When Yuri came skipping back into the room with her small bag, Ilya straightened up immediately. He forced a smile onto his face, masking his anxiety so as not to worry her. It hurt Shane to see Ilya act so anxiously, but he knew better than to bring it up in front of their daughter.

They all walked out to the garage and headed for the Range Rover. Once again, Ilya proved what a thoughtful, good Alpha he was—he didn't try to pull rank or insist on driving just because of any macho nonsense. Since it was Shane's car, he naturally stepped aside and let Shane take the wheel.

They drove down to the local ice rink, where they were met by Coach Yakov. The man was an Alpha, and he was quite literally everything you would expect from a veteran Russian figure skating coach. He was gruff, grumpy, and brutally direct, his face seemingly carved into a permanent, stern frown. Yet, despite his hard exterior, his scent wasn't at all aggressive or domineering. There was a faint hint of ozone to it, but mostly it smelled like the crisp, clean air right after a fresh rainfall.

If you asked Shane, he would tell you it was quite refreshing.

Yuri looked more than ready. She darted off to the changing rooms, and when she emerged a few minutes later, she was wearing her sleek Reebok training gear, and the custom figure skates Ilya had personally bought for her.

Shane and Ilya took their seats on the bleachers to watch. Usually, parents were expected to give the coach space, but there was no way they were leaving Yuri alone today. First of all, she had been sick with a minor bug just a couple of days ago; they had originally planned to postpone this first session, but Yuri had been so relentlessly excited that they finally relented once her fever was completely gone. Second, neither Shane nor Ilya was about to leave their six-year-old alone with a new Alpha coach until they saw his methods with their own eyes.

The lesson began with fundamental edges, basic glides, and introductory spin positioning. Every single time Yakov snapped an order—barking “Straighten your arms!” or “Engage your core, go!” in that harsh, unyielding tone—Shane felt Ilya’s body tense beside him.

Ilya was practically vibrating with tension, muttering a non-stop stream of dark Russian under his breath. "Asshole... do not speak to my daughter like that... Why are you so hard on her? She is doing excellent for her first class! I trained her myself, I know she has talent..."

Throughout the entire hour, Shane had to keep a firm, grounding hand pressed against Ilya’s thigh to stop his mate from vaulting over the glass and ripping Coach Yakov’s throat out. Yakov was an absolute perfectionist who demanded total focus, preferring to train skaters from a very young age specifically so he didn't have to waste time undoing the bad habits taught by other coaches.

Yet, even when Yuri lost her edge, slipped, and hit the cold ice, she didn't cry. She scrambled right back up, beaming from ear to ear, a bright, radiant light dancing in her eyes that Shane had never seen before.

She had truly, undeniably found her sport.

When the session finally wrapped up, Shane and Ilya walked down to the barrier to meet her. "Did you have fun, sweetie?" Shane asked softly.

"YES!" Yuri shouted, beaming up at them, her cheeks flushed bright red from the cold.

Yakov folded his arms over his chest, looking down at the little girl with his usual stern expression, though his eyes softened just a fraction. "She has real potential," he grunted in his thick accent.

For the notoriously strict Russian coach, those three words were the equivalent of a standing ovation.

When Shane returned to the ice barrier after helping Yuri take a shower and change back into her red dress with the blue bow, he stopped short.

Ilya and Coach Yakov were standing face-to-face, locked in an intense staring contest. Ilya was glaring daggers, his jaw set so tight the muscle was twitching. Shane let out a quiet sigh. His protective Alpha mate had almost certainly issued a thinly veiled threat the moment Shane had walked away. Luckily, Yakov didn't look remotely intimidated; if anything, the veteran coach looked amused by the terrifying hockey captain's posturing.

Yakov turned his attention away from Ilya and looked down at Yuri, his expression settling into serious frown. He addressed the six-year-old directly, ignoring her famous parents.

"Are you ready to continue training with me?" Yakov asked, his thick accent cutting through the chilly air of the rink. "You must understand—this is not a game. If you join my camp, it means hard work and complete focus. We train winners here. We compete to win. Your goal must always be gold and making it to the Olympics. If this is just a fun little hobby for you, this is the wrong place. I will not entertain you simply because of who your parents are."

Shane blinked, genuinely surprised. It wasn't just the blunt severity of the words, but the fact that Yakov had spoken them directly to a six-year-old child, completely expecting her to understand the weight of what he was saying. He didn't talk down to her, and he didn't care about the massive wealth or fame standing behind her. A sudden surge of deep respect for Yakov bloomed in Shane's chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ilya's posture shift too—though his Alpha was still bristling with protective instinct, a reluctant, mutual respect had settled in his eyes.

Yuri didn't flinch. She didn't hide behind Shane's legs or look to Ilya for help. Instead, she took a deep breath, straightened her little spine, and looked Coach Yakov dead in the eye.

"Both of my dads are professional athletes," Yuri stated, her small voice ringing out with incredible clarity. "I see them work every day, even during the off-season. And I see them do all of that while raising me."

Shane and Ilya both froze, staring at their daughter in absolute shock.

Between high-stakes seasons, endless travel, intense training, and a mountain of endorsement deals, both of them worked ridiculously hard. They had always tried so carefully to hide the strain from her, wanting her to feel only warmth, safety, and their undivided attention whenever they were home. They had no idea she had been observing every single detail of their dedication all along.

Before either of them could utter a word, Yuri kept going.

"They manage to do it all because, even when it is very hard, they love it," she said, her chin lifted high. "Papa loves hockey, Tosan loves baseball, and they both love me. My dads taught me that when you love something, you work hard for it. And I love figure skating. I am a Rozanov-Hollander—I was born to win!"

A beat of stunned silence hung in the air, and then Shane and Ilya burst into breathless, uncontrollable laughter.

Shane covered his face, shaking his head in fond disbelief. She sounded like such a confident, dramatic little shit—a complete mini-Ilya through and through. Ilya was chuckling softly, his eyes brimming with sheer, unadulterated pride as he stared at his daughter.

Even Coach Yakov couldn't hide his approval anymore. A rare, faint smirk broke across the old Russian's stern face.

"Good attitude," Yakov grunted, offering a single, firm nod. "Welcome to my camp, little one."

"YAY!" Yuri cheered, jumping up and down, her pigtails bouncing wildly.

Just like that, every single drop of worry, fear, and lingering anxiety melted out of Ilya and Shane's chests. Looking down at the radiant, triumphant smile illuminating their daughter's face, they knew she was exactly where she belonged.

Chapter 5: I Connors

Backstage at TD Garden, the low hum of television monitors and the rhythmic thud of hockey bags being thrown onto metal carts echoed through the concrete hallway. Connors stood leaning against the cool cinderblock wall just out of frame, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the small wall-mounted screen broadcasting the live post-game press conference.

The Boston Bears had just secured two points against the Montreal Metros, but nobody in the locker room was celebrating. They had won three to two in a nail-biting shootout, a victory that felt far more like a narrow escape than a statement win. For a team that had lifted the Stanley Cup in 2014 and held championship ambitions for the current season, having a rough time against a declining team like the Metros was nothing to write home about.

On the screen, Cap sat behind the microphone-littered table, looking every inch the formidable Alpha and generational talent he was. His blond hair was still damp from the shower, clinging to his forehead, and his crisp post-game suit fit his broad shoulders with tailored precision. To the room full of reporters, Ilya Rozanov appeared entirely relaxed—leaning back slightly in his chair, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

"Ilya, over here," a journalist from the Boston Globe called out, raising a hand from the second row. "The win tonight puts you at four and two on the opening stretch, but the execution on the ice looks... disjointed. The top line seems off, passes are missing their marks, and the overall chemistry looks nothing like the championship squad from two years ago. What’s going on with the synergy of the Boston Bears right now?"

Connors winced, his fingers digging into the fabric of his team tracksuit.

On screen, Ilya didn't even blink. He adjusted his microphone with a slow, deliberate touch of his index finger. "It is early in the season," Ilya said smoothly, his deep Russian accent carrying through the room's speakers with effortless charm. "The summer was long. Some of the boys are still wearing their beach sandals on the ice, I think. We are finding our legs. Two points is two points. We take the win, we go home, we fix the details tomorrow."

A ripple of chuckles washed through the press room. The reporters scribbled down the quote about beach sandals, perfectly satisfied with the charming, unflappable response from Boston's star captain.

Connors, however, knew better.

Standing in the wings, Connors could read the subtle signs that the cameras completely missed. He saw the microscopic twitch in Cap's jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils, and the razor-sharp intensity tucked deep behind his blue eyes. Cap wasn't amused.

He was furious.

The whole situation over the past month has been a slow-motion disaster for team morale. Ever since that explosive afternoon in the locker room—when Cap had laid out the absolute, unyielding boundaries regarding his private life and his Omega mate—the entire roster had been walking on eggshells. The older veterans, the guys who had spent years casually tossing around crude jokes and locker room banter without a second thought, were practically paralyzed by guilt.

During drills, the tension was suffocating. Hammersmith was hesitating on his breakout passes, constantly checking over his shoulder to see if Cap was glaring at him. St-Simon was double-guessing his positioning, shooting wide-eyed, apologetic looks toward the captain every time a play broke down. Even Cliff, usually the steady, loud backbone of the roster, moved around Ilya with a weird, tip-toeing deference that completely killed their natural flow on the ice.

They were winning games purely on raw talent and goaltending, but the core cohesion of the team was shattered. They were playing like anxious strangers instead of a brotherhood.

And it was pissing Cap off to no end.

Ilya Rozanov was a man of absolute discipline. He didn't care about their sudden emotional crisis or their lingering shame over the things they had said over the years. He cared about winning. He cared about getting his name etched onto the Stanley Cup for a second time and watching his teammates wallow in self-pity instead of doing their jobs, was pushing his patience to the absolute limit.

Connors understood his captain's frustration completely, even if he felt helpless to fix it. The absolute worst part was that several of the older guys had tried to use Connors as an unwanted mediator. Because Connors was a rookie who hadn't been around for the toxic culture of the past few years, and because Cap actually seemed to like him, teammates kept pulling Connors aside in the showers or near the ice machine.

"Hey, rook... maybe you could mention to Cap that we're organizing a team dinner tonight?"

"Connors, man, do you think Rozanov is still pissed about Tuesday's film session? Can you gauge his mood?"

They wanted him to be the designated messenger, the gentle buffer between them and the terrifying Alpha captain who had alienated them.

Thankfully, Cap had shut that garbage down the very first time someone tried it. Just three days ago, when Hammersmith had hovered near Connors’ stall trying to pass along a message about line rotations, Ilya had stepped into the hallway, caught the interaction, and barked across the room with lethal clarity: "Hammersmith. You have something to say about hockey, you say it to my face. Do not use the kid as your shield."

Hammersmith had practically shrunk two inches on the spot, and nobody had tried to use Connors as a go-between ever since.

Connors snapped his eyes back to the monitor as some veteran Globe writer pushed his way to the aisle microphone like he was delivering a state of the union address.

"Ilya, quick follow-up," the guy rasped, puffing his chest out. "Despite the early-season circus, you’re sitting on top of the league in points and practically dragging this roster on your back. Safe to say you’re officially the greatest captain Boston sports has ever seen. How do you plan on whipping the boys into shape before the road trip?"

Connors perked up, practically gluing his nose to the wall-mounted screen. Oh, man. Big mistake, chief. Big, big mistake.

On the broadcast, Ilya tilted his head, a dangerously amused spark flashing in his blue eyes. He didn't swallow the flattering bait, nor did he hit them with the usual brain-numbing, rehearsed PR lines about taking it one shift at a time.

"For hockey, certainly, I am the best captain," Ilya declared, dropping the fact with the casual indifference of a man stating that the sky was blue.

The columnist grinned, preening, fully expecting Ilya to ride that ego wave right into a nice, safe soundbite. But Ilya was already going off-script.

"The rest," Ilya continued, his mouth curving into that wicked, razor-sharp smirk that usually meant someone was about to get embarrassed, "is debatable. And if there is a baseball fan nearby, I will leave you to fight it out. Just be careful Connors does not hear you—he is from Boston. Sox fans for generations. Kid might actually bite."

A massive wave of roars and laughter erupted through the press room at the sudden, affectionate throw-under-the-bus of the rookie defender.

Backstage in the hallway, Connors started practically vibrating out of his own skin, bouncing on the balls of his sneakers like an over-caffeinated golden retriever. The lingering dread from the tight game vanished in a puff of smoke, replaced by a surge of pure, fanatical pride.

Cap was damn right!

"Damn straight!" Connors hissed to the empty corridor, a huge, hysterical grin splitting his face in two as he aggressively jackhammered his knuckles against the cinderblock wall. "Say it louder for the guys in the back, Cap!"

As much as he idolized Ilya Rozanov—his hockey captain after all was a generational genius who could change the outcome of a game with a single shift—there were rules in New England. There was a sacred hierarchy in the city of Boston, and Connors had been raised on those gospel truths since he was old enough to hold a foam finger at Fenway Park.

Shane Hollander-Rozanov was the absolute peak of Boston sports royalty.

Connors felt a dizzying spell just thinking about it. Shane Hollander—the brilliant, legendary male Omega who had marched into Major League Baseball, took the captaincy of the Red Sox, and brought back-to-back World Series titles to the city in 2014 and 2015. He was a force of nature, a two-way phenom who had single-handedly rewritten sports history and captured the heart of every single person living in Massachusetts.

And his hockey captain was married to him. Mated to him.

It still felt like an absolute fever dream. Every time Connors thought about the fact that Ilya Rozanov went home to Shane Hollander—that the two most powerful, elite athletes in North America were living in a house somewhere in the suburbs raising a child together—his brain nearly short-circuited. It was the best-kept secret in the entire sporting world, shielded fiercely by non-disclosure agreements, private security, and the absolute terrors of Mama Yuna’s legal team.

The fact that the rest of the league had no idea made it feel even more insane. Here were these clueless sports journalists asking about Boston captaincy, completely unaware that the two greatest captains in modern sports history shared a last name and slept in the same bed.

On the screen, Ilya was wrapping up the press conference, thanking the media, and pushing back his chair.

Connors straightened his shoulders, pulling his team track jacket down over his hips. When the double doors at the end of the press hallway swung open, Ilya stepped through, tossing his press credential onto the nearby equipment cart. The charm he had displayed for the cameras vanished instantly, replaced by his usual focused, commanding composure.

He caught sight of Connors standing by the wall and slowed his pace just a fraction.

"What got you lurking in the halls, rook?" Ilya asked, his tone carrying a faint, teasing edge as he raised an eyebrow. "You should be getting your things."

Connors grinned, falling into step right beside his captain as they walked down the long, concrete corridor toward the Bears' home locker room.

"I heard what you said out there, Cap," Connors said, unable to hide the bright, fanatical excitement in his voice. "And for the record? You called it 100% right. I will fight anyone in this arena who tries to claim the Red Sox aren't the heart of the city."

Ilya let out a low, rumbled laugh, shaking his head as he clapped a hand over Connors' shoulder, pulling the rookie along with him. "Do not start fights in TD Garden over baseball, kid," he chuckled. "We already have enough problems with our forecheck."

"Hey, I'm just saying!" Connors laughed, feeling the strange, lingering tension of the evening melt away entirely under his captain's grounding presence. "Truth is truth!"

Connors caught himself studying his captain. It hit him then. A realization that made him marvel at his teammates' complete blindness.

Guys like Hammersmith, St-Simon, Koslov, and Marleau had honestly believed they were Ilya’s close friends right up until the day the locker room exploded. They had mistaken professional camaraderie, joint press conferences, and post-game beers for a genuine, deep connection.

But Connors had seen the affection Ilya reserved for his real inner circle, in the way his tone grew gentle whenever he spoke about his daughter, or the fierce pride in his eyes at the mere mention of Shane. If any of those veterans had ever been granted a single glance of the real Ilya, they would have realized instantly that their captain had been keeping them at arms' length for years.

To Ilya, they were coworkers. Exceptional at their jobs, sure, but strictly coworkers.

The moment Ilya pushed open the doors into the Bears' locker room, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The residual post-game chatter died down to a faint whisper.

The captain didn't pause. He stepped into the middle of the room, his presence filling the space as he turned a fierce, unyielding glare onto every single player sitting in their stalls.

"I have no idea what the fuck happened on the ice tonight," Ilya growled, his voice cutting through the room like a razor. "But it is not happening again. I do not care what you feel in this locker room. The moment your skates touch that ice, you are a Bear. The Bears won the Cup in 2014, and 2016 will be our year again. Do you understand me?"

For a second, nobody moved. Then, Marleau leaned forward, rubbing his palms against his knees, his face twisted in genuine anguish.

"Look, Cap... we feel really bad about everything," Cliff stammered, looking up with wide, desperate eyes. "About how we acted, what we said back then... we really want to be your friends. We thought we were your friends. You're right, man. The locker room culture, the slurs, the crude jokes—it's bad. We know it's bad now."

Ilya closed his eyes, letting out an exhausted, irritated noise. "Blyat... you guys are really still on this?"

"Yes! Of course we're still on this!" St-Simon interjected from across the room, hovering on the edge of his bench. "We feel so bad, Rozzie. It's killing us!"

Standing near the doorway, Connors had to press his lips tightly together to keep his jaw from dropping. A wave of second-hand embarrassment washed over him. These were grown men—hard-hitting, multi-million-aire professional athletes—and they were practically two seconds away from dropping to their knees and weeping on the carpet, begging their captain for forgiveness.

It was painful to watch.

Connors watched Ilya track across the room, registering the pathetic, puppy-dog desperation radiating off his teammates. And then, Connors caught the exact moment a calculating spark flashed in his captain's eyes. Ilya wasn't moved. He was simply trying to figure out the fastest, most effective way to get these idiots off his back so they would start playing hockey again.

He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression settling into a mask of stern, bargaining authority. "Okay," Ilya said, his voice cold and detached. "You want to make it up to me? Then go back to skating the way you are supposed to skate."

The entire room perked up, heads snapping toward him in synchronized hope.

"All of you," Ilya declared, pointing a finger around the circle, "from now on, are attending mandated sessions with sports psychologists and specialists. They are going to sit you down and explain to you exactly what misogyny, sexism, homophobia, and xenophobia actually are. They will teach you why that kind of locker room talk is utter bullshit, and they will help you become better human beings. If you put in the actual work, and if you show me real improvement... then maybe—and I repeat, maybe—I will start considering you, my friends."

Connors genuinely had to fight the urge to slap a hand over his own face right then and there.

It was brilliant, cynical, and entirely hilarious. Cap had just invented mandatory sensitivity training purely as a weapon to shut them up and force them to focus on the puck. He had given them a side-quest to earn his affection just to get them off his back.

Yet, as Connors glanced around the room, he saw the exact opposite reaction.

The entire roster looked as if Ilya had just handed them divine salvation straight from the heavens. Relief washed over Marleau’s face. St-Simon practically bounced on his heels in his stall, grinning like a golden retriever that had just been promised a treat.

"Of course, Cap!" Koslov blurted out, nodding so hard his neck looked like it might snap. "We'll do it! Every single session, we're there!"

"We won't let you down, Rozzie!" Hammersmith chimed in, practically vibrating with excitement.

Connors slowly shook his head, leaning back against the wall near his stall as he started packing his bag.

God, Connors thought to himself, stifling a breathless laugh as he watched his teammates eagerly celebrate their new mandatory therapy assignments. Hockey players are so fucking dumb.

Connors finished packing his gear bag, zipped up his track jacket, and made his way out through the back exit toward the private player parking area. Ilya had stayed behind to coordinate the mandatory sensitivity sessions with Coach and management, leaving Connors to walk out alone.

As he stepped out into the crisp night air, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, smiling when he saw his dad's name on the screen.

"Hey, Dad," Connors answered, slinging his heavy bag over one shoulder.

"Son! Great game tonight!" his dad’s energetic voice boomed through the speaker. "Listen, I just saw the post-game presser. Your captain is a brilliant man. A public shout-out to Captain Hollander on local television? Masterclass leadership!"

Connors laughed, shaking his head. He knew he was a massive fan of Shane, but his dad was on an entirely different level. His father had literally sobbed like a baby in 2004 when the Red Sox finally broke the curse and brought the trophy back to Boston. The man was an elite officer in the "Hollander Army"—the unofficial, die-hard Shane Hollander fan club—and treated Red Sox baseball like a sacred religion.

"Yeah, Dad, Cap is a huge fan of Shane," Connors said, carefully picking his words so he didn't accidentally blurt out the insane reality that his hockey captain was literally mated to the man.

"I'm so glad you got drafted by the Bears," his father declared with immense pride.

Connors smirked, leaning against the concrete pillar by the exit. "Oh yeah? Are you glad because I get to stay in Boston and see you and the boys every week, or because my captain appreciates Shane Hollander?"

The beat of silence on the other end of the line was painfully telling.

Connors burst out laughing. "Unbelievable. Anyway, thanks for the call, Dad."

He ended the call, still chuckling to himself, when a firm tap landed on his shoulder. He turned around to find his captain standing there with a puzzled brow, holding his car keys.

"You did not go home yet?" Ilya asked, glancing around the empty lot.

Connors blinked, looking around to realize the rest of the roster had already cleared out. The team had likely headed downtown to celebrate the win at a bar, an invitation both Connors and Ilya had turned down. Ilya was obviously heading back to his family, while Connors had skipped out knowing his teammates would just corner him over drinks to interrogate him about his bond with the captain.

"Ah, lost track of time on the phone with my dad," Connors explained.

Ilya nodded, an expression of understanding crossing his face. "Well, I am glad I caught you. Would you like to come to my home for dinner tonight?"

Connors’ brain short-circuited, as his breath caught in his throat.

"To your home?" Connors squeaked, his voice pitching up an octave. "To your home where... where Shane Hollander lives? I'm... I'm going to meet Shane Hollander?!"

A wave of sheer, unadulterated fanboy dizziness washed over Connors. His knees buckled slightly, and Ilya had to reach out with both hands, grabbing the rookie by the shoulders to keep him upright.

"Seriously?" Ilya teased, a rich laugh bubbling up from his chest as he held Connors steady. "Did you almost faint at the idea of meeting my mate?"

Connors let out an embarrassed whine, his face turning bright red as he tried to regain his composure. "Cap, you don't understand—"

"Rook, I went into my very first rut the moment I met Shane Hollander," Ilya interrupted smoothly, a wicked, amused glint in his eyes. "Trust me, I understand better than you."

Connors stared at him, wide-eyed. What the actual fuck? Okay, there is a wild story there, but I will ask about that later. Right now, I have a golden ticket.

"Yes!" Connors blurted out immediately, straightening his posture. "Yes, I would love to come to dinner!"

Ilya chuckled, letting go of his shoulders and pulling out his phone to text him the address. "Follow my car, or take the directions I send you. Do not be late, rook. Shanya always makes my favorite dish whenever the Bears win a home game."

Following the tail lights of Ilya’s sleek Porsche through the suburban streets, Connors felt his heart hammering against his ribs the entire way.

When they finally pulled into the private drive, he slowed his car to a stop, his jaw dropping as he took in the sight before him. He had expected the typical professional athlete's house—a hyper-modern, cold box made of concrete, glass, and steel. Instead, rising before him was a meticulously restored, grand Victorian home. It featured soaring arched windows, intricate woodwork, and a sprawling ground floor designed around warm, open spaces that practically begged to host balls.

A fond realization dawned on Connors instantly. Of course. Every dedicated Hollander fan knew the two topics that could make Shane talk for hours on end: baseball and classical architecture.

This house had Shane Hollander written all over it.

Connors killed the engine and followed Ilya up the broad front steps. The moment the heavy oak front door swung open, the peaceful atmosphere was shattered by the sound of pattering footsteps.

"PAPA!"

A tiny girl came flying down the hallway, launching herself through the air with zero hesitation. Ilya caught her effortlessly, swinging her up into his arms as she threw her hands around his neck.

"You won! Congratulations!" she squealed happily. "Tosan made pelmeni to celebrate!"

That must be his daughter, Yuri, Connors thought, his eyes wide.

In a fraction of a second, the terrifying, unyielding captain of the Boston Bears completely melted away. Ilya’s face softened with pure devotion, his blue eyes crinkling as he peppered his daughter’s cheeks with soft, rapid-fire kisses, making her shriek with delighted giggles.

Connors stood there, utterly mesmerized by the sheer transformation. So, this must be Papa Mode.

It was then that he glanced up, his gaze drifting past the entrance hallway toward the kitchen doorway—and froze. Standing there, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, was Shane Hollander.

Connors’ brain shattered into a million pieces. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. The internal frantic chanting echoed wildly in his head, but before he could stop himself, his lips started moving, and the words spilled out loud into the foyer.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—"

Ilya burst into a sudden, booming laugh, clutching Yuri tightly as she tilted her head in confusion, looking at the rookie. "Papa, why is your friend acting so weird?"

Shane ignored the theatrical pair, stepping forward with a calm, polished grace. He extended a hand toward Connors, offering a warm, hospitable smile. "It is nice to finally meet a teammate of my husband. Welcome to my home."

Connors reached out with trembling fingers, taking Shane’s hand as if he were touching a holy, priceless relic straight out of a museum. "Oh my god... it is an honor... oh my god..."

Shane’s eyes crinkled with mild amusement. "Breathe."

The command was simple, but Connors took it as gospel. It felt vaguely familiar, like something Ilya had told him before, but if Shane Hollander told him to breathe, he would breathe.

If Shane Hollander told him to leap off a bridge, he would ask how high.

However, the one who really needed air was Ilya. The Russian was currently bent over, clutching his stomach, laughing so hard that he was gasping for oxygen.

Shane gave his husband a fond, exasperated look before turning back to Connors. "Ignore him. It's what I do."

Connors' brain short-circuited again. “Oh my god, Shane Hollander is a sassy bitch.”

Then, the absolute horror of his own words registered. Connors paled, his eyes bulging as he realized what had just crossed his lips. “OH MY GOD. I JUST CALLED SHANE HOLLANDER A BITCH.”

By this point, Ilya couldn't even stand up anymore. He gently set Yuri down on her feet before collapsing onto his knees, pounding his fist against the hardwood floor as his breathless, wheezing laughter echoed through the entire house. Yuri stood beside him, giggling at her father's complete loss of composure.

Shane merely rolled his eyes, his expression was one of effortless sass. "Do not worry," he replied smoothly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I know I am a sassy bitch. And this one," he added, pointing a finger down at his husband currently rolling on the floor, "is an asshole. A dumb asshole, at that."

Connors nodded solemnly, taking a deep, reverent breath. If there was one absolute rule his father had drilled into him, it was that the word of Shane Hollander was sacred, absolute truth.

Shane led the way past the grand entryway into a portion of the house that had clearly been custom-renovated. While the front of the Victorian home boasted soaring ceilings and expansive spaces built for hosting large gatherings, this tucked-away wing felt entirely private. The open-concept kitchen was small and intimate, seamlessly blending into a cozy dining nook and a comfortable sitting area with plush armchairs and warm lighting.

It was a space crafted specifically for a small family to nest.

Connors felt a profound wave of gratitude swell in his heart. His captain hadn't just brought him to his house—he had invited him into their private family sanctuary.

They sat down at the wooden dining table, and Shane set down bowls of steaming pelmeni. It was Connors' very first time trying the Russian dumplings, but after his first bite, he immediately understood why they were Ilya’s absolute favorite.

"Mr. Hollander, this is incredible," Connors said earnestly, taking another bite. "You're an amazing cook."

"This is Babushka's recipe!" Yuri announced proudly from her booster seat, swinging her feet.

At the mention of the name, nostalgia washed over his Ilya’s expression—a blend of deep fondness and a soft, lingering sadness. Connors instinctively sensed that this Babushka was no longer around, a feeling confirmed when Shane quietly reached across the table, sliding his fingers into Ilya's hand and giving it a gentle, grounding squeeze.

Not wanting to pry into a touchy topic, Connors smoothly steered the conversation toward baseball. Shane's eyes lit up instantly. The two of them spent the rest of the meal diving deep into roster movements, pitching rotations, and the upcoming spring training, analyzing how the rest of the league was shaping up. Watching Shane break down baseball analytics with effortless genius was nothing short of a religious experience for Connors.

Once dinner concluded, Ilya excused himself to take a sleepy Yuri upstairs for her bedtime routine. Shane stood up to escort Connors to the front door.

Oh my god, I am being escorted out of a house by Shane Hollander, the internal rant began echoing in Connors' head again. The actual Shane Hollander is walking me to the door—

He snapped out of his internal spiraling much quicker this time when Shane handed him a neatly wrapped, sturdy wooden box.

For the first time all evening, the legendary Red Sox captain looked a little bashful, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ilya mentioned that your family are huge fans," Shane murmured, offering a soft smile. "It's just a little gesture for them."

Connors took the box, his hands trembling slightly. He opened the lid just enough to peek inside and saw several official Major League baseballs, each bearing Shane's crisp, iconic signature.

Overwhelmed beyond words, Connors could only nod repeatedly, his throat far too tight to form actual sentences. "Thank... thank you," he managed to squeak out before saying his goodbyes and stepping out into the cool night air.

The moment he got into his car and shut the door, the sheer weight of the evening hit him. Tears of pure, unadulterated happiness welled up in his eyes, and he sat in the driver's seat sobbing softly for two whole minutes. This was, without a shadow of a doubt, the single greatest day of his life.

Even better than draft day!

Instead of going back to his apartment, Connors started the engine and drove straight to his father's house. When he unlocked the front door, he found his dad and his two older brothers sitting around the dining table, enjoying a late-night snack.

His older brother looked up in surprise. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be out downtown celebrating the win with the rest of the Bears?"

"Celebrate?" Connors choked out, a wild, triumphant grin breaking across his face. "Oh, I celebrated."

He walked over to the table and set the wooden box down right in the center. His dad gave him a puzzled look before pulling the lid back. Silence fell over the room for one brief second. Then, his dad and both of his brothers gasped in unison, their eyes bulging as they stared at the signed baseballs.

"Oh my god," his dad whispered.

"Oh my god, oh my god, OH MY GOD!" his brothers shouted, practically falling out of their chairs as they stared at the treasure in front of them.

Connors crossed his arms over his chest, nodding solemnly as he watched his family lose their absolute minds. "Yeah," he said with supreme satisfaction. "That is the only correct reaction you could possibly have."

Internally, Connors grinned, thinking back to his captain rolling on the floor laughing at him earlier. See, Cap? You're the crazy one. This is a completely normal, rational Boston reaction to Shane Hollander.

Chapter 6: Interlude – Fan Clubs

Chapter Notes

CR_Noctem you are a brilliant mad person! Your idea of Hollander’s Army has taken a life of its own and I love it so much. Thank you!

P. S. I am going on vacation for the next couple of weeks. So, I won't have my computer and I won't be posting anything new. But do not worry! I will be back soon, I promise!

@redsox

@ConfusedCanadian

Can someone explain what the hell "Hollander's Army" is?

I moved to Boston like six months ago.

Yesterday I went to Fenway wearing my new Hollander jersey.

A woman in line saluted me.

A guy asked what rank I was.

Another guy handed me a sticker that literally says PRIVATE.

Somebody yelled "GENERAL ON DECK!" and like fifty people started chanting.

...what the fuck is happening?

Comments:

@FenwayGeneral

Welcome, Private.

 

@ConfusedCanadian

...

I don't know if that answered my question.

 

@GreenMonsterLieutenant

No one really knows when it became a thing.

We just know it happened.

 

@SoxHistorian

Actually, we do.

Shane has used "Born For This" by The Score as his walk-up song since his rookie season.

There's a lyric that goes:

"We're the warriors who learned to love the pain. We come from different places but have the same name... We are, we are, the army."

Boston heard "the army" once...

...and Boston did what Boston does.

 

@FenwayGeneral

Correction.

Boston answered the call.

 

@BigPapiForever

It started as like twelve idiots in Bleacher 42 wearing toy camouflage helmets.

Now there are over fifty thousand of us.

 

@ConfusedCanadian

FIFTY THOUSAND?!

 

@MonsterSergeant

Officially?

No.

Emotionally?

Absolutely.

 

@ScorebookNerd

The ranking system came later because someone joked that if we were an army, somebody had to be in charge.

Now every local chapter has a General.

 

@NorthEndCaptain

General – Runs an entire regional chapter of the Hollander Army, oversees charity events, recruitment drives, and city-wide meetups.

Colonel – Coordinates multiple Captains and helps organize large events like Opening Day, Pride Night, and postseason trips.

Captain – Leads a local company of fans. Organizes game-day meetups, keeps everyone updated, welcomes new members, and makes sure nobody gets left behind at Fenway.

Lieutenant – Runs watch parties, road trip carpools, fantasy leagues, and local social events.

Sergeant – The backbone of the Army. Answers questions from new fans, explains baseball rules, teaches the history of Captain Hollander, and helps newcomers feel at home.

Corporal – Veteran members who volunteer at charity events and assist with Army projects.

Private – Every new recruit.

It's surprisingly well organized.

 

@FenwayGeneral

Do not reveal operational details.

 

@NorthEndCaptain

Sorry, sir.

 

@BostonLawStudent

We literally have elections every offseason.

 

@ConfusedCanadian

YOU HOLD ELECTIONS?!

 

@MonsterSergeant

Democracy matters.

 

@BornForThis24

You have to understand something.

This isn't just because Shane wins.

It's because he's our captain.

He came here as a rookie, and everyone doubted him.

Then he brought us back-to-back World Series titles.

He never acts bigger than the city, signs autographs until security drags him away, and visits children's hospitals without cameras.

He remembers fans' names.

So...

yeah.

We'd run through a wall for him.

 

@YankeesCryMore

You know how European soccer clubs have ultras?

We're... emotionally healthier than that.

Barely.

 

@FenwayGeneral

Debatable.

 

@RedSoxArchivist

One of our unofficial rules is that if someone starts talking shit about Hollander in public, at least three members will appear out of nowhere to defend him.

No one knows how.

 

@BostonMom

It's true.

My husband accidentally criticized one of Shane's bunts at a restaurant.

A waitress, the bartender, and an eighty-year-old grandmother corrected him within thirty seconds.

 

@ConfusedCanadian

I'm starting to think this is a cult.

 

@FenwayGeneral

Incorrect.

Cults have leaders.

We have a Captain.

With capital C.

 

@HarvardGrad

That somehow made it sound even more like a cult.

 

@FenwayGeneral

Watch your tone, civilian.

 

@GreenMonsterLieutenant

Private.

State your favorite Shane Hollander moment.

 

@ConfusedCanadian

...the walk-off homer against the Yankees?

 

@GreenMonsterLieutenant

Acceptable answer.

Promotion to Corporal pending.

 

@FenwayGeneral

Motion approved.

 

@MonsterSergeant

Seconded.

 

@FenwayMedic

Welcome to Hollander's Army.

Praise the Captain.

Protect Fenway.

Respect the chain of command.

 

@ConfusedCanadian

I have absolutely no idea what I just joined.

...

But I'm kind of into it.

What's my first mission, General?

 

@FenwayGeneral

Easy.

At tomorrow's game be loud and stand for the Captain's first at-bat.

And remember...

No one fights alone in Hollander's Army.

🫡

---

Instagram

@bostongirlie14

We literally have no clue who this man is 😭😭😭

All we know is that Dunkin' released his drink today, so obviously we had to try it.

And honestly??

10/10.

Would absolutely buy again.

☕🤎

[Photo]

-Four high school girls stand outside a Dunkin' in downtown Boston, still wearing their backpacks after school. Each of them is holding the limited-edition Rozanov #81 Mocha in the signature orange Dunkin' cup with a special sleeve featuring Ilya Rozanov's autograph and the number 81 printed beneath it.

The drink is a rich iced mocha topped with cold foam and finished with a light dusting of cocoa powder.

One girl points dramatically at her cup while another laughs so hard she's nearly spilling hers. Behind them, the window is covered with promotional posters reading: THE ROZANOV #81 MOCHA

Bold. Delicious. Built for Champions.

Comments:

@sportsfan617

You... don't know who Ilya Rozanov is?

 

@bostongirlie14

girl no 😭

 

@NHLBoston

Captain of the Boston Bears who led his team to a Stanley Cup in 2014.

League MVP.

One of the biggest hockey players on the planet.

 

@bostongirlie14

That's awesome.

Still hot.

 

@FrozenPuck81

"Still hot."

😭😭😭

 

@bostongirlie14

Respectfully...

LOOK AT HIM.

 

@BearsNation

That's honestly the correct response.

 

@HockeyDad22

You girls have never watched hockey??

 

@bostongirlie14

Buddy, we're here for the mocha and the hot guy on the poster

 

@NHLMemes

The marketing department knew EXACTLY what they were doing.

 

@CoffeeAddict

Is it actually good or are you all being influenced by the six-foot-three Russian?

 

@bostongirlie14

Both things can be true 💅

 

@Dunkin’

We're happy you're enjoying the Rozanov #81 Mocha! 🤎☕

 

@bostongirlie14

Please keep it forever

 

@MochaSupremacy

Finally, someone understands mocha is the superior coffee flavor.

 

@BeanTownHockey

I came here expecting hockey discourse.

Instead, I found teenagers thirsting over my captain.

 

@bostongirlie14

He's YOUR captain??

Girl congratulations!

 

@BeanTownHockey

😭😭😭

 

@PuckDropDaily

This is hilarious because half these comments are trying to explain his career...

...and the girls genuinely don't care.

 

@bostongirlie14

We're sure he's accomplished amazing things

However…

…he's really pretty

 

@BruinsWho

The funniest part is that this collaboration is probably introducing more teenagers to hockey than ESPN has all year.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

Different sport.

Same phenomenon.

 

@BearsFaithful81

Sometimes people become hockey fans because of great goals.

Sometimes they become hockey fans because the captain is ridiculously attractive.

We don't judge.

 

@bostongirlie14

We'll watch one game, no promises after that

 

@NHLBoston

That's how it starts.

 

@bostongirlie14

...why does everyone keep saying that like it's a warning? 😭

---

Posted by @GreenMonster1912

You people are never going to convince me that the Hollander Army isn't a cult.

I was at Fenway yesterday wearing my old Pedro Martínez jersey when I saw this elderly guy—late seventies at least—walking around like he owned the place. He was decked out head to toe in Red Sox gear, with a custom jersey that had military-style patches.

And as if that was not enough, he was also wearing a hat that literally said GENERAL.

Some young tourist walked up to him and said: "Sir, thank you for your service."

The old man looked at him like he'd just insulted his entire bloodline.

Then he goes—

"Don't thank me, son."

Long dramatic pause.

"We thank Captain Shane Hollander for his service."

Then he saluted the giant Shane banner outside the team store. The tourist just stood there completely frozen, as the old guy patted him on the shoulder.

"Welcome to Boston, Private."

...and walked away.

I still have absolutely no idea what the fuck was that.

Comments:

@GeneralGreenMonster

That was General Murphy.

Absolute legend.

 

@FenwayFaithful

He has been around since Shane's rookie year.

He's terrifying in the most wholesome way imaginable.

 

@PrivateFirstClass

The funniest part is that he wasn't joking.

 

@ArmyRecruit81

The tourist accidentally enlisted.

 

@CoffeeOverCurveballs

The pause before "We thank Captain Shane Hollander for his service" absolutely killed me.

Old man had perfect dramatic timing.

 

@SouthieSarah

People think the Hollander Army is an online meme.

No.

Boston has seventy-year-old retirees with rank insignias.

 

@MonsterSeats

General Murphy once congratulated me on making Sergeant after I spent three straight seasons organizing charity drives.

I have never been prouder of anything.

 

@FenwayVendor

I work concessions.

Can confirm.

They actually refer to each other by rank.

I thought it was a joke.

It wasn't.

 

@PrivateRyan

Wait...

You can get promoted?

 

@GeneralGreenMonster

Of course.

You don't become a Colonel overnight.

 

@SoxHistoryNerd

There are people who have held the rank of Lieutenant longer than they've held actual jobs.

 

@AcademicBaseball

This is simultaneously the most Boston thing and the nerdiest thing I've ever read.

 

@TheGreenLine

Imagine explaining this to someone from another city.

"So, who's your fan club?"

"Oh, an organized military hierarchy."

"..."

"For baseball."

 

@CanadianVisitor

I came down from Toronto for a series.

Thought someone was filming a war movie.

Turns out they were just assigning patrol duty around the team store.

 

@HollanderArmyRecruitment

Attention, civilian.

Failure to recognize a superior officer is forgiven on your first offense.

You have now been formally enlisted as a Private.

Please report to your nearest Dunkin' before first pitch.

Your orientation packet includes:

• One "Born For This" playlist.
• The history of Captain Hollander's rookie season.
• Instructions on booing the Yankees.
• Emergency procedures in the event of trade rumors.

Welcome to the Army.

 

@GreenMonster1912

...why does this sound official?

 

@HollanderArmyRecruitment

Because it is.

 

@BostonBorn617

The funniest part is that everyone in Boston just accepts this.

Nobody questions it anymore.

You see a seventy-five-year-old man calling himself "General," you just nod respectfully and keep walking.

 

@OldTownTom

My granddaughter asked why Grandpa salutes during Shane's walk-up song.

I told her,

"Because every army stands when its captain arrives."

She saluted too.

I'm raising her correctly.

 

@YankeesSuckForever

This fanbase is clinically insane.

I wouldn't change a single thing.

---

@PuckBunnyCentral

Can someone explain why the self-proclaimed "Rozzy Girls" act like they're better than every other hockey fan? Every time someone says that if they ever come across Ilya Rozanov, they would 100% seduce him, they show up acting like they're the morality police.

Girl... you have fan edits of the man too.

Don't pretend you're different.

Replies:

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

We are different.

There's a very large difference between admiring someone and treating them like a collectible.

 

@PuckBunnyCentral

LMAO.

You literally call yourselves the Rozzy Girls.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Because we're fans.

Not because we think sleeping with hockey players is a personality trait.

 

@IceQueen94

You all want him.

Just admit it.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Respectfully?

No.

He's incredibly attractive. Nobody with functioning eyesight is denying that.

But every interaction we've ever had with him has made us admire him as a human being far more than his face.

 

@bruinsgirl81

Okay then explain.

 

@SofiaRG

Three years ago, my friend got cornered by a drunk guy outside a club after a Bears charity gala.

Rozanov saw it happen while leaving.

He walked over, put himself between them, asked if she knew the guy.

When she said no, he told the man to leave.

When he wouldn't, Rozanov simply stood there staring at him until security arrived.

Then he waited outside with us for almost twenty minutes because he refused to leave until our Uber showed up.

Not once did he flirt or made her feel like she owed him for helping her out.

He did not even accept a thank-you beyond saying, "Get home safe."

 

@NinaRG

Mine was after a playoff win.

My friend got way too drunk celebrating and she threw up all over the sidewalk.

Everyone else walked away because they were embarrassed.

Rozanov literally held her hair back, found bottled water, made sure she was conscious, called us another cab because the first driver refused to take her, and told the driver not to let her out until someone answered the door.

That's it.

He did not post a thing, or acted like he was a hero for just being a good human being.

 

@EmmaRG

Mine is even dumber.

I met him at Logan Airport.

My suitcase wheel snapped off, so he carried the stupid thing all the way to baggage claim because I couldn't lift it.

Then disappeared, without even telling me his name.

I only realized it was him after another passenger asked for a picture.

 

@PuckBunnyCentral

Okay...

Those are nice stories.

Still doesn't explain why you all act superior.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Because half of hockey Twitter keeps trying to turn him into some cartoon womanizer.

We've never seen that man disrespect a woman.

Ever.

He says thank you to waitresses.

He tips well.

He helps strangers.

He treats female fans exactly the same way he treats male fans.

With respect.

That's why we like him.

 

@HockeyHistoryNerd

It's honestly funny.

The public image is "Russian ladies' man."

Meanwhile every real story anyone has is:

"He helped my grandmother cross the street."

"He found my lost wallet."

"He waited for my Uber."

"He carried my suitcase."

 

@SarahRG

Exactly.

We've watched him for years.

He's private and polite.

He signs every autograph he has time for.

If he tells someone no, he apologizes because he has to leave.

He's literally never given us a reason to think of him as anything except a gentleman.

 

@PuckPrincess

You're telling me none of you want to sleep with him?

Seriously?

 

@MiaRG

No.

Because admiration doesn't automatically equal entitlement.

He's a hockey player.

Not public property.

 

@CamilleRG

Besides...

Half of us are lesbians.

The other half are happily married.

The math isn't mathing.

 

@SportsBoston

This is somehow the healthiest fan club discourse I've ever read.

 

@BostonBorn81

I think the biggest difference is simple.

Puck bunnies chase clout.

The Rozzy Girls celebrate the person.

 

@MaddieRG

Exactly.

We cheer when he scores, buy his jerseys, and make edits.

We lose our minds when he chirps someone into another dimension.

But at the end of the day?

We hope he gets home safely, sleeps eight hours, and has people around him who love him.

That's being a fan.

Not whatever some of you are trying to make it into.

 

@PuckBunnyCentral

...

I hate how reasonable that sounded.

---

@mara55_boston

📍 Copley Place

I'll admit that I am not even a Shane Hollander fan.

I don't even watch baseball, much less follow the Red Sox.

Hell, I couldn't even tell you what a two-way player is before today.

I was just walking through the mall when I passed the Creed display.

I looked up.

Then I stopped walking.

[Photo]

-A towering illuminated Creed campaign rises from the center of the luxury fragrance boutique.

The advertisement is dominated by Shane Hollander.

He stands waist-deep in dark blue water, bare from the waist up, droplets still clinging to sun-kissed skin as though he has only just emerged from the sea. His dark hair is slicked back, exposing every freckle scattered across his nose and cheeks. One hand brushes damp hair away from his forehead while the other loosely holds the Creed bottle at his side.

He simply stares directly into the camera with an intensity that makes it feel less like you're looking at an advertisement and more like Shane Hollander is daring you to look away.

Anyway...

I stood there staring at this stupid advertisement for like...

...ten minutes.

One of the employees eventually walked over and politely asked, "Would you like to purchase the fragrance?"

I was still looking at the billboard.

So, I just said...

"...yeah."

Then I got home, checked my credit card statement, and sobbed.

Why is perfume so expensive???

Anyway, I gave it to my boyfriend for our anniversary because apparently, I now own luxury cologne.

This man...

Started CRYING.

Actually crying.

He hugged me and said this was "the greatest honor ever bestowed upon a Sergeant of Hollander's Army."

...

Then he proposed.

I said yes.

But I'm also extremely confused.

Since when is my accountant boyfriend a decorated military officer?

Comments:

@FenwayGeneral

Promotion through marriage.

Entirely within regulations.

 

@mara55_boston

WHAT REGULATIONS???

 

@FenwayGeneral

Classified.

 

@MonsterSergeant

Congratulations on your engagement.

Also, congratulations on unknowingly supporting troop morale.

 

@NumbersAndTaxes

As a CPA...

There are more accountants in Hollander's Army than people realize.

 

@BeanTownRecruit

The Hollander Effect claims another innocent civilian.

 

@CreedCollector

You stared at the billboard.

Bought the fragrance.

Accidentally proposed.

Standard procedure.

 

@mara55_boston

NONE OF THAT SHOULD BE STANDARD PROCEDURE.

 

@GreenMonsterLieutenant

Your boyfriend never told you he was a Sergeant?

 

@mara55_boston

NO???

 

@GreenMonsterLieutenant

Operational security.

We don't discuss rank with civilians.

 

@mara55_boston

I AM LITERALLY ENGAGED TO HIM.

 

@FenwayGeneral

Correction.

You are engaged to a Sergeant.

 

@SouthieMedic

She's family now.

Clear her for Level One information.

 

@MonsterSergeant

Approved.

 

@HarborPrivate

Wait...

Does this mean she outranks me now?

 

@FenwayGeneral

Negative.

Civilian spouses receive honorary status only.

Promotion requires attendance at three games, one charity event, and successful completion of "Sweet Caroline" proficiency.

 

@mara55_boston

I'M SORRY THERE'S A TEST??

 

@Bleacher42

There isn't.

...

Mostly.

 

@CityOfBoston

The funniest part is that she said she wasn't a Shane Hollander fan.

Honey...

You stared at a Creed billboard for ten uninterrupted minutes.

It's already too late.

 

@CanadaDryEnjoyer

First, it's the Rolex ad.

Then it's the Reebok campaign.

Then Creed gets you.

This is how recruitment works.

 

@mara55_boston

YOU PEOPLE KEEP SAYING "RECRUITMENT."

 

@FenwayGeneral

Because that's what it is.

 

@BostonLawyer

The amount of people who've bought Creed because of Shane should honestly qualify as a public health study.

 

@SoxFaithful24

My wife went to "smell the perfume."

She came back forty-five minutes later carrying two bottles and asking if we could go to Fenway next weekend.

 

@MarketingProfessor

Creed hired a world-famous athlete.

Boston accidentally turned the campaign into military recruitment propaganda.

 

@FenwayGeneral

Accidentally?

 

@HarvardMBA

Never underestimate the purchasing power of people emotionally compromised by freckles.

 

@mara55_boston

...he does have really nice freckles.

 

@FenwayGeneral

WELCOME, PRIVATE. 🫡

Chapter 7: II Cliff

The air conditioning in the briefing room hummed at a low, fixed frequency, pushing crisp air over the twenty-two men crammed into foldable chairs. At the front of the room stood Dr. Aris Thorne, the league-mandated workplace culture facilitator, leaning over a dry-erase board divided into three meticulous columns: Traditional On-Ice Verbal Interference, Systemic Impact, and Alternative Execution.

Cliff shifted in the second row, trying to fit his six-foot-four frame into a chair clearly not designed for a professional defenseman. Beside him, Hammersmith scribbled intent notes into a lined pad, jaw tight, while St-Simon sat rigid to his right, arms locked across his chest and eyes glued to the board.

In the back row next to Koslov sat Connors. As a rookie, Management had offered him a pass from the four-week seminar, but the kid had turned it down instantly. "Bad habits don't start in the NHL," Connors had told them during pre-season intake. "I want to know what to catch in myself before I repeat something stupid."

What had started three weeks ago feeling like a forced, defensive root canal was gradually turning into something real. The team's on-ice dynamic was thawing—the line changes were crisp again, the defensive pairings were calling plays with sharp clarity, and the precision of their game was returning.

Off the ice, however, the wall around their captain remained absolute.

Ilya didn't join them for catered lunches, he simply arrived, dominated his ice time, fulfilled his media duties, and drove home. He didn't throw cold shoulders or put on a show for the cameras; he just maintained an immovable boundary between his work and his personal life.

Yet the ice was thawing in microscopic increments, mostly because the room had finally stopped making assumptions.

Just three days ago in the weight room, St-Simon had finally gathered the courage to ask: "What's the story on the chest tattoo, Cap?"

Ilya hadn't snapped or closed up; he had just looked down at his side. "The twenty-four is for my mate, it was the number his father wore for his college team. The lily is for my daughter. Her name is Yuri, which means lily in Japanese." Then he pulled his shirt on and walked out.

Cliff swallowed against the dry taste in his mouth, forcing himself to look back up at the board.

"Let's look at section four," Dr. Thorne said, his marker squeaking against the board. "Targeted verbal degradation. Historically, on-ice chirping relies on slurs, insults directed at families, or questioning an opponent's masculinity—using diminutives like calling someone a 'pussy' for declining a fight."

He turned around, resting his hands on the podium as the room fell completely still.

"The fundamental flaw here—beyond the obvious human violation—is that it relies on systemic bigotry to compensate for a lack of athletic observation," Dr. Thorne explained. "It allows hostility to mask a low hockey IQ. If your only way to disrupt an opponent is to attack their identity, you are failing to read the game. Effective psychological pressure targets performance, mechanical errors, and actual statistical vulnerability."

Hammersmith’s hand shot up immediately. "That's literally just Rozanov," he commented, looking around the room before turning back to Thorne. "He doesn't bring up families. He doesn't use slurs. He’s the chirping king in the Eastern Conference, and he does it entirely on stats and misplays."

"Can you give an example?" Dr. Thorne asked.

"Last season against Tampa," Hammersmith recalled, his tone analytical. "Their top defenseman missed two backchecks in the first period. Next faceoff, Ilya doesn't insult the guy. He just leans in and recites the guy’s exact turnover ratio from the left circle over his last three games, then tells him his agent is going to have a nightmare in contract negotiations this summer. The guy completely lost his mind and took an unsportsmanlike minor ten seconds after the drop."

"Precisely," Dr. Thorne said, pointing his marker at Hammersmith. "It’s precise, relevant, and it doesn't degrade the sport into a vector for hate speech."

Cliff sighed, looking down at his hands. The distance between their captain and the rest of the roster was still wide, but the blueprint for bridging it was right there on the board.

Dr. Thorne clicked a small black remote, and the projector screen hummed as it transitioned to a new slide. Bold white text appeared against a dark blue background: Secondary Gender Dynamics: Historical Precedents vs. Biological Reality.

Below the header sat a three-column breakdown detailing Alphas, Betas, and Omegas.

"We need to address the structural myths surrounding secondary genders," Dr. Thorne continued, stepping toward the left side of the screen. "Much of what circulates in locker rooms and popular culture is built on centuries of socio-historical misconceptions rather than actual human physiology."

He tapped the second column.

"Take Betas for example. Culturally, there’s a persistent, absurd trope that Betas exist merely as background filler or 'minions' meant to serve dominant secondary genders. This is an organizational lie. Betas represent the baseline operational stability of human civilization, yet systemic rhetoric constantly diminishes their agency."

He walked over to the third column, where historical woodcuts sat beside modern medical diagrams.

"Which brings us to Omegas," Thorne continued, his tone measured. "Historically, Omegas were subjected to hyper-sexualized propaganda. In medieval and imperial eras, royalty, nobles, and wealthy landowners routinely sought out Omegas regardless of whether they were born into nobility or peasantry. Because Omegas were biologically rare, acquiring one became a public display of elite status, opulence, and power. They were locked away on grand estates, and treated as living trophies."

Cliff leaned back slightly, his knees brushing the desk in front of him as the room listened in dead silence.

"In modern times," Dr. Thorne said, "that toxic sexualization morphed into infantilization—the tendency to place Omegas inside a gilded cage. To treat them as fragile, delicate, perpetually in need of shelter, or physically incapable of demanding environments."

He turned to look directly at the defensemen in the front rows.

"The biological reality is straightforward. Secondary genders offer specific physiological variations, not limitations on capability. Alphas, on average, possess higher muscle density and superior long-range visual acuity. Omegas, conversely, possess significantly heightened sensory processing, including far more precise olfactory senses and sharper auditory perception. They absorb and process environmental inputs at a distinctly higher frequency."

He clicked the remote again, bringing up a slide filled with high-profile figures across various modern industries.

“While contemporary society frequently celebrates Omegas who excel in the fine arts, clinical psychology, literature, or early childhood education,” Dr. Thorne said, “the assumption that Omegas belong exclusively in passive or nurturing roles is entirely dismantled by modern athletic data.”

A fresh image dropped onto the screen—a crisp, high-definition action shot of a baseball player mid-swing at Fenway Park, dark hair visible beneath a helmet, and eyes locked onto an incoming pitch with determination.

“You don’t have to look far for proof,” Dr. Thorne stated, pointing at the image. “Right here in this city, the single most prominent male Omega in professional sports history is actively redefining athletic capabilities. Shane Hollander, captain of the Boston Red Sox. A two-way phenom who pitches, hits, and has brought his franchise to back-to-back World Series championships.”

“Hear, hear!”

The sudden, enthusiastic shout echoed from the back row.

Cliff turned his head around, along with half the room. Connors was sitting up straight in his chair, a bright grin on his face, pounding his fist against his palm in earnest approval. Cliff wasn’t a baseball guy. His life was entirely consumed by rink schedules, defensive schemes, travel legs, and ice time; outside of hockey, he barely paid attention to other leagues.

But Connors was a home-grown kid. Born, raised, and developed right in the heart of Boston. And across all of New England, the Red Sox weren’t just a baseball team, they were an institutional religion. Kids grew up on those bleachers, and entire families rallied around the ballpark through generations. To Connors, Shane Hollander wasn’t just a textbook example on a seminar slide; he was a city hero, a icon who had brought home championship flags.

Cliff turned back toward the screen, his eyes locking onto the photo of Hollander. Taking in the absolute strength and focused athleticism captured in the shot, every lingering myth about Omega fragility disintegrated.

“That level of performance,” Dr. Thorne concluded, his voice ringing clearly across the silent room, “is what happens when skill, heightened senses, and discipline are evaluated on pure merit rather than limited by outdated stereotypes.”

He clicked to the next slide, bringing up a bold new header: Passive Acceptance and the Language of Exclusion.

Below it sat a stark, uncensored list of words pulled directly from common sports culture—slurs, hyper-sexualized terms, and degrading labels laying bare on the screen.

“We need to talk about locker room culture,” Dr. Thorne continued, stepping out from behind the podium to stand directly in front of the group. “Specifically, the common defense mechanism: ‘It’s just locker room talk. We don’t mean anything by it.’”

He gestured back at the slide.

“When terms like ‘whore’ are casually tossed around to describe Omegas, or when comments are made about pumping and dumping someone or abandoning them with pups, it builds a framework. The exact same thing happens when a non-combative player is called a ‘pussy,’ or when ‘fag’ is used for anyone who doesn’t fit a hyper-aggressive mold.”

Dr. Thorne paused, letting the weight of the words hang over the group.

“You might convince yourselves these are harmless chirps to build camaraderie or blow off steam. But what this language actually does is construct a permissive environment. It signals to everyone listening that people outside your immediate circle are merely targets. It tells younger players that physical boundaries don't matter and that anyone who fails to conform deserves to be discarded.”

His gaze locked onto Cliff before sweeping across the rest of the roster’s veterans.

“And here is the hardest truth about group dynamics: silence is never neutral. Passivity is not peace. When you sit in your stall and let a slur fly past, your silence acts as a loud, resounding stamp of approval. You don’t have to shout the insult yourself to be the reason it continues. Words cut far deeper and cause vastly more long-term damage than a hit on the ice. A physical bruise heals; a culture of quiet hostility rots a room from the inside out.”

Cliff stared at the board, his heart thumping hard against his ribs.

He knew these guys. He knew every player sitting around him. None of them were monsters. None of them would ever step out into the world, take advantage of an Omega, and leave them behind. None of them would walk out onto the street and commit a hate crime, even if they had tossed around ‘fag’ like it meant nothing during intense games or heavy workouts.

They thought of themselves as decent guys. Cliff had always thought of himself as a decent guy.

Are we, though? Cliff thought, his fingers tightening around his pen until his knuckles turned white. If you let that trash slide every single day just to keep from making waves, are you actually a good guy? Or are you just a coward wearing a jersey?

Being ‘not the worst’ wasn’t enough anymore. Acting respectable in public while ignoring the toxic decay in their own room was a total failure of leadership.

They had to be better.

The very next time someone dropped a slur in the Bears’ facility, the next time someone called a player a ‘pussy’ for passing on a fight, or used ‘whore,’ or threw around ‘fag’—Cliff wasn’t just going to stare at the floor. He would cross-check the guy straight into the glass on the next drill. He would make it brutally clear that those days were officially over in Boston.

He wore an A on his jersey, it was time he actually earned it—and step by step, earn his place as Ilya’s friend.

In the weeks following the seminar, the atmosphere around the team began to shift. It started in small. Two days after the final session, Koslov let a casual habit slip while dressing for practice, muttering under his breath about a missed drop-pass and using "pussy" to describe his own soft entry.

Before the word could even finish echoing, Cliff slammed his locker shut with a sharp, metallic bang. “Drop it,” he barked, his voice carrying an edge that made three guys in the room freeze. “We left that trash in the classroom, Koslov. Pick a better word.”

Koslov blinked, caught off guard, but he didn't fight it. He swallowed hard, nodding once as he corrected himself. “Yeah. My bad. Terrible read on the entry.”

It wasn’t a one-time thing. Whenever an old slur surfaced or someone used language that degraded Omegas, Cliff was right there to cut it down instantly. He didn’t lecture or preach; he just drew an immovable line in the sand. Within ten days, Hammersmith and St-Simon were stepping up beside him, enforcing the exact same standard across the entire bench.

And Ilya took notice.

The captain didn’t make a spectacle of it, but the shift in his eyes was unmistakable. The icy, mechanical distance he had kept since the fallout began to yield to a watchful focus. Whenever Cliff shut down a bad slip, Ilya’s blue eyes would track the moment from across the room, giving a subtle tilt of his head to acknowledge the effort with cautious, genuine respect.

Then came the mid-season road trip to Quebec.

The Bears were in Montreal to face the Metros at the Bell Centre. Historically, the Boston-Montreal rivalry was one of the bloodiest feuds in sports history, but ever since Ilya Rozanov had joined the team six years ago, the dynamic had completely transformed. Ilya had turned the Bears into a juggernaut, playing a game so dominant that Montreal simply couldn't keep up. The historic rivalry had essentially turned into a routine showcase of Boston’s power.

The new reality didn't sit well with the home team, especially with Comeau.

Comeau was a mid-tier grinder who compensated for his lack of skill with dirty hits, late whistles, and trashy psychological tactics. By the second period, with Boston cruising up 4–1, Comeau was running out of options. Frustrated and humiliated in front of twenty thousand local fans, he started hunting for low hits and personal jabs.

During a stoppage after an icing call, both lines converged near the referee’s circle. Comeau skated in tight to Boston’s top unit, aggressively tapping his stick against the ice.

“What’s the matter, Rozanov?” Comeau sneered, leaning over the circle, his voice easily carrying over the crowd's roar. “Tired already? Whole city of Boston is a joke anyway.”

Ilya didn't even look at him, simply tightening his helmet strap with steady fingers.

Realizing his standard chirps weren't landing, Comeau stepped closer, escalating fast. “Embarrassing enough you guys let a Russian wear the C on your jersey. But what else do you expect from a town where the Red Sox captain is a fucking Omega whore?”

The air on the ice instantly plummeted to absolute zero.

Cliff snapped his head toward Ilya, and the sight sent a cold shock straight down his spine. He had played alongside Ilya Rozanov for six years. He had seen him furious, relentless, and completely fired up. But he had never seen his captain look like this.

Ilya’s head snapped toward Comeau, his dark blue eyes wide with a terrifying, unhinged rage. Every muscle in his massive frame locked tight; he didn't look like an athlete anymore—he looked like a feral predator ready to tear Comeau's throat wide open right on center ice.

Ilya took one explosive stride forward—

—and Cliff beat him to it.

Cliff didn’t think. He didn’t weigh the consequences, he didn’t check the clock, and he didn't care about the scoresheet. Before Ilya’s skates could even complete a full stride, Cliff lunged across the ice, snagging Comeau by the collar and driving a fist straight into the guy's jaw with all six-foot-four of his weight behind it.

The crack of impact rang out like a gunshot. Comeau’s helmet skittered across the ice as he went down, but Cliff was already on top of him. Dropping his gloves, he hauled Comeau up by his jersey and landed a brutally clean right hook right across the bridge of his nose.

Cartilage crunched loud over the scrape of blades, as blood sprayed across the ice. The linesmen dove in, wrestling Cliff's arms back and hauling him off, but the damage was already done. Comeau lay groaning on the ice, his face a ruined mess—leaving him lined up for a displaced nasal fracture, a severe concussion, and weeks on the injured reserve.

The refs immediately handed Cliff a match penalty and a game misconduct. He knew the league office would review the tape, slap him with an automatic suspension, and hit him with a heavy fine.

But Cliff didn’t care in the slightest.

An hour later, the game wrapped up with a decisive 7–2 Boston victory. Cliff sat in the visitor’s locker room at the Bell Centre, stripped down to his base layer with a towel slung over his shoulders, waiting for the rest of the team to return.

The double doors swung open, and the guys filed in—exhausted, laughing, and unbuckling their gear.

Ilya walked in last, his captain’s jersey draped over his arm. He moved down the narrow central walkway of the locker room, stepping through the team until he came to a stop right in front of Cliff’s stall.

The team went dead silent, players freezing mid-sentence, as every eye shifted toward them.

Ilya stood there for a long moment, staring down at Cliff. Then, the rigid line of his shoulders finally relaxed. He reached out and brought a palm down onto Cliff’s shoulder, clapping it once with genuine warmth.

“Good punch,” Ilya praised, before turning around, taking in the whole room.

His eyes moved from Marleau and Hammersmith over to Koslov, then settled on young Connors near the end of the bench.

“I think,” Ilya said, his voice carrying clearly to every stall, “I got this wrong. I decided the guys on this roster couldn't change, so I built a wall and shut the door on everyone. It was easier to protect myself than to trust that any of you actually cared about doing the work. That wasn't fair to you, and you deserved the chance to prove me wrong long before now. That is on me. I am sorry for that.”

Ilya unzipped his gear bag, tossing his gloves inside before glancing back at Cliff with a rare, faint smile.

“I will talk with my mate tonight,” Ilya added smoothly. “We would be glad to host you guys at our home. You can finally meet my family. I know my mate has been eager to meet my friends for a very long time.”

Sitting in his stall, a massive grin broke across Cliff’s face despite the throbbing, bruised knuckles on his right hand. He didn’t care about the upcoming suspension. Or about the league fine or the front-office paperwork waiting for him tomorrow morning. He felt like he was floating.

It had taken six years of stumbles, hard lessons, and real work, but sitting in that Montreal locker room and hearing his captain inviting the team into his home, Cliff knew every single second had been completely worth it.

Chapter 8: II Ilya

Chapter Notes

If someone is interested in the Hollanov house, I based it in this old Victorian mansion in Boston: https://www.boston.com/real-estate/on-the-market/2026/06/29/brookline-webber-bouve-mansion-hits-market/

The gray dawn light filtered softly through the heavy velvet curtains of their second-floor master bedroom, painting the high ceilings in pale blue tones.

Ilya shifted beneath the thick duvet, waking up slowly. The house was quiet, save for the rhythmic, muffled ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway below. He reached across the mattress out of habit, expecting his hand to land on empty sheets. Usually, by six in the morning, Shane was already out of bed, laced up in his running gear, doing laps around the neighborhood before rolling out his mat for morning yoga.

Instead, Ilya’s hand met a tangle of soft, dark hair and the warm, familiar rise and fall of a chest.

Ilya blinked, his blue eyes adjusting to the dim room. Shane was tucked flush against his chest, fast asleep. His dark hair was a ruffled mess on the pillow, his long lashes resting still against his pale cheeks, and his freckles scattered like tiny constellations across his nose. One of Shane’s hands was curled into the fabric of Ilya’s grey cotton t-shirt, clinging to him in his sleep.

The blond smiled, the expression tugging at the corners of his mouth. He pulled the blanket up higher, burying his nose directly into the crook of Shane’s neck and collarbone. He breathed in deeply, gathering up the crisp, comforting scent of cedar wood.

Shane stirred slightly, letting out a soft, drowsy sigh, but didn’t open his eyes. Instead, he nuzzled deeper into Ilya’s neck, his legs intertwining with Ilya’s long, broad ones.

It was a rare, precious rhythm. In a couple of weeks, the peace of their domestic winter mornings would shatter with the arrival of spring training. Shane would pack his bags and head south to Florida for weeks of sun-drenched practices, bullpen sessions, and tactical drills with the Red Sox before the regular MLB season kicked off. Ilya, still in the absolute thick of the NHL regular season with the Bears, would be staying behind in Boston. They were both elite athletes, seasoned veterans who had managed the distance for years, but the days right before the inevitable departure always felt daunting.

Shane was taking it slow on purpose, squeezing every single drop of comfort out of these remaining cold Boston mornings before the endless travel schedule tore their routines apart.

Ilya took his time. He didn’t move to get out of bed. He simply lay there in the quiet room, holding his mate close, pressing soft, slow kisses along Shane’s jawline, his cheekbone, and the corner of his forehead. He rubbed his cheek against Shane’s shoulder, scenting him thoroughly, deliberately coating him in his own Alpha scent until the entire bed smelled purely of the two of them bound together.

Shane hummed softly in his sleep, his hand tightening slightly on Ilya’s shirt before his breathing settled back into a deep, peaceful rhythm. Ilya stayed like that for another twenty minutes, just listening to the sound of his mate’s breathing, letting the heat of their bodies linger in the silent house.

Eventually, the rumble of his own stomach reminded him of the time. Slowly, with expert care, Ilya unraveled his arms from around Shane. He slid out from under the duvet, tucking the blankets back around Shane’s shoulders to keep the winter chill away. Shane let out a tiny murmur, curling up into the warm spot Ilya had just vacated, his black hair spilling over Ilya’s pillow.

Ilya pulled on a knit sweater and padded barefoot down the grand wooden staircase into the kitchen.

The house was warm, heated by the restored radiator system they’d put into the Victorian home three years ago. Ilya went straight to the kitchen counters, pulling out cast-iron pans, flour, eggs, milk, and fresh cottage cheese. If Shane was going to spend his morning resting, Ilya was going to make sure the house smelled like home when he finally woke up.

He started on a traditional Russian breakfast. He whipped up a batch of golden, crispy syrniki—sweet farmer’s cheese pancakes—frying them in butter until the edges were perfectly browned and the centers stayed soft and pillowy. Beside the stove, he set up the samovar for fresh black tea, setting out bowls of sour cream, wild raspberry jam, and sliced honey apples.

The mouth-watering aroma of toasted butter, sweet cheese, and warm berries quickly filled the ground floor, drifting up toward the high ceilings. Once the table was set with plates, warm towels, and a fresh glass of orange juice, Ilya checked the clock on the wall.

Seven-thirty.

He padded back upstairs, his footsteps quiet on the runner rug. He passed their bedroom door—where Shane was still fast asleep—and walked down the hall to the small bedroom painted in soft mint green, decorated with figure skating posters, drawings of horses, and a small wooden Russian doll set on the windowsill.

Ilya opened the door gently.

Yuri was sound asleep under a massive pink comforter, her straight black hair spread across her pillow, her dark brown eyes closed, and her tiny face resting on her hands. The small dark moles inherited from Ilya stood out distinctly on her cheek and down her neck.

“Yura,” Ilya murmured softly in Russian, stepping into the room. He knelt by the side of her bed, reaching out to gently smooth her straight black bangs away from her forehead. “Yurochka, wake up, sweet girl.”

Yuri let out a tiny, dramatic grunt, pulling the blanket up over her head.

Ilya chuckled, leaning down to scoop her up, blanket and all, into a massive bear hug. Yuri let out a squeal of laughter as Ilya hoisted her off the mattress, sitting her upright on his knee while she rubbed her dark brown eyes with chubby fists.

“Papa,” she giggled, her voice thick with sleep as she leaned her head against his shoulder. “Is cold.”

“Is hot breakfast downstairs,” Ilya told her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Syrniki, with raspberry.”

That got her attention instantly. Yuri sat up straight, her brown eyes popping open. “With extra jam?”

“If you brush your teeth first,” Ilya bargained smoothly.

He carried her into the bathroom, setting her down on the wooden step stool in front of the mirror. He watched her intently as she grabbed her pink toothbrush, carefully applying the toothpaste for her before scrubbing his own teeth alongside her. He helped her comb out her straight black hair, expertly pulling it back into a neat braid so it wouldn’t get in her face.

As they walked out of the bathroom hand-in-hand, a soft sound came from down the hallway.

Shane was standing in the doorway of the master bedroom, leaning against the frame. He was wearing one of Ilya’s oversized Bear hockey hoodies, the sleeves draped over his hands, his black hair wildly ruffled, his brown eyes heavy from sleep. He looked tiny and soft in the oversized clothes, his freckles dusting his cheeks as he smiled sleepily at the two of them.

Yuri’s eyes lit up. “Tosan! You’re awake!”

Shane leaned down, catching Yuri as she ran down the hall and threw her arms around his neck. Shane lifted her up into his arms, kissing her cheek before burying his face in her neck, making her giggle hysterically.

“Good morning, monkey,” Shane murmured, his voice husky from sleep as he carried her toward Ilya. He looked up at Alpha, his brown eyes soft, full of affectionate warmth as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to the blond’s lips. “Smells amazing downstairs, Cap.”

Ilya reached out, wrapping an arm around both of them, pulling his mate and his daughter flush against his chest. “Breakfast is ready. Come down and eat before it gets cold.”

The kitchen was flooded with morning light, turning the warm wood of the breakfast nook into a golden focal point. Downstairs, the table looked like a spread straight out of a Moscow café. Plates piled high with hot, golden syrniki, bowls of glistening red raspberry jam, thick sour cream, and a small tray of sliced honey apples sat alongside the steaming samovar.

Shane slid into the wooden booth first, pulling the oversized hoodie tight around his wrists as he inhaled the rich aroma of toasted cheese and butter. Yuri scrambled onto the cushion beside him, her straight black hair swinging in her neat braid, her eyes wide as she eyed the breakfast spread. Ilya sat across from them, his broad frame filling out the opposite side of the table as he poured three cups—warm black tea for himself and Shane, and sweet milk tea for Yuri.

“Jam first, then sour cream,” Yuri announced with absolute authority, pointing a small fork at her plate. “That’s how Papa makes it taste best.”

“Is that right?” Shane smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he reached over to smooth down a rogue strand of black hair behind her ear. “I thought you were supposed to mix them together.”

“No!” Yuri gasped, looking genuinely scandalized. “Tosan, no, that ruins the whole top!”

Ilya chuckled softly, taking a sip of his tea. “Listen to her, Shane. She is a purist. Just like her babushka.”

The kitchen filled with the comfortable, clinking sounds of cutlery and quiet chatter. Yuri did most of the talking early on, her small voice bubbling over with relentless enthusiasm. She babbled between bites about her class, her favorite drawing project, and the new figure skating sequence Coach Yakov had been drilling into her during their ice sessions.

“Coach Yakov says I have to keep my shoulders down when I turn,” Yuri said, demonstrating by dropping her tiny shoulders dramatically while holding a forkful of pancake. “He says if I slouch, I look like a sack of potatoes on the ice. A sack of Russian potatoes.”

Shane burst out laughing, almost choking on his tea. “He actually said ‘sack of Russian potatoes’?”

“He did!” Yuri insisted, nodding her head vigorously. “And then he made me do three more edge drills. But I did them perfectly, Tosan. He didn’t even yell once!”

“That’s my girl,” Shane murmured fondly, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head.

As the conversation naturally slowed, Shane reached for an apple slice, his tone shifting into something quieter, a little more settled. “Speaking of training… I got the official travel schedule from the front office this morning. Spring training roster reports in two weeks. I’ll have to be down in Fort Myers by the twenty-fourth.”

The light mood in the room took a soft, noticeable dip.

Yuri stopped chewing, her eyes darting from Shane to Ilya. “Two weeks?” she asked, her small voice losing its bubbly edge. “Are you going to be in Florida for a super long time?”

“I am sorry, monkey,” Shane apologized gently, reaching out to squeeze her small hand. “But when the regular season starts, I’ll be right back here at Fenway.”

Yuri looked down at her plate, tracing a pattern in the spilled jam with her fork. “I’m gonna miss you, Tosan,” she whispered softly.

Across the table, Ilya felt his heart ache. He looked over at Shane and saw the exact same heartbreak mirrored in his mate’s eyes. Shane swallowed hard, his jaw setting tight as he forced a warm, re-assuring smile for their daughter, but the micro-tension around his eyes betrayed him completely.

Being elite professional athletes was a blessing they never took for granted, but the distance—the relentless travel, the endless hotel rooms, and the weeks away from home—was the hardest part of their lives. It was the price they paid for being at the absolute top of their respective sports. Even though they were fortunate enough to overlap their schedules so one of them was almost always home in Boston while the other was away, the departure days never got easier.

It was the main topic that came up again and again during their sessions with their psychologists. The overwhelming guilt of leaving Yuri behind. The quiet fear that she would grow up feeling the empty space left by their road trips, despite all the love and luxury they built around her.

Seeing the melancholy settle over the breakfast table, Ilya cleared his throat, deliberately shifting the energy before it could sink any deeper. “Well,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “Before Tosan goes to Florida, we have to throw him a proper send-off party.”

Yuri looked up instantly, her dark brown eyes catching the light. “A party?”

“A big party,” Ilya confirmed, nodding solemnly. “Right here in the house. And… I am inviting my teammates.”

Yuri’s jaw dropped. She sat up straight, her sadness instantly evaporating into sheer excitement. “Your teammates? The Bears? We’re finally meeting them?!”

“Yes,” Ilya smiled, reaching across the table to poke her cheek, right where her tiny mole sat. “Finally. All of them are coming over.”

“Why now?” Shane asked, leaning his chin in his hand, a soft, curious look dancing in his eyes as he watched his mate.

“Because,” Ilya said, looking directly at Shane, “they have been doing very well recently. They are back at the top of the league standings, and we are entering the playoffs stronger than last year. They earned a reward.”

As Ilya spoke the words, his blue eyes locked onto Shane’s brown ones. Without saying a single word out loud, an entire conversation passed between them in that shared look.

I trust them now, Ilya’s eyes said. You were right.

For years, Shane had quietly advised Ilya to lower his guard just a fraction—to give his teammates a chance to grow, to recognize that the toxic, crude language built into North American hockey culture wasn’t an irredeemable sin, but a bad habit taught to young boys who simply didn’t know any better. Shane had always believed that people could be taught better if someone took the time to set a higher standard instead of just writing them off.

Ilya had been too defensive, too guarded, protecting his private life like a fortress built of stone and ice. But watching Hammersmith, St-Simon, and Koslov stand up in the locker room, watching his guys reject the slurs, and watching Cliff smash a rival’s face in defense of Shane’s honor in Montreal… Ilya realized he should have taken Shane’s advice from day one. If he had opened the door earlier, if he had challenged the culture instead of just isolating himself from it, the change in the locker room would have happened years ago.

Shane’s eyes softened as he read the quiet admission on Ilya’s face. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, a warm, proud smile curving his lips.

I know, Shane’s look replied. The past is behind us.

“Are they gonna bring baseball cards for me?” Yuri asked loudly, breaking the silent moment between her parents as she bounced up and down on the seat. “Connors said he would bring his collection to show me!”

“Connors will bring whatever you ask him for, little monster,” Ilya laughed, reaching over to ruffle her hair as the warmth returned full-force to the kitchen. “Because he is terrified of you.”

“Good!” Yuri declared, happily stabbing another piece of pancake.

Ilya leaned back in his seat, looking at his mate resting across from him, his daughter giggling at the table, and the beautiful house wrapping around them both. The past had been complicated, heavy, and full of friction, but looking forward, the present was brighter than it had ever been.

When the evening of the send-off party arrived, the atmosphere inside the restored Victorian home was charged with anticipation. Ilya hadn’t revealed his mate’s identity to any of them—with the sole exception of Connors. He had deliberately kept it a surprise, mostly because he had thoroughly enjoyed the rookie’s wild, wide-eyed reaction weeks ago and wanted to see how the rest of his team would process it. While none of the other guys were baseball fans, Shane Hollander was a name that transcended sports in this town; even an isolated hockey player knew who he was.

A series of knocks resonated through the front foyer. Ilya opened the grand mahogany door to find the whole group arriving together—Cliff, Hammersmith, Koslov, and Connors—all standing on the porch in a somewhat nervous cluster.

“Come in,” Ilya greeted them, stepping back to pull the door wide open.

The guys filed into the high-ceilinged entry hall, wiping their boots thoroughly on the mat and looking around in absolute awe. The dark hardwood floors, intricate crown molding, and warm, low lighting gave the space a timeless, historical grandeur.

“Cap, your house is beautiful,” Cliff said, staring up at the grand staircase. “Honestly, I wasn’t expecting a place like this. It’s so… old, but insanely elegant.”

Ilya offered a small, amused shrug. “Yeah, well. My mate is an architecture fanatic, so—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the sound of tiny, rapid footsteps thundered down the hallway.

“Connors!” Yuri squealed at the top of her lungs, charging full-tilt toward the doorway.

Without missing a beat, Connors dropped his jacket onto a chair, scooped Yuri right out of the air as she launched herself at him and tossed her up above his head. Ilya’s heart practically leapt out of his throat, his Alpha instincts flaring for a split second, but Yuri just let out a loud, delighted laugh as Connors caught her securely against his chest.

Koslov stared, his eyebrows pulling together in utter bewilderment. “Wait… the rookie knows your daughter?”

“Yeah, well,” Ilya said, his lips twitching with suppressed amusement. “Let’s just say he figured out who my mate is on his own, so as a reward, I invited him over for dinner earlier this season.”

“How the hell did he figure it out?” St-Simon asked, looking around at the rest of the veterans. “You didn’t give any of us a single clue!”

Connors puffed his chest out with a smug, proud grin, swinging Yuri gently on his hip. “He did give clues. It’s just that none of you know a single thing about sports in Boston other than hockey.”

“Language around the kid, Connors,” Hammersmith warned automatically, though he still looked utterly confused.

Before anyone else could question the rookie, footsteps sounded from the kitchen doorway. Shane walked into the foyer, wearing a comfortable cashmere sweater and dark jeans, holding a tray of wine glasses.

“Hey, everyone,” Shane said, offering a warm, easy smile that instantly lit up his eyes. “It’s really nice to finally meet all of you. Welcome.”

The entire front hall fell into dead silence.

Marleau’s jaw literally dropped. Hammersmith froze mid-step. Koslov blinked three times in rapid succession, looking between Ilya and Shane as if his brain was struggling to process the visual information.

“You’re…” Cliff began, his voice trailing off as he stared at the captain of the Boston Red Sox standing in Ilya Rozanov’s hallway. “You’re married to Shane Hollander.”

“I am,” Ilya said with a soft chuckle, as Shane settled the tray down on a side table.

“Man, I’ve been doing some research on you after that sensitivity seminar,” Koslov blurted out, shaking his head in disbelief. “You have a whole, like… massive online fan club! The Hollander Army!”

Ilya instantly burst out laughing, a loud, booming sound that echoed through the high ceilings. He absolutely adored Shane’s dedicated fan club; they were ruthless, hilarious, and fiercely protective.

“Hey, watch your mouth,” Connors chimed in smugly, pointing a finger at Koslov while still holding Yuri. “My dad is a general in that army, so you all better be careful what you say about him.”

Ilya laughed even harder at that, the lingering knot of nervousness evaporating. Whatever lingering fear he had possessed about bringing his team into his home vanished. “Come on,” he gestured toward the back of the house. “Food is in the back.”

He led them through to the grand living room—a massive, open space historically used for hosting parties and balls, now tastefully furnished with deep leather couches, warm rug runners, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the backyard. Set up along the far wall was a massive buffet spread featuring an elaborate mix of Japanese and traditional Russian dishes: delicate salmon rolls, nigiri, piping hot pelmeni, short rib blinis, and fresh beet salads.

The guys hesitated for only a second before diving in, but their behavior was entirely different from the crude, careless dynamic of their past. They showed genuine curiosity, actively asking questions about each dish and complimenting the spread.

“This pelmeni is unreal, Shane,” St-Simon praised, as he served himself a second plate.

Meanwhile, Cliff walked over to where Shane was standing near the fireplace. He cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable but resolute. “Hey… I just wanted to say, on behalf of the guys… we’re really sorry about some of the stupid, mindless stuff that used to get said in our locker room before we knew any better. I know you weren’t there to hear it, but you deserved better respect from us anyway.”

Shane looked at Cliff, visibly touched by the unsolicited, sincere gesture. “Thank you, Cliff. That means a lot. What matters is that you guys are doing the work now.”

Seeing his teammates take accountability on their own—proving they had actually internalized the lessons of sensitivity and respect without being forced—warmed Ilya to his core.

By the middle of the evening, any remaining professional distance was completely gone. The veterans were scattered across the leather couches, thoroughly smitten with Yuri, who was sitting in the middle of the coffee table enthusiastically recounting her figure skating drills.

“And Coach Yakov said if I keep my edges clean, I’m gonna be a great athlete! Just like my dads!” Yuri announced proudly, puffing her chest out.

“Yeah,” Cliff said softly, leaning down to give her a gentle high-five. “You sure are, kiddo. You’re gonna beat both of them.”

Ilya stood by the doorway, a plate in his hand, watching his teammates gush over his daughter and laugh with his mate. For six years, he had kept these two worlds entirely separate out of fear and mistrust. But looking at the room now, seeing his guys act as true friends, Ilya knew the walls were finally down for good.

Chapter 9: Interlude - Protection Squad

@TrueAlphaMovement

Real talk.

What has happened to society?

Male Omegas are supposed to build families, not careers. Shane Hollander should be at home, mated, pregnant, and raising his pups instead of running around pretending to be some sports hero.

His parents clearly failed him.

This whole “career Omega” nonsense is exactly what’s wrong with modern society. No respectable Alpha wants an Omega that’s constantly traveling, working, and putting strangers before his family.

Down with this woke garbage.

Comments:

@FenwayForever

…did you wake up in 1824 and accidentally find Wi-Fi?

 

@BostonBorn617

No Alpha wants an Omega like Hollander.

Buddy.

He’s literally been mated for years.

You’re yelling at someone who already won.

 

@SoxStats

This is the funniest part.

Shane mentioned YEARS ago that he mated young.

The only reason people don’t know much about his mate is because they’re insanely private.

 

@OmegaAdvocate

Remember when a paparazzi photo caught Shane’s mating bite?

The internet lost its collective mind.

He literally addressed it in an interview.

 

@RedSoxDaily

For anyone who missed it: Shane said he and his mate have a pup together. Because both have demanding careers, whenever they’re home in Boston, they decide to stay in.

That’s called balance.

Family comes first for them, and it is why literally no one knows who Shane mated.

 

@BaseballNerd24

Imagine trying to shame someone for…

Checks notes

…having a successful marriage, a child, two World Series rings, and one of the greatest careers in baseball.

 

@CivilServantCA

The funniest thing is that these “traditional values” people never know what they’re talking about.

Shane’s father is another male Omega.

 

@OttawaInsider

David Hollander is one of the most respected people in the Canadian Treasury Board.

He’s spent decades in public service while raising a family.

Apparently male Omegas can have careers after all.

Who knew?

 

@MomagerWatch

And David’s Alpha?

Yuna Hollander.

One of the biggest managers in sports.

She literally owns one of the most successful talent agencies in Canada.

Her entire career is helping elite athletes build theirs.

 

@AgencyInsider

Calling out Yuna Hollander for “raising him wrong” is wild.

She raised a son who became the face of baseball.

I’d say she knew exactly what she was doing.

 

@BostonMama

So let me get this straight.

You think Shane was “raised wrong.”

Meanwhile his parents raised:

• a two-time World Series champion
• one of the few Male Omega athletes
• the man who changed baseball

Yeah.

Sounds like they absolutely nailed it.

 

@PrideAtFenway

“His parents should have taught him better.”

Looks like they did.

That’s exactly why he’s become the role model he is.

 

@SouthieMike

Imagine insulting Yuna Hollander.

That woman negotiates endorsement deals worth more money than I’ll see in ten lifetimes.

 

@FenwayBleachers

This obsession with wanting Omegas barefoot in the kitchen is so weird.

The year is 2017.

Move on.

 

@RetiredMarine82

Real Alphas don’t feel threatened by successful Omegas.

Only insecure men do.

 

@QueerBoston

“No Alpha would want him.”

One Alpha already did.

Years ago.

They’ve got a pup together.

You’re a little late to the party.

 

@BaseballDad

My son is an Alpha.

My daughter is an Alpha.

My youngest is an Omega.

All three play sports.

All three know who Shane Hollander is.

That’s the legacy that matters.

 

@OmegaRunner

The amount of little Omega kids who started believing they belonged in competitive sports because of Shane…

You can never take that away.

 

@HollanderArmyHQ

Attention.

The individual responsible for this post has been entered into Army records.

Observation has commenced.

Carry on.

 

@BaseballDad

…is that a threat?

 

@HollanderArmyHQ

No.

A notification.

 

@GeneralMurphy

The Army does not harass.

The Army remembers.

 

@PrivateRyan

Sir, awaiting orders.

 

@GeneralMurphy

Current mission:

Support your local LGBTQ youth center.

Donate to the battered women’s shelter.

Volunteer if you have time.

Cheer loudly for Captain Hollander.

Ignore fools.

 

@LieutenantJess

Remember, soldiers.

Captain Hollander would never waste his time arguing with people like this.

Go do something that actually helps Boston.

 

@SouthieSarah

I love that the Hollander Army’s response to bigotry is basically,

“Anyway… who’s free Saturday to build houses with Habitat for Humanity?”

 

@TrueAlphaMovement

You’re all brainwashed.

 

@FenwayFaithful

No.

We’re just fortunate enough to live in this century.

---

@FenwayGeneralTom 🎖️

(General, Hollander Army)

I have three sons.

For over thirty years, I have refused to answer the question of which one is my favorite. It has always been the same answer: I love all three equally.

One became an engineer, the other one a teacher, and my youngest somehow ended up playing professional hockey.

Did I suddenly favor the professional athlete? Absolutely not. They’re all my boys, and I’ve always been proud of each of them.

…Until yesterday.

The hockey one came home carrying a neat little box. Didn’t say much. Just set it on the kitchen table with the most suspicious grin I’ve ever seen.

I opened it.

Inside were five baseballs, one for each family member, every single one signed by Captain Shane Hollander.

I looked at the baseballs.

I looked at my son.

Then I looked back at the baseballs.

Gentlemen…

I regret to inform you that I now have a favorite child.

My other two sons have reviewed the evidence and agree that my decision is both fair and legally binding.

Comments:

@EngineerBrother

As one of the other two sons, I’d like everyone to know that the evidence was overwhelming.

There was simply no case to be made against him.

 

@OldSchoolSox

Five signed baseballs?!

Not one.

FIVE.

Yeah… I’d understand.

 

@PrivateMegan

I’m dying at the image of a grown man silently opening a box and immediately rearranging the family hierarchy.

 

@LieutenantChris

This wasn’t favoritism.

This was a unanimous ruling by the Family Supreme Court.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Imagine making it to professional sports and realizing your greatest accomplishment is bringing your dad Shane Hollander’s autograph.

 

@TeacherBrother

Hello.

I am Son Number Two.

I would like to announce that I have accepted third place with grace and dignity.

 

@EngineerBrother

Correction.

You’re second.

I’m third.

I never had a chance.

 

@GeneralHarper🎖️

The Generals have reviewed the evidence.

The promotion is justified.

 

@BaseballInBoston

Your son could probably tell people he plays professional hockey.

Instead, he’ll forever be known as “the one who got Dad five Shane Hollander baseballs.”

 

@PrivateOlivia

This is the most Boston father thing I’ve ever read.

 

@FenwayGeneralTom🎖️

For the record…

If one of the other two comes home with a signed bat, the rankings are subject to review.

 

@CaptainRachel

The fact that there’s an appeals process is sending me.

 

@SouthieMike

I just know those baseballs are going into a display case before your own family photos.

 

@FenwayGeneralTom🎖️

Already happened.

My wife noticed.

She wasn’t even mad, she just nodded and said, “Understandable.”

I knew I’d married the right woman.

 

@ConfusedCanadian

I’ve been following this fan club for two weeks.

Why does it feel less like a fan club and more like a military organization mixed with a religion?

 

@GeneralHarper🎖️

Because morale is high.

Discipline is firm.

And Captain Hollander keeps winning.

Carry on, Private.

---

@MontrealMetrosDieHard

Honestly, I am so fucking tired of everyone acting like Ilya Rozanov is some generational hockey god.

He won one Stanley Cup in 2014 and suddenly we’re supposed to pretend the man is untouchable? Give me a break.

You know what happened in 2014? Half the best players on the actually good teams were exhausted because of the Olympics. The schedule was brutal, players were travelling, and everyone knows Olympic years take a toll on NHL rosters. Boston got lucky.

And let’s talk about Rozanov himself.

If he’s supposedly so incredible, why wasn’t he even selected for Russia’s Olympic team in Sochi?

Russia got absolutely embarrassed at their own Olympics, and somehow, we’re supposed to believe their players are the future of hockey? Maybe the whole Russian hockey thing is just massively overrated.

Rozanov wasn’t even good enough to represent his own country.

Please.

Fuck Rozanov.

Comments:

@RossiGirl81

“You know what happened in 2014? Half the best players on the actually good teams were exhausted because of the Olympics.”

You mean the Montreal Metros?

That’s the team you’re currently calling one of the “actually good teams”?

 

@PuckPrincess24

How long has it been since Montreal won a Cup?

 

@RossiGirl81

Sixteen years.

Sixteen.

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to say it again.

 

@BearsAndBruins

Wait, I want to ask a different question.

When was the last time Montreal even made the playoffs?

 

@RossiGirl81

Wasn’t it five or six years ago?

Around the same time Rozanov won Rookie of the Year, if memory serves.

 

@MetrosFaithful

That is completely irrelevant.

 

@RossiGirl81

You made a post about Ilya Rozanov’s Olympic selection.

You brought up the playoffs first.

I am simply returning the energy.

 

@PuckBunnyBoston

Also, why the fuck are we discussing the Olympics like Rozanov was sitting at home waiting for a call?

He wasn’t eligible.

 

@RossiGirlsBoston

THANK YOU.

Jesus Christ.

Rozanov was in the middle of changing his Russian citizenship status. He was legally in the process of leaving one passport and obtaining another. As such, he wasn’t eligible to represent Russia under the circumstances, and he wasn’t yet eligible to represent the country whose citizenship he was acquiring.

That’s why he wasn’t selected.

It wasn’t because the Russian Olympic selectors looked at Rozanov and went, “Nah, he’s shit.”

 

@MontrealMetrosDieHard

Then what?

He’s getting an American passport?

 

@MontrealMetrosDieHard

Actually, wait.

Rozanov and Scott Hunter on the same Olympic line would be fucking hilarious.

Those two would kill each other before the second period.

 

@RossiGirl81

Canadian.

 

@MontrealMetrosDieHard

What?

 

@RossiGirl81

Canadian passport.

 

@PuckPrincess24

He’s Canadian?!

 

@RossiGirl81

Apparently.

 

@PuckPrincess24

Apparently?!

 

@RossiGirl81

Nobody knows how he got it.

Nobody knows when exactly he got it.

Nobody knows what the original arrangement was.

Nobody knows why a Russian teenager apparently ended up with Canadian citizenship while simultaneously becoming one of the most private people in professional hockey.

This is why we call him Ilya “Mysterious” Rozanov.

 

@HockeyHistorian

I have followed this man for years and can confirm that his biography contains approximately fourteen pages of information and twelve of them are hockey statistics.

 

@RossiGirlsBoston

We know he’s from Moscow.

We know he’s an Alpha.

We know he was the youngest captain in Boston Bears franchise history.

We know he won Rookie of the Year.

We know he won the Stanley Cup in 2014.

We know he has a Canadian passport.

Everything else?

Classified.

 

@MontrealMetrosDieHard

WHY THE FUCK DOES HE HAVE A CANADIAN PASSPORT?!

 

@RossiGirl81

That’s the question, isn’t it?

 

@MontrealMetrosDieHard

No, seriously.

Why does Boston’s Russian captain have Canadian citizenship?!

 

@PuckPrincess24

You sound personally betrayed.

 

@MontrealMetrosDieHard

BECAUSE HE’S RUSSIAN.

 

@RossiGirl81

And Canadian.

Apparently.

 

@MontrealMetrosDieHard

This is bullshit.

 

@RossiGirlsBoston

You know what else is bullshit?

Sixteen years without a Cup.

 

@MetrosFaithful

Fuck off.

 

@RossiGirl81

Five years without the playoffs.

 

@MetrosFaithful

You Boston fans are insufferable.

 

@RossiGirlsBoston

We’re not even Boston fans.

We’re Rossi Girls.

There’s a difference.

 

@PuckPrincess24

And frankly, I think you’re misunderstanding the situation.

You came into a fan community dedicated to a hockey player, called him overrated, insulted his nationality, dragged his Olympic eligibility into it, and then somehow got offended when people answered you.

 

@MontrealMetrosDieHard

Because you’re all fucking obsessed with him.

 

@RossiGirl81

Yes.

That’s what a fan club is.

Welcome to the internet.

 

@OldSchoolHockey

I’m still stuck on the Canadian passport.

How does nobody know this?

 

@HockeyArchivist

Because Rozanov apparently considers his personal life a state secret.

 

@RossiGirl81

Exactly.

The man gives interviews about hockey and somehow manages to reveal less about himself than a witness in the fucking witness protection program.

 

@MetrosFan1978

You people are insane.

 

@RossiGirlsBoston

And yet you are still here.

Reading every comment.

Learning about his passport.

Learning about his career.

Learning about his Olympic eligibility.

At this point we’re doing free Rozanov education.

You’re welcome.

 

@RossiGirl81

Also, one final thing.

If your argument is genuinely that Rozanov is overrated because he wasn’t at Sochi, perhaps spend five minutes learning why he wasn’t there before building an entire rant around it.

Because right now you’ve managed to turn a post about Ilya Rozanov into a sixteen-year-old Montreal Cup drought, an Olympic eligibility lesson, and an investigation into a mysterious Canadian passport.

Honestly?

Pretty productive afternoon.

---

📱 LIVE FROM SPRING TRAINING — FLORIDA

@RedSoxStats

Spring Training is officially underway in Florida, and Shane Hollander is already looking like he never had an offseason. Through the first few innings of today’s exhibition matchup, Hollander is sitting comfortably at the plate, working deep counts and forcing pitchers to show him nearly everything in their arsenal. His first at-bat went seven pitches before he lined a hard single into right field, and his second plate appearance ended with a walk after he refused to chase a breaking ball that started on the outside corner and died just beyond the zone.

For anyone wondering why Boston treats this man like a religious figure, this is the answer. Hollander doesn’t simply hit for power. He controls at-bats. He recognizes pitch sequencing, adjusts between plate appearances, and makes pitchers pay when they miss over the heart of the zone. His ability to work counts is particularly brutal because he can turn a two-strike situation into an extended battle rather than simply protecting and hoping for the best. He fouls off pitches he can’t drive, waits for something he can handle, and then punishes it.

@FenwayNumbers

Hollander just took a 94 mph fastball on the inner half and sent it 400+ feet.

That was not a swing.

That was a fucking declaration of war.

 

@BaseballNerd84

The thing about Hollander is that his power gets all the attention, but his plate discipline is absurd.

He doesn’t swing at pitches because they’re strikes.

He swings at pitches he can actually do damage with.

 

@SoxAnalytics

And that’s why his on-base numbers are ridiculous.

Pitchers can’t simply throw strikes to get ahead of him because he’ll punish mistakes.

They can’t live outside because he’ll take the walk.

Pick your poison.

 

@BostonBaseball

HOME RUN HOLLANDER.

Three-run shot.

Spring Training or not, I will be counting this.

I have no shame.

 

@HollanderArmy

THE CAPTAIN HAS SPOKEN.

THE CAPTAIN HAS HIT A BASEBALL INTO ORBIT.

 

@BronxExile

It’s Spring Training.

 

@HollanderArmy

And yet somehow, you’re watching it.

Interesting.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Yankees fans coming into a Red Sox Spring Training thread just to tell us not to celebrate a Shane Hollander home run is exactly the kind of commitment I respect.

 

@SoxTillIDie

THE MAN COULD HIT A HOME RUN IN A PARKING LOT AND I’D STILL CALL IT A STATEMENT.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

Privates, remember your training.

We are in Florida.

We are peaceful.

We are civilized.

We will not start anything.

We will simply observe the baseball, praise our captain, and remind everyone that Boston owns this man and this man owns baseball.

 

@SoxMom1978

My son is eight years old and has been watching Hollander all morning.

He just asked me if the Hollander Army is an actual army.

I told him absolutely.

He has now requested a uniform.

 

@BaseballDad

There are approximately seventeen thousand people in this stadium and every time Hollander walks toward the plate they all start making the same noise.

You can actually feel the collective Boston brain activate.

 

@FenwayHistorian

Boston fans have spent generations turning baseball players into mythology.

Hollander somehow skipped the mythology stage and went directly to folk hero.

 

@SoxFireWatch

I am already picturing the welcome-home procession.

 

@MLBReporter

I’m imagining something tasteful.

 

@SoxFireWatch

You have misunderstood Boston.

 

@HollanderArmy

THE FIRE TRUCKS SHOULD HAVE THEIR SIRENS ON.

 

@BostonFireFan

As a Boston firefighter, I would like to formally state that this is a terrible idea.

As a Boston baseball fan, I would like to state that I am absolutely available.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Imagine the Red Sox plane landing and twenty thousand people standing there like soldiers ready to welcome them back from a campaign.

 

@HollanderArmySergeant

Not imagine.

Manifest.

 

@SoxHistorian

Someone is absolutely going to bring a giant American flag, a Canadian flag, and a Hollander jersey to the airport.

 

@HollanderArmy

Someone?

Sir.

We have already discussed this.

---

POSTGAME INTERVIEW

@MLBNetwork

Interviewer: Hollander, obviously it’s still early, but you’re looking sharp. How are you feeling?

Hollander: Good. Just getting comfortable again. Spring Training is about finding rhythm, getting your timing back, seeing live pitching, working through situations. Results are nice, obviously, but we’re preparing for the season.

 

@SoxTwitter

Okay, normal question.

Fine.

 

@HollanderArmy

We tolerate this.

For now.

 

Interviewer: Spring Training does take the Red Sox away from Boston for quite a while. Does that get difficult for you personally?

Shane’s expression changes slightly.

Hollander: Yeah. I miss home. Florida is beautiful, but Spring Training means being away from my family for a lot longer than I’d like. I’m looking forward to getting back to Boston.

 

@SoxTwitter

Oh.

That’s actually a nice question.

 

@HollanderArmy

Wait.

Is this journalist being NICE?

 

@FenwayFaithful

I am pretty sure he is a Yankees fan.

Who replaced this man?

 

Interviewer: I imagine your daughter is probably missing you by now.

Hollander: Definitely. I miss her too. I’m looking forward to seeing her.

 

@SoxMom1978

😭

 

@BaseballDad

There it is.

Captain of the Red Sox, two-way superstar, terrifying hitter.

Still just Dad when he’s talking about his kid.

 

Interviewer: Although I suppose having a son would make things easier, wouldn’t it? You could take him out into the backyard, teach him to throw, and play catch together. A daughter isn’t exactly going to be doing that with you.

Silence.

The expression on Shane’s face becomes completely blank.

On the broadcast, the Red Sox players visible behind the interview area have also stopped moving. One of them slowly turns his head toward the interviewer with a menacing expression.

 

@SoxTwitter

…

 

@HollanderArmy

I beg your fucking pardon.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Did he just say that?

 

@SoxBaseball

A daughter isn’t going to play catch?

Brother.

You have chosen the wrong baseball player.

 

@BostonSportsDad

Shane Hollander is literally a professional baseball player.

His daughter has watched him throw a baseball her entire life.

What the hell did you think was going to happen?

 

@SoxAnalytics

Also, gender has absolutely nothing to do with whether a kid can play catch.

What century is this interviewer from?

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

PRIVATE ALERT.

WE HAVE A SITUATION.

 

@SoxFireWatch

Cancel the welcome-home parade.

We need an arresting party.

 

@BronxExile

I’m a Yankees fan and even I think that was a stupid thing to say.

 

@SoxTwitter

THE YANKEES FAN HAS SPOKEN.

THIS IS SERIOUS.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Even the Yankees have disowned him.

Pack it up.

 

Shane looks directly into the camera.

Hollander: My daughter plays catch with me all the time. She’s got a very good arm, actually. Her slider is already better than some of our rookies.

A few Red Sox players in the background immediately start laughing.

Hollander: She could absolutely play baseball if she wanted to. But at the end of the day she can choose whatever she wants to do with her life. I’ll support her either way.

 

@SoxTwitter

OH.

OH, HE FUCKING DID IT.

 

@HollanderArmy

THAT’S OUR CAPTAIN.

 

@BaseballDad

“Her slider is already better than some of our rookies.”

He didn’t even have to name them.

They know.

 

@SoxAnalytics

For the record, I would like to see the pup’s pitch movement data.

For science.

 

@HollanderArmySergeant

NEW MISSION: PROTECT SHANE’S DAUGHTER.

SECOND MISSION: FIND THE GIRL’S PITCHING COACH.

THIRD MISSION: NEVER LET THIS INTERVIEWER NEAR A MICROPHONE AGAIN.

 

@FenwayHistorian

The interviewer spent five minutes trying to turn a family question into a gender argument.

Shane answered by reminding everyone that his daughter is already out there throwing sliders.

That is the most Hollander response imaginable.

 

@SoxMom1978

My daughter just looked at me and said, “I want to throw a slider too.”

Thank you, Shane.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

Recruitment remains open.

 

@SoxTwitter

Welcome to the Army, Private.

Chapter 10: I José

Chapter Notes

Ladies and gentlemen! Manifestation does work!

@RedSox mascot Tessie is ready to party at Club Hollanov for @fenwaypark’s Heated Rivalry Night

https://x.com/deadline/status/2094553747342950417?s=46&t=PRljXwDEk3mFMOKYpHWlpw

In baseball, while the captain title is rare, there are few players who have earned it as much as Shane Hollander. On the other hand, the alternate captain equivalent—the trusted veteran leader who serves as the captain’s right-hand man—was a role José Díaz took with absolute seriousness.

As José pushed open the doors to the Red Sox spring training locker room in Fort Myers, the first thing that hit him wasn’t the lingering smell of leather, pine tar, or damp turf. It was a wave of acrid pheromones. The air was thick with the sour, metallic scent of an agitated Alpha, spiking so hard it made the back of José’s throat sting.

He followed the scent down the row of oak stalls to find Josh, one of their most promising rookie infielders. Josh was violently tearing off his wristbands, muttering a non-stop stream of furious curses under his breath, his chest heaving as his Alpha scent flared in uncontrolled bursts.

“Okay, buddy, bring it down a notch,” José chastised smoothly, leaning against the neighboring stall with his arms crossed over his chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Josh snapped his head around, his eyes wide and bright with residual anger. “Didn’t you hear what that fucking journalist said to our captain at the press screen?”

José tilted his head slightly. “I was finishing up in the cages. What happened?”

“The fucking asshole had this smug smile on his face the whole time,” Josh spat, slamming his glove into the back of his locker. “Talking about how it’s a ‘pity’ Shane doesn’t have a son to play catch with, as if having a daughter means he can’t do that. As if a girl can’t play baseball! My sister is the biggest baseball nut in the world—she played catch with me and my dad every single day growing up! What kind of backwards, misogynistic crap is that?”

Josh started cursing again, pacing the floor of the locker room like a caged animal. Standing there, watching the kid fume, José felt a wave of nostalgia hit him.

Man, he thought to himself, the last six years in this league really changed everything.

While baseball locker room culture had generally been somewhat less overtly aggressive than the notoriously brutal environment of ice hockey, it hadn’t always been this progressive or protective. But having Shane Hollander as their captain—a generational talent, two-way superstar who held the utter, unwavering respect of every single man in the team—had fundamentally reshaped the Red Sox.

To the veteran guys, Shane was a master tactician and a peerless leader. To the rookies like Josh, Shane was practically a mythical figure, someone they borderline worshipped, but who also took care of them like a mother hen, making sure the young players were fed, rested, and protected from bad press contracts. Having some hack reporter disrespect both their captain’s family and his daughter right at the end of spring training was an insult every man in that room took personally.

“Look, I get it,” José said gently, trying to calm the rookie down. “That reporter is a junk-tier sensationalist. I know his type, and unfortunately the press is filled with those who fish for reactions. But you need to keep a lid on it in front of the cameras, Josh. We don’t want to give our captain a bad reputation by starting a media war over an interview.”

Josh stopped pacing, looking at José in disbelief. “So what? We just stay quiet while people talk to our captain like that?”

“No,” José replied firmly. “We don’t just stay quiet. But the thing you need to learn, kid, is that our captain has to fight very different battles than the rest of us. Being a male Omega at the absolute top of professional sports comes with a constant, exhausting spotlight. Because of that, Shane has had to learn how to pick his battles.”

José took a step closer, looking the young rookie right in the eye.

“Our job isn’t to start fires on his behalf,” José explained. “Our job is to learn how to follow his lead. When Shane decides a battle is worth fighting, we stand right behind him and hit as hard as he does. And when he decides to walk away and ignore the noise, our job is to have his back, keep our mouths shut, and protect his peace. Do you understand?”

Josh stared at José for a long moment, the heat in his chest slowly warring with the logic of his veteran leader’s words. He let out a long sigh, his shoulders dropping two inches as his sour Alpha scent finally began to settle and dissipate into the room.

He clearly wasn’t happy about the reporter—his jaw remained set in a hard, stubborn line—but the rookie respected José, and more importantly, he trusted the wisdom behind the command.

“Yeah,” Josh muttered, taking one last deep, stabilizing breath as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay. I get it, José.”

José offered a small, approving nod, clapping the rookie once on the shoulder before turning toward his own stall. Spring training was officially over, Florida was behind them, and it was time to take their captain home to Boston.

After showering off the sweat and pine tar of Florida’s final spring training session, José pulled on a comfortable dark t-shirt and loose athletic shorts, packing his gear into his duffel. He zipped up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and made his way down the concrete corridor toward the team bus.

As he rounded the corner near the media lounge, José paused. Tucked into an alcove away from the noise of the locker room, Shane was sitting on a trunk, his phone propped up on his knees. He was speaking in rapid, fluent Japanese, his dark brown eyes bright with an expression of pure, unfiltered warmth that he rarely showed to reporters. On the screen, two faces were visible: a little girl with straight black hair bubbling over with energy, and a blond Alpha leaning over her shoulder.

José didn’t speak Japanese, but over years of playing alongside Shane, he had picked up a few recurring words. He caught sugu—soon—and aishiteru—I love you—mixed with affectionate sighs and Yuri’s animated hand gestures. It wasn’t hard to translate the heart of the conversation. Spring training was officially wrapped, the long weeks in Florida were over, and Shane was telling his family he would be home in Boston in just a few hours.

Leaning silently against the wall a few yards away, José’s heart ached for the Hollander-Rozanov’s.

At thirty-two, José was an elder statesman in a league that consumed young men and spit them out. He had sat in this locker room long enough to watch entire generations of players cycle through—watching green, wide-eyed rookies arrive with stars in their eyes, only to be worn down, traded, or forced into early retirement by the sheer, unyielding grind of the game.

So when Shane had first broken into the league as a young Omega, José’s immediate instinct hadn't been competition; it had been a persistent, protective anxiety.

The major leagues were a meat grinder for anyone, but for an Omega entering a hyper-masculine space dominated by loud, territorial Alphas, it was a gauntlet. José had spent his early years learning how to survive the culture, learning when to keep his head down and when to speak up. Watching Shane—so young, so brilliant, and so inherently vulnerable to the shark-tank atmosphere of professional hockey—had kept José on edge.

Then came the whispered rumors among the leadership core years ago: Shane wasn't just navigating his rookie year—he was already mated. And there was a baby girl at home.

The news had set off alarm bells in José’s head. In a culture where young Omegas were historically targeted, exploited, or pushed into submissive roles by dominant figures, José’s mind immediately went to the dark places. He lay awake on road trips wondering if the league's brightest young talent was trapped in abusive marriage.

Was Shane being controlled? Was some overbearing Alpha taking advantage of a kid who was too young, too trusting, and too overwhelmed to protect himself?

And then the name of the mysterious husband finally leaked: Ilya Rozanov.

José remembered the exact moment he heard it. Rozanov wasn't just an Alpha; he was the notoriously ruthless upcoming rookie of the Boston Bears. A man whose name was synonymous with brutal physicality and unhinged dominance.

During those first few seasons, José found himself pulling up Boston games on off-nights, sitting in hotel rooms across the country, staring at the screen with a knot in his stomach. He’d cringe slightly every time the camera caught Rozanov dropping his gloves without a second thought, throwing terrifying, bone-crunching punches, or driving an opponent violently into the glass.

Every act of aggression on the ice made José’s heart sink. He had been genuinely terrified for Shane’s domestic life, haunted by the thought of what happened when a man wired for that level of violence carried it home off the rink.

It had taken six long years for Shane and Ilya to shatter every single one of those fears to pieces.

Looking back now, José could admit how wrong he had been. The reality of their life hadn't been a horror story; it was a masterclass in resilience, boundaries, and absolute devotion.

Out on the ice, Rozanov remained a terrifying wrecking ball, a force of nature that struck fear into every roster in the Eastern Conference. But the precise second the final horn sounded, the monster vanished entirely.

José had seen it with his own eyes over the years. He remembered seeing Rozanov parked outside Fenway Park after late-night games, sitting in his tinted SUV in the freezing rain, content to just wait as long as it took to drive Shane home safely. He remembered the candid photos that occasionally circulated among close mutual friends from private team gatherings—images that stayed with José for weeks.

In those photos, Rozanov’s massive, scarred hands—hands that had broken jawbones and ripped helmets off in heat-of-the-moment brawls—held Shane with an absolute, breathtaking reverence. The same hands that could shatter a composite stick in frustration were captured tenderly adjusting a blanket over a sleeping infant, or delicately tying the thin, pink laces on little Yuri’s first pair of figure skates.

There was no control there. No fear. Only a fierce, protective, almost worshipful love for his family. Over six years, José’s terror had slowly melted into profound, unshakeable respect for the Russian captain—a realization that beneath the armor of the NHL’s scariest player was a man who would burn the world down before letting a single hair on his family's heads be harmed.

And Shane… gosh, Shane was a miracle of a human being.

José could still remember the overwhelming noise of the early days, the endless parade of sports talk radio hosts, old-school scouts, and cynical executives who spent years forecasting Shane’s inevitable breakdown. The consensus back then had been absolute: a male Omega simply lacked the physical durability to endure the ruthless grind of a full Major League season, let alone perform as a two-way star.

They insisted his arm would give out under the strain of pitching and hitting, predicting that he would shatter under the spotlight. And when the private news of his young daughter eventually leaked to the upper ranks, the chorus of doubters grew even louder, insisting that fatherhood would be the final nail in the coffin of his athletic career.

Yet every single time someone attempted to write his eulogy, Shane would casually walk out from the dugout, strap on his batting gloves, and tear their arguments to shreds.

José had watched from the top step of the dugout season after season, completely spellbound by the sheer brilliance of it. Shane didn't just survive in the majors; he dominated them. He hurled nine-inning gems on four days' rest, stepped into the batter's box to crush game-winning home runs in October, and single-handedly anchored the entire franchise to back-to-back World Series titles.

He bore the impossible weight of an entire city's expectations on his young shoulders, conducting himself through every press conference, every grueling road trip, and every intrusive headline with a calm, flawless grace that left José in awe.

Even with the age gap that made José the older veteran, he looked up to his captain with profound admiration. Shane had earned something far deeper than mere professional respect; he had cultivated an absolute, unshakeable devotion across the entire team.

He wasn't just the star player on the roster—he was a commander José would march beside into any battle without a second thought. If Shane stepped into the middle of the locker room and asked twenty-six professional athletes to sprint headfirst through a concrete wall, every single man—from the grizzled thirty-something veterans down to the wide-eyed September call-ups—would charge the plaster at full speed without asking a single question.

They loved him with the exact same ferocious, unhinged loyalty as the fifty thousand fans screaming his name from the stands of "Hollander's Army" every night at Fenway.

That deep loyalty caused a surge of pure fury to erupt in José's gut at the story Josh had just told him.

His temper had flared hot, his blood boiling in exact sync with young Josh’s sharp, agitated scent filling the corridor. In that split second, José had been ready to throw professionalism out the window. He had wanted to stride straight up to the dais, grab the reporter by his jacket lapels, and drag him across the floor for having the nerve to insult his captain’s child in public.

But as the elder presence on the squad, José knew how to rein in his fire. He understood his place in the ecosystem of this team. His job wasn't to throw a punch that would dominate the evening news cycle; his job was to stand as the unshakeable foundation in the room. He had to keep the roster centered, absorb the shockwaves, and make sure Shane never had to shoulder the burden of protecting his family all on his own.

Down the hall, Shane finished his call. He pressed a kiss to the phone screen, murmured one last soft phrase in Japanese, and tapped the end-call button. He took a long, quiet breath, hugging his knees to his chest for just a second as he transitioned back into team captain mode.

When Shane stood up and turned around, he caught the Alpha standing near the wall. The Omega offered a small, slightly sheepish smile, brushing a stray lock of hair back from his forehead. “Hey, José. Sorry—was just catching up with Yuri and Ilya.”

José pushed off the concrete wall, his posture relaxing as he bridged the distance between them. He reached out, resting a warm, firm hand on Shane’s shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze.

“Don’t apologize for a single thing, Cap,” José said, his voice laced with genuine respect. “Come on. Gear bags are already loaded. Let’s get out to the bus so we can get you on that plane home.”

They walked together down the rest of the winding hallway, the rubber soles of their sneakers squeaking softly against the concrete until they stepped out into the humid Florida evening. The team bus was idling near the stadium exit, its undercarriage bays open and stuffed with equipment trunks. After tossing their duffels inside, they climbed the narrow stairs and took their seats, joining the low hum of conversation as the bus rolled out toward the airport tarmac.

The transition from the charter terminal to the aircraft was a familiar, rhythmic blur—walking up the air stairs, stowing overhead bags, and settling into the plush leather seating of the team plane.

By the time the plane taxied down the runway and lifted off from Fort Myers, heading north toward Massachusetts, the atmosphere inside the cabin was electric. Weeks of grueling sun, repetitive drills, and non-stop evaluation were officially behind them. Spring training had been an unqualified success: the pitching staff was sharp, the lineup was producing, and the younger guys had integrated seamlessly into the team dynamic.

Throughout the cabin, an easy, expectant mood took hold. Players with spouses and children waiting in Boston were practically bouncing in their seats, eager to get back to their families after a month away from home. Farther down the aisle, the younger, single guys were already pulling sleep masks over their eyes, debating which late-night takeout spot they were going to order from the second they landed.

Up near the front row, José and Shane sat across the aisle from one another. Once the aircraft reached cruising altitude and the seatbelt sign clicked off with a chime, the flight attendant brought over a pair of cold sparkling waters.

Shane popped the tab on his can, taking a long sip before leaning his head back against the headrest. José turned in his seat to face him, crossing one leg over his knee, and the two veterans comfortably fell into conversation, ready to pass the two-hour flight by catching up on everything that had unfolded over the long spring weeks.

Shane started filling José in on the winter months back home, particularly the sudden, remarkable shift happening over with the Boston Bears. He talked about how the Bears were tearing through the Eastern Conference standings, how their line chemistry was at an all-time high, and how the overall atmosphere around the hockey team had transformed.

As José listened, a quiet memory surfaced in his mind—a conversation from years ago that had stuck with him ever since.

It had been during the housewarming party when Shane and Ilya first bought their sprawling Victorian home in Brookline. They had hosted a massive celebration, inviting the entire Red Sox roster, front office management, wives, partners, and friends. José remembered walking around the beautiful estate, enjoying the food, and realizing with a sudden jolt of confusion that there wasn’t a single Boston Bears player in sight.

When José had bumped into Ilya near the patio, he had casually asked why none of his teammates were there, even joking that the Red Sox guys would have behaved themselves around the hockey players.

Ilya had looked at him with a dark expression and replied bluntly: “I am not worried about the Red Sox. I am worried about the Bears not behaving.”

When José had pressed him, asking if the Bears’ locker room was really that bad, Ilya had admitted without hesitation that the room was filled with crude slurs, casual bigotry, and toxic assumptions about Omegas—language and attitudes Ilya refused to let anywhere near his mate or his young daughter. Hearing that years ago had solidified José’s immense respect for Ilya’s fierce, uncompromising protectiveness over his family.

Recalling that party, José leaned forward, looking at Shane with genuine curiosity. “Wait a second, Cap. I thought the Bears’ locker room was off-limits. Didn’t Ilya keep those guys completely separated from your life because of how toxic they were?”

Shane offered a soft, thoughtful smile, swirling the ice in his glass. “It wasn’t great back then,” the Omega acknowledged gently. “But looking back, it wasn’t that they were inherently hateful people, José. They just grew up in North American hockey culture, where young boys are taught terrible verbal habits from the time they’re eight years old. Nobody ever checked them on it, so they just carried it all the way to the NHL.”

Shane looked out the window at the clouds below before turning back to his second-in-command.

“After the sensitivity seminar, things completely changed,” Shane continued, his voice warm with sincerity. “The guys actually did the work. A few weeks ago, Ilya hosted them at the house for dinner before I left for Florida. They actually apologized to me, José. They apologized for crude language about Omegas that they had used in their locker room years ago, stuff I hadn’t even heard! Ilya had kept it from me to protect me, but those guys still took full accountability directly to my face. They didn’t have to do that, but they wanted to make it right.”

José raised his eyebrows, visibly impressed. “Seriously? The Bears core actually stepped up?”

“Beyond stepped up,” Shane chuckled, his brown eyes lighting up with affection. “While I’ve been down here in Fort Myers for spring training, those guys have been taking turns stepping in to help Ilya with Yuri. My daughter calls them all ‘uncle’ now.”

The Omega pulled out his phone, scrolling through a string of photos sent from home.

“Look at this,” Shane smiled, turning the screen to show José. “Cliff took her to the zoo last weekend to see the pandas. Hammersmith spent three hours with her at the aquarium looking at the sea turtles. Koslov and St-Simon set up a whole blanket picnic in the park for her after their morning skate. And, of course, Connors is basically her best friend—he brought her three new stuffed animals just this week.”

José looked at the photos on the screen—pictures of big, burly, terrifying NHL players smiling softly while holding a little girl’s hand or carrying her on their shoulders through Boston landmarks.

A deep sense of relief and satisfaction settled over José. He knew how isolating leadership could be, especially for someone like Ilya who had spent six years carrying the weight of a franchise while guarding his private life like a fortress. Knowing that Ilya finally had a real brotherhood behind him—that he didn’t have to carry the world on his shoulders alone anymore, and that he actually had real friends in his locker room—felt like a victory.

“That’s really good, Cap,” José leaned back in his seat with a genuine smile as the plane hurtled through the night sky toward home. “Ilya deserves that. He deserves to have good people around him.”

“Yeah,” Shane murmured softly, his smile lingering as he locked his phone. “He really does.”

Chapter 11: II Shane

Chapter Notes

I have now posted a new story! "The Turning Wheel", so please check it out. This is probably going to be one of my first genuinely supportive Montreal Voyagers stories, because I have to admit: I have never liked the Voyagers. 😂

Obviously, I’m here for Hayden. I know some people don’t really like him, but I just find his friendship with Shane so incredibly wholesome. Shane being the godfather to Hayden’s kids, Hayden being this kind of sanctuary for Shane — I love the idea of those two having these very normal, family-oriented outings together. Going to the aquarium, spending time with the kids, doing things that have absolutely nothing to do with hockey bro culture, partying, or whatever else the guys are usually getting up to. It’s a space where Shane can just be comfortable and feel like himself.

So… yeah. I like it. 😂

Anyway, I genuinely have no idea how this story started. It just came to me one day, refused to leave me alone, and eventually I had no choice but to start writing it down. Please do not kill me.

I think this is going to be one of my very few supportive Voyagers stories. Normally, I am absolutely obsessed with finding increasingly ridiculous ways to get Shane back to Boston, but after writing an entire story from Ilya’s perspective with Homerun To You, I became really interested in exploring the other side of Shane’s story — specifically, his healing journey.

There will probably be one or two chapters that focus more heavily on Ilya, but for the most part, this story is going to be about Shane and the Voyagers, and the relationships and experiences that help him heal.

And, because apparently I cannot write a Shane story without getting deeply invested in his Japanese heritage, we’re going there too. 😂 I normally focus a lot on Shane’s Japanese culture, but this time I want to explore it through a slightly different lens, especially his Buddhist roots.

Yes, I am aware that I am participating in the Heated Rivalry fandom conspiracy of slowly making Shane Hollander progressively more Japanese.

And now I’m making him religious too.

At this point, I have accepted that there is no stopping me.

The porch light cast a golden glow across the front steps as the rideshare pulled up to the curb. Shane paid the driver, grabbed his duffel bag from the trunk, and stepped out into the night air. The Florida humidity was officially behind him; the breeze carried the familiar scent of salt, asphalt, and home.

Shane walked up the stone path, his heart beating fast against his ribs. He unlocked the front door, the key turning in the brass lock with a click. The moment he stepped into the foyer and set his bag down, a streak of pink and black came barreling down the hallway.

“Tosan!”

Yuri launched herself off the runner rug. Shane dropped to his knees, opening his arms wide as his daughter crashed straight into his chest. He scooped her up, lifting her off her feet as she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

“Look at you!” Shane laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he pressed kisses all over her cheeks and temple. “Did you grow two inches while I was in Florida?”

“Yes! Papa measured me on the door frame!” Yuri babbled, her black hair swishing in her braid as she pulled back to look at him with wide eyes. “And I did three clean axels on the ice with Coach Yakov, and Uncle Connors brought me a red panda plushie, and we made pelmeni, and I saved two for you in the fridge!”

Shane’s heart swelled with love. “Two pelmeni just for me? You’re the best girl in the world.”

Footsteps sounded from the kitchen doorway. Ilya leaned against the frame in Red Sox sweater, his blond hair damp from a shower, his eyes soft as he watched them. The moles along his jawline stood out against his skin in the entryway light.

“She checked the window every five minutes since six o’clock,” Ilya said, his Russian accent filling the hall.

Shane stood up, holding Yuri on his hip, and took three strides toward his mate. “Did she now?”

“She did,” Ilya murmured, stepping forward to close the distance between them. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of Shane’s neck, and pulled him into a kiss.

Shane melted into the touch, letting his eyes flutter shut. The scent of his Alpha wrapped around him, washing away the fatigue of the flight and the long weeks living out of a suitcase. He pressed his forehead against Ilya’s, his fingers tangling into the soft knit of Ilya’s sweater.

“Welcome home, Shane,” Ilya whispered against his lips.

“It’s so good to be back,” Shane murmured with a smile.

Within twenty minutes, Shane had shed his travel shoes, pulled on his favorite grey hoodie, and sat right down on the living room rug surrounded by Yuri’s figure skating sketchbooks, markers, and stuffed animals.

“Okay, show me the drawing you made at school,” Shane said, sitting cross-legged as Yuri dumped a stack of construction paper into his lap.

“This one is us at Fenway,” Yuri explained, pointing a finger at three stick figures drawn in thick crayon. “You’re pitching, Papa is eating a hot dog in the stands, and I am wearing a giant foam finger.”

Shane burst out laughing, examining the detail. “Why does Papa have three hot dogs in his hand?”

“Because he eats a lot!” Yuri declared, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

From the kitchen, Ilya’s laugh echoed down the hall. “She is not wrong!” he called out over the sound of clattering pans.

Shane shook his head fondly, leaning down to press his nose against Yuri’s neck, making her squeal with laughter as he tickled her ribs. They rolled around on the rug, playing a game of make-believe involving Yuri’s toy horses and Shane pretending to be a baseball monster who could only be defeated by figure-skating spins.

Normally Ilya was the one in Shane’s place. The Alpha loved the silly games, the art projects, the bedtime stories where he voiced five different characters, and the constant physical affection. But the Omega had missed his daughter so much. He pulled Yuri into his lap, combing his fingers through her hair as he remade the braids, ensuring every strand was untangled while she babbled endlessly about her week.

By eight-thirty, the excitement of Shane’s arrival caught up with the little girl. Her eyelids began to droop mid-sentence while she was showing Shane a new dance step in her pink pajamas.

“Alright, little monkey,” Shane said, scooping her up into his arms. “Time for bed.”

“Not tired,” Yuri mumbled, her eyes half-closed as she rested her chin on Shane’s shoulder.

“Sure, you aren’t,” Shane smiled, carrying her up the wooden staircase.

In her bedroom, Shane tucked her beneath her comforter, arranging her stuffed animals around her. He sat on the edge of the mattress, singing a low lullaby in Japanese—a song his mother used to sing to him when he was small. Yuri’s breathing slowed almost instantly, her hand holding onto Shane’s pinky finger until her grip relaxed into sleep.

Shane sat there for a few extra minutes in the dim nightlight, looking down at her face and tracing the tiny dark moles near her jawline—so identical to Ilya’s—before pressing one last kiss to her forehead.

He tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door open an inch, and padded back downstairs.

In the kitchen, the counters were clean, the dishes were put away, and a single lamp illuminated the dining nook. Ilya stood by the stove, pouring two mugs of chamomile tea. He turned around as Shane entered, handing one mug over to his mate.

“She out?” Ilya asked softly.

“Out cold,” Shane smiled, taking a sip of the tea. “She tried to fight it for about three seconds.”

Ilya reached out, taking Shane’s mug and setting it on the counter alongside his own. Without a word, Ilya pulled Shane into his space, wrapping both arms around Shane’s waist and lifting him slightly off his feet. Shane let out a sigh, wrapping his legs loosely around Ilya’s hips and burying his face into the crook of Ilya’s neck.

They stood like that in the kitchen, holding each other and absorbing the simple comfort of being back in the same room.

“I missed you,” Shane whispered, his voice muffled against Ilya’s collarbone. “Florida is nice, but Spring Training is way too long to be without you.”

“Is terrible,” Ilya agreed, his voice a low rumble against Shane’s chest. He smoothed his hands over the back of Shane’s hoodie, pressing slow kisses to Shane’s temple, his nose, and his mouth. “The house is not the same when you are not here. Even with Yuri, it feels empty.”

Shane smiled against his lips, resting his hands on Ilya’s shoulders. “Well, I’m home now. Opening Day is next week, but we have five full days right here before the chaos starts.”

“Good,” Ilya murmured, carrying Shane over to the kitchen island and sitting him on the edge of the counter, stepping between his knees. “Then for five days, you don’t leave this house.”

Shane chuckled, leaning forward to press a playful kiss to Ilya’s jawline. “Deal, Alpha.”

Ilya’s hands tightened around Shane’s waist, lifting him once more, this time off the counter. Shane let out a content sigh, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s hips as his Alpha carried him through the hallway and up the staircase.

They moved into the master bedroom, the door clicking shut behind them. Ilya set his husband down on the edge of the mattress, his blue eyes laser-focused on the Omega, which had Shane’s heart racing.

Weeks apart meant Shane’s senses were heightened. As Ilya leaned down, pressing his face into the warm junction of Shane’s neck, the full force of his Alpha scent hit Shane. He gasped, his back arching off the mattress as his body instantly recognized its mate. The scent wrapped around him, his Omega instincts surging to the surface, craving complete closeness.

“Ilya…” Shane breathed softly, his fingers digging into the fabric of Ilya’s sweater, tugging it upward.

Ilya pulled the sweater over his head, tossing it onto the floor before reaching down to peel Shane’s hoodie and shirt off. Their bare skin met with a sudden jolt of heat. Ilya’s palms glided over Shane’s ribs, sliding down to unbuckle his belt and strip away the rest of his clothing until Shane lay completely bare under his mate’s gaze.

Ilya hovered over him, his chest rising and falling as his own instincts took over. He captured Shane’s lips in a deep kiss, his hands working down Shane’s thighs. Shane yielded completely, his legs parting wide to welcome the weight of his Alpha. The sweet scent of Shane’s slick began to mix with Ilya’s pheromones.

Ilya guided himself to Shane’s entrance, pressing firmly against the tight slickness. The Omega let out a sharp gasp, his hands gripping the Alpha’s shoulders as Ilya pushed slowly inside, filling Shane completely in one deliberate stroke.

Shane’s toes curled into the bedsheets. “Oh, Kami-sama… Ilya, yes…”

Ilya didn’t rush. He paused for a heartbeat, letting Shane’s body stretch and adjust after so many weeks apart. His hand reached up, gently cradling Shane’s jawline, his thumb smoothing over Shane’s cheekbone while his blue eyes locked onto dark brown ones.

Then, Ilya began to move, the bed creaking under their combined weight.

The rhythm was deep and steady, each thrust driving straight into the most sensitive spots deep inside Shane. Shane’s hands roamed over Ilya’s bare back, his nails digging into the muscles of his shoulders as heat rushed through his veins.

“You feel so good,” Ilya groaned against Shane’s throat, his teeth gently brushing over the sensitive skin of Shane’s scent gland, triggering another wave of slick that made every movement smoother and hotter.

Shane lost track of time, completely consumed by the heat and the scent of his mate enveloping him. Every stroke sent waves of intense electricity through his lower abdomen, building a tight pressure that demanded release. He arched his hips upward, meeting Ilya thrust for thrust, completely surrendered to the sensation.

“Ilya, please—I’m close,” Shane pleaded, his voice breaking.

Ilya picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, and completely relentless. He reached down between them, his fingers wrapping around Shane’s length, stroking in tandem with his hips. That final push shattered Shane’s control completely. Shane cried out, his back snapping off the bed as his release spattered across his chest, his internal muscles clamping tightly around Ilya in intense, rhythmic spasms.

The tight contractions triggered Ilya’s climax. With a low growl, Ilya buried himself as deep as he could go. The base of his shaft swelled, the Alpha knot expanding inside Shane, locking them securely together at the peak of their union. Ilya poured his seed inside his mate, his chest heaving as he collapsed forward, resting his forehead against Shane’s shoulder while their bodies thrummed with the aftershocks.

The Omega whined, his arms wrapping tightly around Ilya’s back, holding his Alpha close as the knot held them pinned together. The room was saturated with the warm, combined scent of their mated pheromones, wrapping around them like a protective blanket.

Shane stroked the soft hair at the nape of Ilya’s neck, a sweet smile spreading across his face as their breathing gradually synchronized in the absolute satisfaction of being whole again.

Bound tightly together by the knot, neither of them moved. Ilya shifted his weight slightly to the side, taking the pressure off Shane’s chest while keeping their bodies fused. He pressed one last, heavy kiss to the sensitive curve of Shane's throat, his chest rising and falling in deep, slow rhythms against Shane's ribcage. Lulled by the thick scent of pheromones and slick, Shane closed his eyes, his fingers staying loosely tangled in Ilya’s hair as the heavy warmth of sleep pulled them both under.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a golden haze across the king-sized bed. Shane drifted awake slowly, cocooned in luxury and heat. Before he even opened his eyes, he was aware of two distinct sensations: the sweet soreness pulsing pleasantly through his lower back and thighs, and the solid warmth of Ilya draped over him like a blanket.

Shane let out a contented sigh, sinking deeper into the soft mattress.

Ilya was still sound asleep, his face tucked directly into the crook of Shane’s neck. One of the Alpha’s long legs was thrown over Shane’s thighs, pinning him in place, while a massive arm was wrapped tightly around the Omega’s waist, pulling their bodies flush together.

Shane didn’t move to get up. Instead, he turned his head slightly, pressing his face into Ilya’s messy blond hair. He inhaled deeply, reveling in the scent of his Alpha and his own sweet Omega slick that thoroughly saturated the sheets. It was a comforting mix that made Shane’s head feel light.

Smiling to himself, Shane raised a hand, his fingers tracing the line of Ilya’s broad shoulder down to his biceps. He glided his thumb over the skin of Ilya’s cheekbone, finding the tiny, dark moles near his jaw and pressing a soft kiss to each one.

Ilya stirred at the touch, letting out a deep rumble of satisfaction. Without opening his blue eyes, the Alpha tightened his hold on his Omega, tugging him even closer and burying his face deeper into Shane’s scent gland at his throat.

“Good morning,” Shane whispered, his heart fluttering as Ilya’s thumb began making lazy circles against the bare skin of his hip.

“Mm,” Ilya grunted affectionately, his lips brushing against Shane’s sensitive skin, sending a shiver straight down Shane’s spine. “Stay.”

“I am staying,” Shane chuckled softly, running his fingers through Ilya’s tangled blond locks and massaging his scalp. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For nearly an hour, they simply stayed wrapped in each other’s arms, indulging in the rare luxury of having nowhere to rush to. They traded lazy kisses in the sunlight, whispering sweet nonsense back and forth while their bodies slowly re-acclimated to being side by side. Every gentle press of Ilya’s hands served as a comforting reminder that the distance was gone, spring training was behind them, and Shane was finally back where he belonged.

After a long shower, Shane pulled on a cozy pair of sweatpants and a worn Bears t-shirt, padding downstairs to join his family. The morning slipped by in a blur of domestic ease: a delicious breakfast together, laughter, and endless chatter about Yuri’s favorite figures on the ice.

By early afternoon, Yuri had completely run out of steam. She curled up on the soft sofa, resting her head comfortably right on Shane’s lap. Shane sat back, his fingers running through her straight black hair, caressing the soft strands while her chest rose and fell in a restful nap.

Looking down at her small, serene face, Shane smiled warmly. He recalled how Ilya had once expressed a tiny bit of disappointment when Yuri was born, secretly wishing she would inherit Shane’s dusting of golden freckles across her nose. But Shane adored the fact that Yuri had inherited Ilya’s tiny, distinct dark moles on her cheek near her jawline and down her neck—little marks that Shane had loved kissing ever since she was a newborn, just as he loved kissing the exact same marks on Ilya’s face.

A ring from his phone sitting on the end table snapped Shane out of his daydream.

In the kitchen, Ilya was busy chopping vegetables for lunch, the light clattering of the knife rhythmically filling the background. Shane reached for the device, answering in a gentle, hushed tone so as not to wake the sleeping child in his lap.

“Hey, Josh,” Shane murmured softly into the speaker. “Everything okay?”

On the other end of the line, the rookie’s voice was distraught and cracked with emotion. “Cap… I’m sorry to call you on your day off. I just… I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

Josh poured his heart out, explaining through choked breath that his girlfriend had just broken up with him. They had experienced a sudden pregnancy scare, but the split wasn’t caused by the scare itself. Josh had accidentally discovered that she had already made concrete plans to abort the child without ever bringing it up or discussing it with him first.

“I don’t even know if I was ready to be a dad, Cap,” Josh stammered, his voice trembling with distress. “I don’t know if we would have kept it or not! But finding out she was going to do it behind my back without telling me… it hurt so much. I know something similar happened to you during your rookie year, and I just needed advice.”

Shane’s brown eyes softened as he looked down at Yuri, his gift from the universe resting peacefully on his thighs. He paused for a beat, gathering his thoughts before speaking with care.

“Josh,” Shane began in a sweet, gentle tone. “At the end of the day, the ultimate choice to carry a child or not belongs to the person who is pregnant. That is her body. But… she should have discussed it with you. Leaving you completely in the dark like that isn’t right.”

The Omega shifted slightly, his hand continuing to stroke Yuri’s black hair. “My situation with Ilya was very different back then. Yuri was a complete surprise, and even when I felt frustrated about having to pause my career, not once did I ever consider not having her. But every relationship is different.”

Shane took a breath, guiding the upset young player toward a constructive path. “Here is what you need to do right now, Josh. Even if you two are ending things, you need to call her back. You need to sit down together and talk this through like adults. Ending it in a storm of anger and bitterness will only leave deep scars on both of you.”

“A real conversation?” Josh asked, his breathing starting to slow down.

“Yes,” Shane urged softly. “Ask her why she felt she couldn’t tell you. Listen to why she felt scared or why she wanted an abortion. And explain to her why finding out that way made you react so strongly. If you just walk away now without resolution, she’s going to carry overwhelming guilt, and you’re going to end up with trust issues that ruin future relationships.”

On the other end of the line, Josh let out a long, shaky sigh. The tension in the rookie’s voice noticeably eased. “Yeah… okay. You’re right, Cap. I’ll call her. We need to talk it out properly. Thank you so much.”

“Take care of yourself, Josh. Let me know how it goes,” Shane said before ending the call.

As Shane set the phone back down on the table, Ilya walked into the living room wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. He approached the couch, stepping over carefully, and sat down on the empty side of the sofa beside Shane. Ilya looked at his mate with a curious tilt of his head.

Shane looked over, offering a small, affectionate smirk. “Just the rookie calling.”

Ilya let out a soft laugh, leaning over to press a tender kiss to Shane’s temple. “The job of a captain never ends, does it?”

Shane smiled, relaxing back into the cushions as his hand rested protectively over his sleeping daughter, feeling completely content in the cozy warmth of his home.

Chapter 12: Interlude – For the fanfiction

@HabsAngry

THIS IS WHY EVERYONE HATES BOSTON.

Rozanov and the Bears completely lost their shit because Comeau said a few words. Apparently, Boston’s captain can dish it out but can’t take a chirp.

And Marleau gets suspended for ONE GAME?

Should’ve been the entire season.

Maybe teach these guys how hockey works.

[VIDEO]

The clip is filmed from the Montreal stands directly along the boards during the game. Ilya Rozanov has just finished a shift and is standing near the circle while Comeau skates over.

Comeau: “What’s the matter, Rozanov? Can’t score a fifth one? Whole city of Boston is a fucking circus anyway.”

Rozanov doesn’t answer; he barely looks at him. Comeau moves closer, clearly trying to provoke a reaction.

Comeau: “Embarrassing enough you guys let a Russian communist wear the C on your sweater. But what else do you expect from a city where the Red Sox captain is a fucking homemade whore?”

The change in Rozanov is immediate, his expression hardens, as he turns fully toward Comeau, shoulders squared, visibly furious. Before anything can happen, Cliff Marleau comes across the ice and punches Comeau.

The crowd explodes, as players immediately converge around the boards as officials separate them.

Rozanov remains in the scrum, still visibly enraged.

Comments:

@MontrealMetroFan

Imagine getting this angry because of one chirp.

Pathetic.

 

@HockeyBoston

I love how you ignore the part where your player called an Omega athlete a “whore.”

 

@MontrealMetroFan

It’s a chirp.

 

@BearsFaithful81

No. “Can’t score a fifth one?” is a chirp.

Calling Boston a circus is a chirp.

Calling him a Russian communist is pushing it.

Calling an Omega a whore because of his designation is not a “chirp.”

 

@HabsAngry

Everyone is so fucking sensitive these days.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

There’s a difference between being sensitive and recognizing when something is wrong. 

 

@HabsAngry

Oh God, here come the Rozzy Girls.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Yes, here we are.

And we’ve watched enough hockey to know that Rozanov has spent his entire career taking absurd amounts of shit from opposing players without reacting like this. He chirps people, he gets chirped, and usually he laughs.

The thing that changed his expression in this video wasn’t “Boston is a circus.”

It wasn’t even the comment about him being a Russian communist.

It was the moment Comeau used Shane Hollander’s Omega designation as an excuse to sexually degrade him.

 

@HabsNation514

You don’t even know why Rozanov reacted like that.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Neither do you.

We’re interpreting the same video.

The difference is that we’re actually listening to what was said.

 

@PuckHistorian

This is what people are missing.

Rozanov is one of the most aggressive chirpers in the league. He’s built an entire reputation around getting under people’s skin. If he suddenly looks genuinely furious because another player uses an Omega slur against someone, that’s worth noticing. 

 

@BearsTillIDie

And he didn’t throw the punch.

Marleau did.

 

@HabsAngry

Marleau should be suspended for the season.

 

@CliffMarleauFan

You can absolutely argue the suspension should have been longer.

But the idea that a punch automatically deserves a season-long ban while the provocation gets treated as completely irrelevant is ridiculous.

 

@MontrealMetroFan

He assaulted a player.

 

@CliffMarleauFan

And was suspended.

Nobody is saying he shouldn’t have been.

 

@HockeyBoston

The argument is about context, not whether punches are acceptable.

 

@OldSchoolPuck

I’ve been watching hockey for decades.

Players have always chirped each other.

But there’s a pretty obvious distinction between trying to get inside someone’s head before a faceoff and deliberately using someone’s designation to humiliate them.

 

@HabsForever

Oh please.

 

@OldSchoolPuck

No, seriously.

You can call someone a terrible player. You can tell them they can’t score. You can mock their team.

That’s hockey.

You don’t get to hide behind “chirping” every time you say something deliberately hateful and then act shocked when somebody finally gets angry.

 

@OmegaOnIce

This is the part I actually appreciate about Rozanov.

He doesn’t have to be an Omega himself to understand what was happening.

He saw another athlete being targeted because of something about their biology and refused to treat it like normal trash talk.

That’s what a captain is supposed to do.

 

@BearsFaithful81

Exactly.

People keep focusing on whether Ilya looked angry.

Of course he looked angry.

An athlete who has spent his career demanding respect for his teammates isn’t going to stand there smiling while someone turns another player’s Omega status into a sexual insult.

 

@HabsAngry

So Rozanov is now the Omega police?

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

No.

He’s a hockey player who understands that there are lines.

 

@NinaRG

And honestly, this is one of the reasons so many women in the Rozzy Girls fandom defend him.

The public image is this terrifying Russian captain who spends sixty minutes chirping people into losing their minds.

Then you actually look at the stories people tell about him, and the common thread is that he treats people with respect.

He doesn’t use someone’s gender, designation, sexuality, nationality, or body as ammunition.

He attacks their hockey.

That’s a pretty important distinction.

 

@PuckBunnyCentral

You guys are making him sound like a saint.

 

@SarahRG

No one said he’s a saint.

He’s an asshole on the ice.

He’s just an asshole who knows where the line is.

 

@HockeyMemes

This is probably the most accurate description of Rozanov I’ve ever seen.

 

@HabsNation514

Boston fans are acting like Comeau committed a hate crime.

 

@FenwayFaithful

And here we go.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

Actually, since you’ve decided to mention Boston’s captain—

 

@HabsNation514

Oh no.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

We would like to remind everyone that Shane Hollander has spent his entire career proving that being an Omega does not make an athlete weaker, less capable, less intelligent, or less deserving of leadership.

Two World Series championships.

Two-way player.

Captain of one of the most historic franchises in baseball.

And somehow the best argument you have against him is calling him a whore.

That’s embarrassing.

 

@HabsAngry

Nobody asked the Red Sox.

 

@FenwayGeneral

You were the ones who brought our captain into a hockey argument.

 

@HollanderArmySergeant

Also, for the record, “homemade whore” isn’t even a clever insult.

What does that mean?

 

@BostonLawStudent

I have spent the last ten minutes trying to determine what “homemade” is supposed to contribute to that sentence.

 

@FenwayFaithful

I think the answer is “nothing.”

 

@HollanderArmyRecruitment

ATTENTION, CIVILIANS.

The Hollander Army has reviewed the footage and determined that the Montreal account has committed the following offenses:

1. Insulting Captain Hollander.
2. Misrepresenting the reason Rozanov became angry.
3. Calling Marleau’s suspension insufficient while ignoring the provocation.
4. Posting an entire video that accidentally proves your own argument wrong.
5. Continuing to defend the phrase “homemade whore.”

Your sentence is immediate enrollment in remedial baseball education.

 

@HabsAngry

WHAT THE FUCK IS REMEDIAL BASEBALL EDUCATION?

 

@HollanderArmyRecruitment

You will learn.

 

@GreenMonsterLieutenant

Lesson one:

Never insult Captain Hollander in front of Boston.

 

@HabsNation514

This is exactly why people think you’re a cult.

 

@FenwayGeneral

We prefer “highly organized fan community.”

 

@BostonBorn617

You literally have military ranks.

 

@FenwayGeneral

And excellent organizational skills.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

Meanwhile, everyone keeps missing the actual point of the video.

Ilya Rozanov reacted when Comeau decided an Omega athlete was an acceptable target for a sexual insult.

And regardless of what you think of the punch that followed, that reaction says something pretty damn good about the man.

 

@OmegaAdvocate

This.

People talk about representation like it’s just about who wears the jersey.

Sometimes representation is the person standing next to you saying, “No. You’re not going to talk about a human being like that.”

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Exactly.

And that’s why we’re defending Ilya here.

Not because he’s incapable of being wrong.

Not because Marleau shouldn’t have been punished.

And definitely not because we’re pretending hockey players shouldn’t chirp each other.

We’re defending the fact that an athlete can believe in good hockey, hard competition, and ruthless chirping without believing that someone’s designation makes them fair game for humiliation.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

And the fact that this entire conversation started because you tried to use Shane Hollander as an insult is the funniest possible outcome.

 

@HabsAngry

I hate Boston.

 

@FenwayGeneral

That’s okay.

We don’t like you either.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

We still love our captain.

🫡

---

@HollanderArmyHQ🎖️

A MESSAGE TO THE HOLLANDER ARMY REGARDING CAPTAIN HOLLANDER'S DAUGHTER

We need to talk.

Over the past weeks, a number of photographs have circulated online showing Captain Shane Hollander with his daughter while he is in Boston. Thankfully, in every photograph we have seen, she has been photographed from behind or at a distance. There have been no clear frontal photographs of her face.

Most of these photographs appear to have been taken when Captain Hollander is walking his daughter into an ice rink.

And yes.

The rumors circulating around are true.

Captain Hollander has confirmed that his daughter has become interested in figure skating.

Before everyone starts screaming:

Yes.

We know.

The daughter of the greatest two-way baseball player of his generation apparently looked at her father's chosen sport and said, "No thanks. I would like to go onto the ice and launch myself into the air instead."

We support this decision.

However, Captain Hollander has also explicitly asked for privacy for his daughter.

She is still a child. She is not even old enough to begin competing. She is simply attending lessons, learning, having fun, and figuring out whether figure skating is something she genuinely wants to pursue.

That is it.

There is certainly no reason to follow her around hoping to get a better picture.

She is Captain Hollander's daughter. But she is also a child who deserves to go to an ice rink without becoming content for strangers on the internet.

And this is where we need to make something extremely clear.

That is not how the Hollander Army behaves.

We have always said that being part of this community means supporting Captain Hollander, his teammates, family, and the city that adopted him.

That does not suddenly stop because his child has picked up a pair of figure skates.

If you are a member of the Hollander Army and you:

• photograph his daughter without permission,
• attempt to identify her school, rink, schedule, coaches, or whereabouts,
• circulate photographs showing her face,
• attempt to approach her for photographs or autographs,
• follow her or Captain Hollander to private activities,
• share information that could compromise her privacy,
• or encourage other people to do any of the above,

you will be removed from the Hollander Army.

There will be no "but I'm a General."

There will be no "I've been here since his rookie season."

There will be no "I only wanted one picture."

There will be no "I'm doing it because I love the Captain."

If you love the Captain, you respect what he has asked of us.

Protect the kid.

That's the mission.

As for the rest of us?

Yes.

We are allowed to be excited.

We are allowed to think it's adorable.

We are allowed to wonder what on earth a Hollander figure-skating era is going to look like.

We are allowed to support her.

We are allowed to learn about figure skating because our Captain apparently has decided that his next contribution to Boston sports culture is going to be producing a tiny skating menace.

But we do it from a distance.

We cheer when she wants us to cheer.

We do not invade her life.

And if one day, years from now, she decides she wants to compete professionally?

The Hollander Army will be there.

If she decides she wants to skate recreationally?

We'll be there.

If she decides she hates figure skating and wants to become a marine biologist?

We'll be there.

If she decides she wants absolutely nothing to do with sports?

We'll be there.

Because the point is not creating another Shane Hollander.

The point is making sure Captain Hollander's daughter gets to become herself.

That is what our Captain would want.

And that is what we will do.

🫡

No one fights alone in Hollander's Army.

Protect Fenway.

Protect the Captain.

Protect the kid.

Comments:

@FenwayGeneral

Pinned.

This is not optional.

 

@GreenMonsterSergeant

I have already reported three accounts circulating invasive photographs.

 

@HollanderArmyHQ

Thank you.

This is exactly what we mean.

 

@SoxNation617

Honestly, I'm disappointed that we even have to say this.

If Shane says his daughter deserves privacy, she deserves privacy.

End of discussion.

 

@BostonBorn617

Exactly.

You don't get to claim you're a fan of someone while deliberately ignoring the one boundary they have actually asked you to respect.

 

@FenwayFaithful

The Army being serious about something is terrifying.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

Good.

It should be.

 

@SoxMom1978

I think it's wonderful that she's trying figure skating.

And I think it's even more wonderful that Shane is letting her choose her own thing.

 

@BaseballDad

Pity we're probably not getting another baseball player😭

 

@SoxForever24

I KNOW.

I wanted tiny Shane Hollander throwing 98 mph.

Instead, we're apparently getting...

tiny Shane Hollander doing a triple something on ice.

 

@FigureSkatingNewbie

I don't know what a triple something is.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Neither do I.

 

@FigureSkatingNewbie

Okay.

I need to learn.

 

@SoxAnalytics

You're going to regret saying that.

 

@FigureSkatingNewbie

No, seriously.

If the Captain's daughter is getting into figure skating, I need to know what the hell I'm watching.

Someone give me the beginner's guide.

 

@BostonBorn617

This is how it starts.

 

@HollanderArmySergeant

Private, your first assignment is learning the difference between a toe jump and an edge jump.

 

@FigureSkatingNewbie

SIR YES SIR.

 

@OldSchoolSox

I have watched baseball for fifty years.

I never expected to spend my retirement learning the difference between a Salchow and a Lutz.

But here we are.

 

@SkatingFan24

WELCOME.

 

@SoxSeasonTickets

Can you imagine a female Shane Hollander on the ice?

 

@FenwayFaithful

Oh no.

 

@SoxSeasonTickets

The competitiveness.

The work ethic.

The hockey IQ—

 

@SkatingFan24

Wrong sport.

 

@SoxSeasonTickets

FIGURE SKATING IQ.

 

@GreenMonster34

Whatever the skating equivalent of baseball IQ is.

She'll have it.

 

@BostonMama

And the costumes.

I'M SORRY.

Can you imagine her in one of those tiny figure skating costumes?

I'm going to die from cuteness aggression.

 

@SoxMom1978

A tiny Hollander.

In sparkles.

Doing jumps.

I cannot handle this.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

Remain calm.

 

@SoxMom1978

I refuse.

 

@FenwayGeneral

General order:

Everyone remain emotionally stable.

 

@BostonMama

No.

 

@FenwayGeneral

Understood.

Carry on.

 

@MapleLeafBaseball

I'm just picturing Shane sitting in the stands looking like the most intimidating baseball player alive while his tiny daughter comes onto the ice wearing rhinestones.

 

@SoxForever24

STOP.

I CAN'T HANDLE THAT IMAGE.

 

@FenwayFaithful

He'd probably be taking notes.

 

@BaseballNerd24

Of course he'd be taking notes.

He'd have a fucking scouting report.

 

@SoxAnalytics

"Skater tendencies:

Strong edge control.

Excellent rotational speed.

Needs improvement on landing consistency.

Recommend additional repetitions."

 

@BostonBorn617

SHANE HOLLANDER FIGURE SKATING SCOUTING REPORT.

 

@SkatingFan24

Honestly?

That's how parents of competitive skaters already talk.

 

@FigureSkatingNewbie

I'm going to learn this entire sport just so I can understand what Shane is yelling from the stands.

 

@HollanderArmySergeant

That is acceptable Army conduct.

 

@PuckBunnyBoston

The funniest possible future is Shane becoming the terrifying skating dad.

 

@SoxTwitter

"She had a beautiful program."

"Thank you."

"How do you think she did?"

"I'll have to review the footage."

 

@FenwayFaithful

HE WOULD.

 

@BostonBorn617

He'd watch the program twelve times before answering.

 

@SoxAnalytics

He'd know every technical element by heart.

 

@SkatingFan24

He'd probably start analyzing judges' scoring.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

Please stop giving the Captain ideas.

 

@OldSchoolBaseball

Too late.

 

@CanadianBaseball

I am Canadian.

I understand hockey.

I understand baseball.

I understand absolutely nothing about figure skating.

Apparently, that changes now.

 

@FigureSkatingNewbie

Same.

Where do I sign up?

 

@HollanderArmyRecruitment

At the nearest figure skating rink.

Bring a notebook.

 

@FenwayGeneral

And remember:

We support the Captain's daughter.

We do not hunt for photographs of her.

We do not investigate her.

We do not invade her privacy.

We simply wait until she's old enough, if she ever chooses to compete, and then we cheer like absolute lunatics.

 

@SoxForever24

Imagine her first professional competition someday.

The arena announcer:

"Representing—"

And somewhere in the audience:

FIFTY THOUSAND BOSTON PEOPLE SCREAMING.

 

@HollanderArmyHQ

We will be significantly more organized than that.

 

@FenwayFaithful

That's somehow more terrifying.

 

@HollanderArmyHQ

As it should be.

 

@SoxMom1978

If she goes professional, I'm learning every single skating rule.

If she doesn't, I'm still learning them.

Because apparently, I am now emotionally invested in a child I've never seen.

 

@BostonBorn617

Same.

 

@FigureSkatingNewbie

Same.

 

@OldSchoolSox

Same.

 

@HollanderArmyGeneral

Then we have our answer.

The Army isn't losing a baseball player.

We're gaining a skater.

And if she ever decides to take that journey all the way to the top?

We'll be there.

🫡❤️

 

@SoxForever24

Captain's daughter.

Captain's Army.

Different sport.

Same support.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Now someone please teach me what a Salchow is.

---

@LuluLives

Okay, I know this is a stretch, BUT HEAR ME OUT.

So, I just watched that video that @HabsAngry posted of the Montreal-Boston game, and the whole comment section is obviously a disaster.

But I had a thought.

A terrible thought.

A thought that I am probably going to regret posting.

What if Boston got a new sports power couple: Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander?

LISTEN.

I’m not saying there’s anything going on.

I’m just saying that as a fanfiction concept… wouldn’t they be fucking ridiculous together?

Both captains of historical teams.

Both absurdly accomplished.

Both basically carrying entire cities on their backs.

One is the most terrifying center in hockey and the other is a two-way baseball freak who decided apparently one specialty wasn’t difficult enough.

They’re both insanely competitive, both obsessive about preparation, both known for being demanding leaders, and both have that whole “everyone in the room listens when they speak” thing.

Imagine them at some ridiculous Boston gala. Rozanov walks in wearing a suit with Shane in his arms wearing a matching suit. Half of Boston would spontaneously lose its collective mind.

You could literally build an entire sports dynasty around those two.

Captain of the Bears.

Captain of the Red Sox.

Two championship-level athletes.

Boston’s most terrifying power couple.

Again.

I KNOW that this is a stretch.

I just wanted to say it.

Please don’t kill me.

Comments:

@FenwayFaithful

Okay.

I’m listening.

 

@BearsTillIDie

As a purely fictional concept?

Yeah.

They’d be an absolutely terrifying power couple.

 

@SabermetricsNerd

The athletic dinner conversations alone would be unbearable.

“I had three RBIs.”

“I had two goals.”

“Your defensive positioning was terrible.”

“Your pitcher selection was predictable.”

Neither of them would ever shut up.

 

@PuckAnalytics

Honestly, the competitive energy would be insane.

 

@GreenMonster34

I hate that I’m already picturing the sports headlines.

THE CAPTAINS TAKE ON BOSTON.

 

@BostonBorn617

“Boston’s Royal Couple” would cause me physical pain.

 

@HockeyBoston

I’m going to stop you right there.

We have forgotten something extremely important.

 

@LuluLives

What?

 

@HockeyBoston

Shane Hollander is mated.

 

@LuluLives

I KNOW.

 

@HockeyBoston

And has a daughter.

 

@LuluLives

I KNOW.

 

@HockeyBoston

And Ilya—

 

@LuluLives

I AM AWARE OF THE CANON, THANK YOU.

 

@BaseballHistorian

This is why I love Reddit.

We went from “what if these two captains were a power couple” to “please consult the official family tree.”

 

@BearsArchive

For everyone arriving late:

Shane Hollander is very much not available.

He has a daughter with his mate.

 

@LuluLives

YES.

I KNOW.

I AM NOT CLAIMING THIS IS CANON.

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

I was about to write a five-paragraph defense of why this is inappropriate and how Ilya would never be a homewrecker.

Then I realized you literally said this concept was purely for fanfiction.

Please proceed.

 

@LuluLives

THANK YOU.

 

@CliffMarleauFan

Okay, but let’s actually discuss the hypothetical.

As a fictional AU?

The visual of two Boston captains walking into an event together would be absolutely insane.

 

@SouthiePride

Especially because neither of them seems remotely interested in being a celebrity couple.

 

@OldSchoolPuck

That’s what makes the concept funny.

Boston would go absolutely feral.

They’d have newspapers analyzing which one had the better suit.

 

@FenwayFaithful

And the sports journalists would write approximately twelve thousand words about their leadership styles.

 

@MLBFuture

“The Rozanov-Hollander Era.”

 

@NHLHistorian

Please stop giving the internet ideas.

 

@LuluLives

I’m just saying.

FOR THE FANFICTION.

 

@BostonBorn617

Okay, but that’s the important clarification.

For the fanfiction?

I’m in.

 

@BearsForever81

For the fanfiction.

 

@RedSoxForever

For the fanfiction.

 

@PuckBunnyCentral

For the fanfiction, this is objectively hilarious.

 

@SabermetricsNerd

For the fanfiction, they’d be unstoppable.

 

@HockeyBoston

For the actual canon?

Shane has a mate and a daughter.

 

@LuluLives

YES.

I KNOW.

That’s why I said fanfiction 😭

 

@RozzyGirlsOfficial

Honestly, I think the entire subreddit has collectively agreed to put this in the “fun AU, absolutely not canon” box.

 

@LuluLives

Exactly.

That’s all I wanted.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Congratulations.

You accidentally invented the Boston Sports Power Couple AU.

 

@LuluLives

I regret everything.

 

@BostonBorn617

Too late.

Someone has already posted a story in ao3.

 

@LuluLives

…

For the fanfiction.

 

@BearsTillIDie

FOR THE FANFICTION.

 

@RedSoxForever

FOR THE FANFICTION.

 

@HockeyBoston

Okay, we’re done here. 😭