Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Alexei Rozanov's Daughter, Alexei Rozanov's Daughter & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau/Svetlana Vetrova, Alexei Rozanov's Daughter & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, David Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Red Sox Ensemble, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Roger Crowell

Additional Tags:

Single Parent Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Was Never a Professional Hockey Player, BAMF Shane Hollander, Confident Shane Hollander, Multilingual Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Speaks French, Shane Hollander Speaks Japanese, Baseball Player Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander is Good With Children, Social Media, Hurt/Comfort, Homophobia, Racism, Family Feels, Good Parent Shane Hollander, Past Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Roger Crowell Being an Asshole, Childhood Trauma, Ilya Rozanov Goes to Therapy, Misunderstandings, Slow Burn, Consequences, BAMF Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Hollander Catnip, Momager Yuna Hollander, Girl Dad Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 6 of Hollanov Lulu-verse

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-28 Completed: 2026-08-03 Words: 53,775 Chapters: 13/13

Homerun to You

Summary

@baseballnerd44
HE ADOPTED HER AS A ROOKIE???

@historybuff617
The adoption story is actually pretty well known around Boston.

After he was drafted, Shane flew to Japan to visit his grandparents in Kyoto before reporting to the organization.

On the trip back, he stopped in Paris and met a young woman who was trying to escape an abusive husband.

He helped her get safely to Canada, connected her with organizations that support women fleeing domestic violence, and stayed in contact while she got back on her feet.

When she gave birth by the end of his first year as a professional baseball player, she made the incredibly difficult decision to place the baby for adoption.

Shane adopted her.

Her name is Sofia Yuna Hollander.

Chapter 1: HOW AM I ONLY LEARNING THIS NOW??

The Athletic

The NHL's Shifting Balance of Power: Three Champions, One Growing Divide, and a League Searching for Direction

Three seasons.

Three Stanley Cup champions.

And three very different stories.

If the last few years have proven anything, it is that the National Hockey League has never been richer in talent. It has also never appeared more divided—not simply by conference, but by philosophy.

The 2014 Stanley Cup belonged to the Boston Bears, whose victory was built around the spectacular play of captain Ilya Rozanov. Already regarded as one of hockey's most talented centers, Rozanov elevated his game after his loss at the Sochi Olympics, combining his trademark physicality with remarkable offensive production to lead Boston to its first championship in years. The victory cemented both the Bears' resurgence and Rozanov's place among the league's elite captains.

One year later, the balance of power shifted west.

The Los Angeles Kings, led by veteran captain Zane Boodman and new talent traded, more specifically goalie Wyatt Hayes, captured the 2015 Stanley Cup after a grueling playoff run that many believed represented the beginning of another Western Conference dynasty. Built around speed, disciplined defensive structure, and one of the league's best goaltenders, the Kings appeared poised to establish themselves as the NHL's next dominant franchise.

That prediction lasted exactly one season.

This year's championship returned to the Eastern Conference as the Detroit Red Wings lifted the Stanley Cup following one of the most complete postseason performances in recent memory. Their victory now means that two of the past three championships have been claimed by Eastern Conference teams, reinforcing what many analysts have quietly argued for several seasons: the East is no longer playing catch-up.

It is setting the standard.

While the conference standings remain competitive, the contrast between the two halves of the league has become increasingly difficult to ignore.

Organizations such as Detroit and LA have embraced faster, more creative styles of hockey while investing heavily in player development and modern scouting. Younger stars have been given greater opportunities to flourish, international talent has become increasingly prominent, and front offices have shown a greater willingness to evolve alongside the changing game.

Several Western Conference teams, meanwhile, have struggled to keep pace.

The issue extends well beyond wins and losses.

Around the league, criticism has increasingly centered on the culture within several of hockey's oldest organizations—particularly members of the Original Six. Once regarded as the sport's gold standard, franchises such as the Toronto Guardians and the Montreal Metros now find themselves facing growing scrutiny over cultures many former players and league insiders describe as resistant to change.

The criticism is not merely about outdated systems or conservative roster construction.

It is about people.

Over the past several years, current and former players have spoken anonymously about locker rooms where racist remarks are routinely ignored, homophobic language remains commonplace, and diversity initiatives are often viewed as public-relations exercises rather than meaningful commitments. Opposing players have also accused both organizations of allowing those attitudes to spill onto the ice, pointing to repeated incidents involving racial taunts, anti-gay slurs, and targeted intimidation that have resulted in comparatively little disciplinary action.

Although neither organization has publicly acknowledged systemic problems, the growing number of similar allegations has become increasingly difficult for the league to dismiss.

Many believe responsibility ultimately lies with NHL Commissioner Roger Crowell.

Crowell has faced mounting criticism for what detractors describe as years of inconsistent discipline, reactive leadership, and an unwillingness to confront cultural issues before they became league-wide controversies. While the NHL has introduced initiatives promoting diversity and inclusion, critics argue those efforts have too often been undermined by weak enforcement and a reluctance to hold teams publicly accountable.

The commissioner has also drawn criticism for the league's uneven handling of player conduct, with punishments for discriminatory behavior frequently viewed as inconsistent from one incident to the next. As public expectations surrounding professional sports continue to evolve, many fans, sponsors, and media members believe the NHL has failed to evolve alongside them.

That dissatisfaction is no longer confined to editorials or social media.

Multiple league sources have told The Athletic that discussions regarding Crowell's future have intensified over recent months, with several owners privately expressing concern that the league's public image has suffered under his leadership. While no formal succession process has been announced, speculation surrounding a potential change in the commissioner's office has grown louder with each passing week.

The timing is significant as the NHL is enjoying some of the highest television ratings and strongest attendance figures of the past decade. Young stars are drawing new audiences, international interest continues to grow, and the quality of play has arguably never been higher.

Yet the league now finds itself at a crossroads. Because while its product on the ice has rarely been more exciting, its leadership has rarely faced more questions.

As another offseason begins, the conversation surrounding hockey is no longer centered solely on who will win next year's Stanley Cup. Increasingly, it is about what kind of league the NHL wants to become—and whether the people currently leading it are capable of taking it there.

Comments:

@BostonFaithful

The Bears winning in 2014 completely changed the direction of this league.

People forget how many teams copied Boston's transition game after that Cup run.

 

@HockeyHistory

Three years ago, everyone was asking if Ilya Rozanov could captain a team.

Now everyone is asking who the next Ilya Rozanov is.

 

@DetroitTillIDie

Detroit earned this one.

Best team in the playoffs.

No debate.

 

@WestCoastHockey

The East used to terrify everyone.

Now it feels like every contender is in the West.

 

@OriginalSixForever

I hate these articles.

Every year it's another excuse to trash the Original Six.

 

@PuckDrop

If your team keeps making headlines for racism and homophobia instead of hockey...

Maybe the article isn't the problem.

 

@MapleLeafMedia

It's honestly depressing watching Toronto waste so much talent because management refuses to change.

 

@MontrealBorn

As someone who's been a Metros fan for thirty years...

They're right.

We keep hiring the same people with the same ideas and expecting different results.

 

@NHLInsider

The part about Roger Crowell isn't exactly news.

The rumors have been circulating for months.

 

@SportsRadioMike

The question isn't if he's leaving.

The question is who's willing to replace him.

 

@EqualityOnIce

The NHL doesn't have a talent problem.

It has a leadership problem.

 

@HockeyFan88

The league is more diverse than it's ever been.

The people running it don't seem to have noticed.

 

@WestCoastBias

The West isn't better because of geography.

It's better because organizations actually adapted.

 

@AnalyticsGuy

Boston.

LA.

Detroit.

Even Philadelphia.

Those front offices embraced analytics years ago.

Some teams are still pretending it's 1998.

 

@OldSchoolHockey

Not everything old is bad.

 

@AnalyticsGuy

No.

But refusing to evolve usually is.

 

@BearsForever

Can we also acknowledge that Boston has one of the most international rosters in the league?

Turns out talent exists outside North America.

Who would've guessed.

 

@PrideTape

The article barely scratches the surface.

Players have been talking anonymously about locker-room culture for over a decade.

 

@HockeyMom24

As a parent with two boys playing hockey...

This is exactly why kids quit.

The sport should be welcoming, not toxic.

 

@FutureGM

Winning and inclusion aren't opposites.

Boston proved that.

LA proved that.

Detroit proved that.

You don't have to choose one or the other.

 

@SportsNetCentral

Crowell keeps talking about "protecting hockey culture."

Maybe hockey culture needs protecting from him.

 

@KingsKingdom

No matter what happens with the league...

Can we please get another Kings vs. Bears Final?

That series would've fed generations.

 

@RedWingsNation

You'll have to get through Detroit first. 🏆

 

@HockeyWorld

The hockey is better than ever.

Now it's time for the league itself to catch up.

---

@bostonfan

Was waiting for my bus this morning and almost missed it because I spent five minutes staring at this new Rolex campaign.

Boston really looked at Shane Hollander, captain of the Red Sox, two-time consecutive World Series champion, and decided, "Yeah, let's put him on every street corner."

No complaints from me.

[photo]

— A photograph taken at a downtown Boston bus stop. Mounted inside the illuminated advertising display is Rolex's newest campaign featuring Shane Hollander. The advertisement is composed as a striking close-up portrait cropped just below the shoulders, showing only the right half of his face. His dark hair falls loosely across his forehead, and the soft studio lighting emphasizes the freckles scattered over his cheek and nose.

One hand rests against the back of his neck, naturally drawing attention to the polished stainless-steel Rolex watch on his wrist. Against a deep black background, the silver Rolex crown and logo stand out above him, creating a minimalist campaign that lets his expression and the watch command the viewer's attention.

Comments:

@redsoxnation

Imagine winning back-to-back World Series and then immediately becoming the face of Rolex.

That's a ridiculous résumé.

 

@bostonborn

This city adores that man.

 

@FenwayForever

He gave us two championships.

I'd look at that ad every morning on my commute.

 

@watchcollector

That's honestly a gorgeous campaign.

Rolex knew exactly what they were doing.

 

@baseballfan22

The freckles.

Never change the freckles.

 

@LuxuryDaily

The minimalist styling is brilliant.

No distractions.

Just Shane and the watch.

 

@CityofBoston

Can we just give him the key to the city already?

 

@greenmonster37

Seconded.

 

@bostonhistory

Thirded.

 

@canuckpride

Pretty sure Canada might have something to say about Boston claiming him.

 

@BostonStrong

Look...

He's Canadian by birth.

He's Bostonian by adoption.

 

@MapleLeafForever

Excuse you.

Canada would like our national treasure back.

 

@FenwayForever

Too late.

We've emotionally adopted him.

 

@MLBCentral

Winning consecutive World Series tends to have that effect on a city.

 

@Rolex

Time looks good on him.

 

@redsoxnation

ROLEX IS IN THE COMMENTS.

 

@BeanTownDaily

I swear every luxury brand looked at Shane and collectively said, "Yes."

 

@watchenthusiast

He's one of the few athletes who actually elevates the brand instead of the other way around.

 

@commuterguy

Imagine you're just trying to catch the 8:15 bus and suddenly you're face-to-face with an ad that belongs in a museum.

 

@sportsradio624

Boston has Brady murals.

Boston has Orr statues.

Now Boston has giant Shane Hollander Rolex ads.

The city has its priorities straight.

 

@redsoxfan1999

The mayor should genuinely give him the key to the city.

 

@BostonStrong

He brought home two World Series.

He's earned more than a key.

 

@canuckpride

Fine.

We'll compromise.

Boston can keep him during baseball season.

We expect him back every winter. 🇨🇦

---

@ccmhockey

Some players chase greatness.

Others build it, one stride at a time.

Introducing Boston Bears captain Ilya Rozanov for CCM.

Built Different. Built CCM.

#CCMHockey #BuiltCCM #IlyaRozanov #BostonBears

[video]

The commercial opens before sunrise.

The rink is almost completely dark, illuminated only by a handful of overhead lights reflecting off freshly resurfaced ice. The arena is empty, silent except for the distant hum of the refrigeration system. A lone figure steps through the tunnel carrying nothing but a hockey stick over one shoulder.

Ilya Rozanov skates onto the ice without fanfare.

There is only the rhythmic scrape of his blades as he circles the rink alone, gradually building speed. His breath hangs in the cold air while he stretches against the boards, adjusts the tongue of his skates, tightens the laces one final time, and slides on a pair of brand-new black CCM gloves.

Then the music begins.

The pace quickens as Rozanov explodes into motion. He races through edgework drills, weaving effortlessly around rows of training cones before cutting sharply toward the net. His movements are economical rather than flashy, every stride powerful without appearing forced. Pucks leave his stick in rapid succession, each one finding a different corner of the goal as the empty arena echoes with the unmistakable crack of vulcanized rubber striking the glass.

The sequence transitions seamlessly from practice to game night.

The stands are suddenly packed. Thousands of fans rise to their feet as the Boston Bears captain steps over the boards. Under the bright arena lights, the familiar CCM logo appears repeatedly throughout the equipment he trusts every night: the skates digging into the ice during a tight turn, the gloves gripping his stick as he battles along the boards, the helmet absorbing a heavy collision before he immediately rejoins the play.

One shift flows into another. A perfectly timed defensive poke check becomes a clean breakout pass. A burst through the neutral zone becomes a blistering wrist shot. A goal celebration lasts only a heartbeat before the camera cuts to the next faceoff, emphasizing that the work never truly ends.

As the final horn sounds, teammates flood the ice around him following another Boston victory. Confetti begins falling from above, but Rozanov's attention drifts elsewhere. Sitting alone on the bench after the celebration, he quietly removes one glove and runs a hand across the worn tape wrapped around his stick.

The camera closes in on the white CCM logo.

A black screen follows.

Built for every shift.

Comments:

@bostonbears

That's our captain. 🐻

 

@NHL

Every shift.

Every season.

 

@sportscenter

CCM tried to say, "Let's make a hockey commercial."

Instead, they made a movie.

 

@stickhandlingcoach

The transition from an empty rink to a sold-out arena was beautiful.

Every game starts with someone showing up before everyone else.

 

@goalie35

That sequence where he absorbs the hit, gets back up, and joins the rush...

That's Ilya in one clip.

 

@bearsnation

You could've shown his Stanley Cups.

Instead, you showed him working before sunrise.

That's why he's captain.

 

@sportsillustrated

One of the strongest equipment commercials we've seen in years.

 

@hockeyjunkie

I expected product placement.

I got goosebumps.

 

@icelevelmedia

The best part?

You barely notice the equipment because it feels like part of him instead of an advertisement.

 

@BostonSports624

CCM understands hockey.

 

@NHLFansUnited

Some sports commercials try to tell you an athlete is great.

This one simply watches him prepare.

Much more effective.

 

@BearsForever

Every kid watching this is about to ask for CCM gear.

 

@hockeyhistory

There aren't many active captains who could carry an ad with almost no dialogue.

Rozanov is one of them.

 

@CanadianPuck

That final shot of the worn tape around the stick...

Perfect ending.

 

@ESPN

Simple and very much like hockey.

 

@CCMHockey

Built for every shift. 🏒

---

The Boston Globe

How Shane Hollander Changed Baseball Long Before He Changed the Record Books

When Shane Hollander announced that he was gay following the Boston Red Sox's World Series victory in 2015, the reactions across Major League Baseball were immediate and, in many corners, predictable.

Support poured in from teammates, players across the league, and thousands of fans who celebrated the moment as historic. At the same time, television panels questioned whether the announcement would become a distraction, radio hosts speculated about the impact on endorsements, and countless commentators insisted that baseball—perhaps more than any other North American sport—wasn't ready for an openly gay superstar.

Underlying much of the discussion was an assumption that Hollander's career would inevitably change. Some believed opposing teams would make him a target. Others argued that the pressure of becoming a public symbol would eventually affect his performance. There were even those who wondered whether a captain could realistically lead an entire roster after placing such an intensely personal part of his life into the public eye.

Hollander never attempted to answer any of those questions himself.

He simply returned for Spring Training, prepared the way he always had, and spent the next eight months reminding everyone why he had become one of baseball's most respected players in the first place.

When the Red Sox won the World Series again in 2016, giving Boston back-to-back championships under his captaincy, the conversation changed almost overnight. The doubts that had dominated sports television the previous winter suddenly felt irrelevant. Whatever fears people had imagined about distractions, divided teams, or fractured leadership had been answered not through interviews or carefully crafted statements, but through another championship parade rolling through the streets of Boston.

If the first title established Shane Hollander as one of baseball's brightest stars, the second cemented him as one of the defining athletes of his generation.

His importance, however, extends far beyond the trophies.

As the son of a Japanese mother and a Canadian father, Hollander represented a different kind of milestone. Major League Baseball has long embraced international talent, with Japanese stars becoming some of the sport's most celebrated players. But captaining one of baseball's most historic franchises as a biracial player placed Hollander in uniquely visible territory. Every night he led the Red Sox onto the field, he expanded the image of who could embody one of the game's oldest institutions.

When he became the league's first openly gay active player, that significance grew even larger.

Several younger players who have since come out have pointed directly to Hollander's announcement as the moment they began believing there might still be a place for them in professional baseball. One American League rookie described watching the news conference from his college apartment before being drafted, later saying that what stayed with him wasn't the announcement itself, but what happened afterward.

"The next day he was still the captain," he recalled during Spring Training. "Nobody treated him differently. His teammates still followed him. That's when I realized maybe I could have this career too."

The response inside the Red Sox organization played no small part in creating that image. Rather than issuing carefully worded statements, players made it clear that, to them, nothing had changed.

Manager David Sullivan dismissed questions about potential clubhouse tension less than twenty-four hours after the announcement.

"The only distraction," he told reporters, "is that people keep asking silly questions instead of focusing on what’s important. Baseball."

Veteran catcher Marcus O'Connell was equally direct.

"We've followed Shane through injuries, losing streaks, playoff runs, and two World Series championships. If anyone thinks who he loves changes whether we'd follow him tomorrow, then they don't know this team."

That unwavering support has become one of the defining characteristics of modern Red Sox baseball. Younger players consistently describe Hollander as the standard-setter within the organization, someone whose professionalism dictates the tone of the team long before the first pitch is ever thrown. Coaches often speak about his preparation with almost reverential admiration, while teammates routinely describe him as the first person to arrive and the last to leave.

The bond between Hollander and Boston has grown just as naturally.

Sports cities often embrace athletes because they win. Boston embraced Hollander because he won and because he never stopped giving the city reasons to believe in him.

Every June, Fenway Park becomes one of the most recognizable Pride celebrations in professional sports. Rainbow flags line the concourses, the stadium fills with LGBTQ+ organizations and families, and Pride merchandise bearing the Red Sox logo consistently sells out before the month is over. Jerseys featuring Hollander's name disappear from team stores almost as quickly as they're stocked, while the annual Pride Night has evolved into one of the franchise's highest-attended regular-season games.

What could easily have remained a symbolic event has instead become part of the team's identity.

Visiting players frequently remark on the atmosphere and broadcasters mention it every season. Fans who attend for the first time often leave surprised not by the scale of the celebration, but by how completely ordinary it feels. There is no sense that acceptance is being performed for cameras. Instead, it feels like a city celebrating one of its own.

Perhaps that is Hollander's greatest achievement.

Today, discussions about Shane Hollander rarely begin with the fact that he is gay. They begin with his two World Series championships, his captaincy, his leadership, and his place among baseball's elite. His sexuality remains an important part of his story because of what it meant for countless young athletes watching from the stands or from their own locker rooms, but it no longer defines how people speak about him.

Instead, it has become something rarer.

It is simply another fact about one of the greatest players of his era, a captain whose legacy is measured not only by the championships he brought to Boston, but by the doors he quietly opened for everyone who came after him.

Comments:

@FenwayFaithful

The day Shane came out, sports radio spent a week asking whether he'd become a "distraction."

A year later he won another World Series.

Turns out the ones distracted were everyone else.

 

@RedSoxNation

Back-to-back championships.

League MVP.

Captain.

If anyone still has doubts about him, they're choosing ignorance over reality.

 

@BostonStrong624

I still remember his first Pride Night after coming out.

People online swore Fenway would be half empty.

It sold out and the crowd gave him a standing ovation during introductions.

That told me everything I needed to know about this city.

 

@GreenMonsterGirl

The article mentioned the Pride merch and it's not exaggerating.

If you don't get to the team store early in June, you're leaving empty-handed.

 

@PrideAtThePark

I volunteer every year during Pride Night.

I've seen parents bring little kids wrapped in rainbow flags just so they can see Shane play.

It's honestly one of my favorite days of the season.

 

@baseballdad84

My son came out when he was fifteen.

He cried because he thought he'd have to quit baseball.

A week later Shane hit a walk-off home run and gave an interview talking about how there was room for everyone in the game.

My kid never quit, he starts varsity this fall.

I'll always be grateful for that.

 

@CoachRamirez

I'm a high school baseball coach.

You would not believe how many of my players wear number 24 because of Shane now.

Not because they're gay, but because they want to be leaders.

 

@RainbowRunner

Representation isn't about making someone gay.

It's about making a scared kid realize they still have a future.

People who don't understand that have never needed it.

 

@LeftFieldBleachers

I'm gay.

I grew up loving baseball while hearing it wasn't a sport for people like me.

Watching the captain of the Red Sox announce he is gay after winning the World Series healed something I didn't know was still broken.

 

@HomePlateHero

My dad wasn't exactly thrilled when Shane first came out.

Now he owns a Hollander jersey.

People can change.

 

@SoxSince78

I'm a straight sixty-three years old.

I don't pretend to understand everything.

What I do understand is baseball.

Shane plays it better than almost anyone on Earth, treats people with respect, represents Boston with class, and never complains.

That's enough for me.

 

@OldSchoolBaseball

I grew up in a different generation.

The idea of an openly gay captain would've seemed impossible back then.

Now it just feels...normal.

Honestly, that's probably progress.

 

@BostonBlueCollar

The only thing I care about is that he keeps bringing trophies down Boylston Street.

Everything else is his business.

 

@DirtyWater624

Some people spend way too much energy worrying about who another grown man dates.

Meanwhile Shane is busy winning championships.

 

@GreenMonsterGuy

I've been a season ticket holder for nineteen years.

The loudest Fenway has ever been wasn't a home run.

It was when Shane came back for Opening Day after all the media circus and the entire stadium stood for him before he'd even stepped into the batter's box.

I've never forgotten that.

 

@MaddieLovesBaseball

I met Shane during a charity event.

There were dozens of kids waiting for autographs and he stayed until every single one had a signature and a picture.

That told me more about him than any interview ever could.

 

@QueerInQueens

It's funny how quickly the "teams will never accept him" narrative disappeared once his teammates started talking.

Every interview was basically, "That's our captain."

 

@RedSoxPitcherFan

One reporter asked a teammate whether coming out changed the team.

The answer was, "Yeah. We had to buy one more Pride shirt."

Still one of my favorite responses.

 

@FaithAndBaseball

I'm religious.

I'm also a lifelong Red Sox fan.

Those things don't stop me from recognizing a decent human being when I see one.

Shane deserves every bit of success he's earned.

 

@MLBHistoryNerd

People forget how much pressure he was under.

Being the first openly gay active player meant everyone expected him to become a spokesperson overnight.

Instead, he kept showing up, playing elite baseball, and letting consistency speak louder than headlines.

 

@LittleLeagueMom

My daughter asked if girls could play baseball because she wanted to be "like Captain Shane."

He told an entire generation that they belonged.

That's bigger than baseball.

 

@FenwayForever

Winning once can be luck.

Winning twice makes history.

Leading a franchise through all the noise while doing it makes legends.

 

@BostonTillIDie

People from outside Boston keep trying to tell us how we should feel about Shane.

We're the ones packing Fenway every night.

I think we've made our opinion pretty clear.

 

@JustHereForSports

Do I care that Shane is gay?

No.

Do I care that he hits .330, is a two-way player, and captains a team that keeps winning championships?

Very much so.

 

@NorthOfTheBorder

Canadians are so proud of him.

Boston may have adopted him, but he'll always be one of ours too. 🇨🇦❤️

 

@BeanTownBeliever

Give the man another contract.

Give him another parade.

And while we're at it, somebody really should give him the key to the city.

---

@emilycarter617

I still can't believe this happened today. ❤️

I took my son to grab ice cream after his baseball practice, and completely by chance we ran into Shane Hollander while he was out spending the afternoon with his daughter.

He could not have been kinder.

He stopped to talk, signed my son's jersey, asked him what position he played, laughed when my little guy proudly announced he was "basically the next Red Sox captain," and then happily took a picture with us before wishing him luck this season.

The sweetest part, though, wasn't even meeting Shane.

It was watching the kids.

His daughter immediately asked if my son wanted to play catch while we talked. Within minutes the two of them were running around the park like they'd been friends forever. I've never seen a baseball thrown so hard by someone who can't even reach her dad's shoulder yet. 😂

If that little girl ever decides to play professionally, every batter in the league should be terrified.

She's going to throw absolute heat just like her father.

Thank you, Shane, for making one little baseball fan's entire year.

❤️⚾

[Photo]

Shane Hollander stands beside a smiling young boy wearing a home Boston Red Sox jersey with HOLLANDER 24 stitched across the back. One arm rests lightly around the boy's shoulder as they grin toward the camera outside a neighborhood ice cream shop.

Comments:

@RedSoxNation

This is the least surprising Shane Hollander story I've ever read.

Everyone who meets him says he's unbelievably kind with kids.

 

@FenwayForever

I've volunteered at the Boston Children's Hospital and I’ve crossed paths with many Red Sox players.

He stays until every kid gets a chance to talk to him and the staff absolutely loves him.

 

@BostonMama22

My daughter met him at a literacy event years ago.

He knelt down so they were eye level the whole conversation.

Little things like that matter.

 

@BeanTown617

Wait...

Shane has a daughter??

 

@sportsfan89

He does.

He just keeps her completely out of the spotlight.

 

@MLBWatcher

I have followed baseball for years.

HOW AM I ONLY LEARNING THIS NOW??

 

@FenwayFaithful

Because he's incredibly protective of her privacy.

Boston has always respected that.

You'll almost never see her in public unless someone happens to run into them like this.

 

@RedSoxHistory

He adopted her when he was a rookie.

Most fans know, but it's never been something he talks about publicly.

 

@baseballnerd44

HE ADOPTED HER AS A ROOKIE???

 

@GreenMonsterGirl

Yep.

She's adopted.

 

@ConfusedFan12

She is clearly adopted.

I just found a pic of her, she looks nothing like Shane.

Why was it so hard to find pics of his daughter? There are like only five tops!

 

@CanadianBaseball

She is.

One of the few photos ever posted of her online showed she has blond hair and blue eyes.

People have always respected Shane's wish to keep her life private.

 

@historybuff617

The adoption story is actually pretty well known around Boston.

After he was drafted, Shane flew to Japan to visit his grandparents in Kyoto before reporting to the organization.

On the trip back, he stopped in Paris and met a young woman who was trying to escape an abusive husband.

He helped her get safely to Canada, connected her with organizations that support women fleeing domestic violence, and stayed in contact while she got back on her feet.

When she gave birth by the end of his first year as a professional baseball player, she made the incredibly difficult decision to place the baby for adoption.

Shane adopted her.

Her name is Sofia Yuna Hollander.

 

@BeanTown617

...

I was expecting baseball trivia.

Not to cry.

 

@HopeLivesHere

I knew the story, but every time I read it, I get emotional.

 

@FenwayForever

He also donates a ridiculous amount of money every year to organizations that help abused women and children.

He almost never publicizes it.

People find out because the charities thank him.

 

@BostonStrong

The guy wins championships, adopts a little girl, funds shelters, visits children's hospitals...

Seriously.

What can't this man do?

 

@MLBWatcher

I thought he was just an incredible baseball player.

Turns out he's somehow an even better human being.

 

@SafeHarborFoundation

Our organization has worked with Shane's foundation for several years.

He has never once asked for publicity.

He simply asks what families need.

 

@baseballdad84

You know what's really telling?

Nobody in Boston tries to sneak pictures of Sofia.

People see them together and leave them alone.

That's how it should be.

 

@BostonMama22

Exactly.

She's a little girl, not a celebrity.

 

@sportsfan89

One of the things I love most about this city is that everyone seems to have silently agreed that Sofia is getting to have a normal childhood.

 

@GreenMonsterGirl

The internet doesn't always respect boundaries.

Boston actually has and I'm proud of that.

 

@CanadianEh

Sofia Yuna Hollander.

Named after Shane's mother.

That's such a beautiful name.

 

@LittleLeagueCoach

Imagine growing up with Shane Hollander teaching you how to pitch.

Life isn't fair.

😂

 

@BaseballKid24

"If that girl ever goes pro..."

I'm already scouting.

Sign her immediately.

 

@BeanTownBeliever

I've said it before and I'll say it again.

Shane Hollander isn't just the captain of the Red Sox.

He's one of the best ambassadors this city has ever had.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Every time I think I couldn't respect this man more, I learn another story about him.

 

@BostonStrong617

Forget building another statue.

Just rename half the city after him.

 

@RedSoxNation

Shane Hollander is a baseball legend.

Shane Hollander is a devoted dad.

Shane Hollander is, somehow, also an actual saint. ❤️⚾

---

@cityseltzer

The city runs on great taste.

Meet the captain who does too.

We're excited to welcome Shane Hollander to the City Seltzer family.

#CitySeltzer #ShaneHollander #RefreshYourCity

[Billboards]

The first billboard shows Shane Hollander standing on the rooftop of a downtown Boston building overlooking the skyline at sunset. He wears a crisp white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and dark navy trousers, the top buttons casually undone. Resting against the rooftop ledge, he holds an ice-cold can of City Citrus, the can covered in beads of condensation. The bright yellow and orange design stands out against the muted cityscape behind him, while the Boston skyline stretches into the distance. Across the billboard, large lettering reads:

"FIND YOUR FAVORITE."

The second billboard shows Shane seated on the hood of a vintage pickup truck parked beside a citrus grove, a can of City Citrus balanced loosely in one hand. The final frame is a close-up of the drink itself beside fresh yuzu and mandarin slices.

Comments:

@BostonFoodie

Not me immediately noticing he's holding City Citrus.

 

@SeltzerSociety

Didn't he once say his favorite drink was Canada Dry?

 

@RedSoxNation

He did.

He said if he's grabbing a soda, it's almost always Canada Dry.

 

@InterviewArchives

You're all forgetting the rest of that interview.

He was asked what flavors he keeps stocked at home.

 

@BaseballDigest

Exactly.

He said his daughter is obsessed with Berry Whip.

Apparently, there's always a fridge full of it at the Hollander house.

😂

 

@CitySeltzer

Can confirm. 😉

 

@FenwayForever

So, Shane drinks City Citrus...

Sofia drinks Berry Whip...

The marketing team definitely did their homework.

 

@BostonMama22

Honestly, Berry Whip is ridiculously good.

I understand Sofia completely.

 

@CanadianEh

Yuzu and mandarin sounds like exactly the flavor Shane would pick.

 

@CitrusFan

City Citrus is elite.

I'm glad someone finally agrees with me.

 

@SportsCenter

I appreciate that they didn't pretend his favorite soft drink suddenly changed overnight.

The campaign actually fits what he said in interviews.

 

@GreenMonsterGirl

That's what makes it feel authentic.

He's never claimed to drink only one thing.

He literally said he likes City Citrus the most out of the City lineup, but he will forever be a Canada Dry boy.

 

@FlavorHunter

I bought Berry Whip because of that interview.

Stayed for the black currant.

 

@BostonStrong617

Shane somehow manages to make sparkling water look like luxury.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Rolex.

Now City Seltzer.

The man's advertising résumé is getting ridiculous.

 

@RedSoxUpdates

Can we appreciate that every endorsement somehow still looks classy?

 

@CityLiving

That rooftop shot belongs in a magazine.

 

@BostonViews

Putting the Boston skyline behind the captain of the Red Sox was the correct creative decision.

 

@BaseballLife

At this point I buy products just because Shane is incapable of having a bad photoshoot.

 

@FenwayForever

I'm still laughing that half the comments are debating soda while the other half are admiring the billboard.

 

@CitySeltzer

We'll happily take both. 🍊🥤⚾

Chapter 2: Life had never been that kind to him

The Montreal night air hit Ilya like a slap, sharp and clean enough to cut through the heavy haze of cheap tequila and victory cigars. Inside the bar, half the Boston Bears were currently draped over booths, loudly debating who had executed the better hip check during their 4–1 beating of the Metros.

Ilya had reached his limit for rowdy locker-room banter twenty minutes ago. He pulled his heavy wool coat tight over his shoulders, step off the curb, and reached into his pocket for his phone to order an Uber.

That was when he saw her.

She had just pushed through the heavy wooden door of the lounge next door, wrapping a faded scarf tightly around her neck against the damp autumn chill. Her dark hair was longer than he remembered, tucked into the collar of a worn trench coat, but the posture—the slightly hunched shoulders, the quick, vigilant sweep of her eyes across the street—was unmistakable.

Ilya’s breath hitched in his throat, as he felt his chest hollow. "Ursula!"

The name ripped out of him before his brain could process the sheer improbability of it.

The woman violently flinched. She spun on her heel, her boot skidding against the wet pavement as her hands flew up to clutch her handbag like a shield. When her eyes locked onto Ilya’s broad frame stepping out of the shadows, absolute, blinding terror washed over her face. Her color drained instantly, and her mouth opened in a silent gasp as she took a panicked step backward toward the brick wall of the building.

The sheer fear in her gaze struck Ilya right in the sternum. It was a physical ache, heavy and sickening. He hated that she looked at him and saw a monster. But deep down, in the dark corners of his memory he usually kept locked away, he understood.

Ursula had been married to his older brother, Alexei, until she vanished overnight. At the time, the family in Moscow had raged, branding her ungrateful and soft. But Ilya knew better. He had seen Alexei’s violent, bloodshot eyes after a bender and knew the sudden bruises Ursula concealed under heavy foundation were no accident. Alexei didn’t just struggle with drug abuse—he had inherited their father’s cruelty.

Ursula hadn't abandoned her marriage. She had escaped with her life.

Ilya had spent years wondering if she was buried in some shallow forest outside Moscow or if she had somehow made it away. He had prayed for the latter, but he had never imagined in a million years that she would end up in Quebec.

"Ursula, stop. Please," Ilya spoke in his native tongue, his voice soft, low, and completely free of edge.

He stopped five paces away from her, keeping a wide distance, and held his hands up in the air—palms open, flat, and harmless.

"Look at me," Ilya urged gently, his heavy Russian accent thick as he kept his posture completely loose and unthreatening. "It is just Ilya. I swear to you on my life, I did not track you down. I am here for a hockey game and just saw you walk out the door."

Ursula stayed pinned against the brick wall, her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. Her eyes darted from his open hands to his face, searching the hard angles of his jaw, looking for any trace of the brutal family she had fled.

Ilya didn't move an inch. He let the quiet city street hum around them, letting her process that no one was grabbing her, or shouting, and specially that no one was dragging her back to Russia.

"I am not going to hurt you," Ilya added earnestly. "I am just... I am so glad you are alive. I just want to know if you are okay. That is all."

A long, agonizing ten seconds stretched between them. Slowly, the rigid panic in Ursula’s shoulders began to fracture. She took a shaky, shuddering breath, lowering her bag an inch, though her eyes remained wide and glossy with unshed tears.

"Ilya..." she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the distant hum of traffic. She spoke in English, her tone fragile, testing the sound of his name as if checking for poison.

"Yes," Ilya offered a small, tentative smile, keeping his hands visibly in front of his chest. "It is me."

She looked him up and down, recognizing the expensive, tailored coat, the kind smile, and the total lack of aggression in his posture. She swallowed hard, wiping a speck of dampness from the corner of her eye with a trembling finger.

"Not here," Ursula said softly, her breath clouding in the cold night air. She gestured down the sidewalk with a nod of her head. "I live four blocks away. We can... we can drink tea and talk."

Relief flooded through Ilya’s veins, heavy and warm. "Good. Lead the way."

As Ursula turned and began walking—still maintaining a cautious distance—Ilya pulled his phone out of his pocket. His thumb flew across the screen, pulling up the Boston Bears' team group chat.

Ilya: Ran into an old friend. Do not wait for me. I will meet you back at the hotel later.

He shoved the phone back into his coat pocket, adjusted his coat, and followed the quiet woman down the dimly lit Montreal street, keeping a respectful three paces behind her.

The four-block walk took them down a quieter, residential avenue away from the flashing neon signs of the downtown district. Ursula stopped in front of a small storefront with darkened glass, a glowing streetlamp casting a soft golden arch over the hand-painted sign above the door.

It was a bakery.

Ilya blinked in mild surprise, watching as Ursula reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a heavy ring of brass keys, and unlocked the front door. She turned the deadbolt with a soft, familiar click and pushed the door open, gesturing for him to step inside.

The moment Ilya crossed the threshold, the rich, buttery scent of baked yeast, toasted nuts, and sweet dough wrapped around him. He paused in the dark front room, stepping around small wooden tables as Ursula flicked on a dim, warm overhead light.

A sudden wave of nostalgia hit Ilya hard. The space was an almost identical mirror image of the neighborhood bakeries in the cozy, snow-dusted corners of Moscow—the brass display trays, the lace curtains drawn neatly across the front window, even the subtle spice of cardamom in the air. The only distinct difference was the large chalkboard mounted above the counter. Instead of Cyrillic alone, the daily menu was written out in neat chalk script across three separate columns: French, English, and Russian.

"It is... very nice, Ursula," Ilya praised softly, his deep voice carrying through the quiet shop as he looked around, a genuine, tiny smile tugging at his mouth. "Reminds me of home."

Ursula offered a weary smile of her own, locking the door behind them. “Let’s go upstairs."

He followed her up a narrow, creaky flight of wooden stairs tucked into the back of the shop, emerging into a small but thoroughly homey apartment. Brightly colored rugs covered the hardwood floor, and framed prints of winter landscapes hung neatly along the walls.

While Ilya shed his heavy wool coat and carefully set it over the back of a chair, Ursula moved silently around her tiny kitchen. Within minutes, the soft whistle of a kettle broke the silence, and she returned to the small dining table carrying two porcelain teacups and a steaming kettle.

Ilya sat down, his massive frame making the small wooden chair look almost delicate. His eyes lit up slightly when Ursula placed a small glass jar of dark cherry jam and two small spoons on the trivet between their cups.

"Congratulations on the bakery," Ilya switched back to Russian, reaching for the jar. He scooped a generous spoonful of the thick, dark preserve straight into his black tea, stirring it slowly in the traditional Russian way. "It is a beautiful place."

Ursula poured the hot water, taking her seat across from him. "I was very lucky," she admitted softly, clutching her cup with both hands for warmth. "When I left Russia, I met a wonderful family. They are Japanese-Canadian, and kindly took me in. They helped me get papers, gave me a place to live, and invested the money to start the bakery down downstairs." She paused, a gentle, fond look passing over her face. "It was only last month I finally paid back the last of the loan. Funnily enough, it was harder to convince them to accept the money than it was to borrow it in the first place."

Ilya smiled, taking a warm, sweet sip of his tea. "I am very glad you found good people, Ursula. You deserved good people."

Ursula nodded slowly, staring down into the dark liquid of her cup. The gentle atmosphere in the room shifted, growing heavy and still as she let out a long, shuddering sigh. When she looked back up at him, all the remaining warmth had drained from her face, replaced by razor-sharp seriousness.

"Ilya," she whispered, her hands tightening around her porcelain cup. "Does Alexei... does he really not know where I am? Truly?"

Ilya winced. The sudden mention of his brother’s name felt like a cold draft blowing through the room. He set his teacup down with a muted clack, resting his broad forearms on the table.

"It would be very hard for him to know," Ilya replied quietly, his Russian accent heavy and flat. "Alexei died of an overdose in 2013."

Ursula froze.

Her eyes widened and chest hitched as if she’d been struck. For three endless seconds, she simply stared at Ilya in total, stunned silence.

Then, a strange, choked sound tore from her throat.

Ursula slapped a hand over her mouth, but a sharp, hysterical burst of laughter escaped anyway. She leaned back, her shoulders shaking violently as a loud, breathless laugh echoed off the quiet apartment walls.

"Oh, God," she gasped, her voice trembling erratically as she tried and failed to compose herself. "I'm sorry—I am so sorry, Ilya, this is terrible, I shouldn't... he was your brother, you must miss him, I am so sorry—"

But she couldn't stop. The laughter bubbled out of her in ragged, frantic waves—the accumulated weight of years of constant, agonizing paranoia finally snapping all at once. And then, mid-laugh, her face crumpled.

The laughter turned instantly into heavy, racking sobs. Tears spilled over her eyelashes, streaming down her cheeks as she wept, her breath coming in ragged hitches, laughing again for a split second before drowning back into tears.

Ilya didn't interrupt her. He didn't tell her to stop, nor did he offer empty platitudes. He simply sat in silence, staring at his teacup as his knuckles turned white against the porcelain.

A deep, suffocating guilt settled heavily into his stomach.

It was a familiar, sickening ache. Looking at Ursula’s broken, overwhelmed form across the table, Ilya couldn't help but think of his own mother, Irina. He thought about the bruised, hollowed-out women the Rozanov men left in their wake. His father had destroyed his mother, beating her down until there was nothing left, and Alexei had turned around and done the exact same thing to Ursula.

They were monsters. Blood of his blood. And no matter how many hockey games Ilya won, or how many tailored suits he wore, he carried that same poison in his veins. So, he remained motionless in his chair, letting Ursula cry out years of built-up terror, silently bearing the weight of a name he couldn't ever fully wash clean.

Ursula wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her sleeve, her breathing slowly steadying into deep, exhausted hitches. Ilya reached across the small table, silently pushing a box of paper napkins toward her.

"Without you there... Alexei got worse," Ilya explained softly, keeping his eyes trained on his tea. "He spent every ruble on drugs, and with no one left to stop him, he overdosed alone in his apartment." He paused, looking up to meet her tear-stained eyes with absolute sincerity. "I am not saying this to blame you. You did what you had to do to survive."

Ursula shook her head, pulling a napkin from the box and pressing it to her nose. "I would never believe you were blaming me," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. She offered him a small, fragile look. "You were always too kind for a Rozanov, Ilya."

She took a slow breath, her brows knitting together in a sudden frown. "What about your father? Grigori did nothing to stop him?"

Ilya winced, a bitter taste rising in his mouth. "At the time, we did not know it... but my father was already slipping. He had the early stages of dementia." Ilya paused, his jaw tightening slightly. "He died this summer."

"Oh," Ursula blinked, startled. She looked down at her hands. "I am sorry, Ilya."

Ilya let out a harsh scoff, shaking his head. "Do not say that, Ursula. You do not mean it. You must hate both of them, and I do not blame you for a second."

Ursula’s head snapped up. "No," she said firmly, her voice unexpectedly strong. "Alexei and Grigori... they were monsters. I am not glad they are dead, but I will not pretend I grieve for them. But I am sorry for you, Ilya."

She reached out, resting her warm, slender fingers over his large, calloused hand on the table.

"I am sorry that you are hurting," she whispered gently. "Because it takes a truly wonderful person to be capable of loving monsters. You loved your family, even when they were terrible."

The warmth of her words felt heavy, almost suffocating against the guilt burning in his chest. Ilya looked at her, his brow furrowing as a question he had carried for years finally spilled out.

"If you knew I was not like them... why did you not come to me?" Ilya asked, his Russian accent thick with old, quiet pain. "Why did you not ask for my help? I would have protected you."

Ursula grimaced, her eyes dropping to the table as a shadow of old shame passed over her face. "I was not in a good place, Ilya," she admitted softly, squeezing his hand before pulling back. "Looking back now, yes... I could have come to you. But back then? I was running purely on terror and fumes. I wasn't thinking clearly. I just needed to put as much distance between myself and Moscow as possible."

She paused, looking up at him with deep earnestness.

"And it was not personal," she added gently. "You were Alexei's brother. I was terrified of putting you in a terrible position and forcing you to side against your own blood."

Ilya let out a deep sigh, a faint, sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I sided against him anyway," Ilya confessed quietly. "After I saw what kind of husband he had become to you... after I realized what he was doing... I cut him off completely. I never spoke to him again before he died."

Ursula froze again. The lingering tension in her posture melted away entirely, replaced by a look of such profound, tender gratitude that it made Ilya's chest ache. "Ilya..." she breathed, her voice trembling as fresh, tears welled in her eyes. "Thank you. Truly... thank you."

Ilya cleared his throat, the sudden lump in his throat making his collar feel a little too tight. Feeling exposed under her tender gaze, he quickly shifted in his chair and gestured toward the cozy apartment.

"So... why Canada?" he asked, grasping for a neutral topic. "Of all the places in the world to hide, how did you end up in Montreal?"

Ursula picked up her porcelain teacup, lifting it to her lips and using it as a shield to hide the lower half of her face. A heavy, suffocating silence stretched over the small wooden table.

"I am not a good person, Ilya," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the quiet hum of the refrigerator. She stared down into the dark amber tea. "I met Alexei through drugs. When he started hitting me... I stayed. I stayed for years because, deep down, I believed I deserved it. I believed that was all I was worth."

Ilya’s chest tightened. He wanted to open his mouth, wanted to shout at her that no one deserved that—that no human being deserved to be beaten and broken by a Rozanov man. But the words caught in his throat, dying before they could reach his lips.

Because as much as he wanted to deny it, a dark, quiet part of him understood her completely.

Why else had he let Grigori and Alexei treat him the way they did for years? Ilya thought bitterly, his broad shoulders slouching just a fraction. Why else had he let his father belittle him, use him, and bark orders at him until the old man's mind finally rotted away? If Ilya didn't secretly believe he deserved it, why hadn't he fought back?

Ursula, completely unaware of the dark spiral running through his mind, took a slow, shaky breath and continued.

"I only found the strength to leave when I discovered I was pregnant," she murmured softly. "I knew then... I couldn't stay. I could take the bruises for myself, but I could not allow Alexei to do the same thing to a child."

Ilya’s eyes widened, his heart slamming against his ribs like a trapped bird. "I am an uncle?" he blurted out, his Russian accent thick with sudden, unadulterated shock.

Ursula winced, pulling her shoulders inward as if bracing for impact. "It is... difficult."

"Difficult how?" Ilya demanded, leaning forward, his massive forearms pressing against the edge of the table.

Ursula sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to drain the remaining color from her cheeks.

"I fled Russia because I knew that if I stayed anywhere in the country, Grigori would find me," she explained, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "He had connections, and he would never have let me live in peace. But by the time I landed in Paris, I was completely lost. I had no money, much less a plan, and I was terrified. In the airport, I met a man. He was the son of the Japanese-Canadian family I told you about—he was from Ottawa."

She looked up at Ilya, her eyes glossy and earnest.

"He saw how sick and terrified I was. He brought me to Canada, helped me claim asylum, and his family immediately paid to put me into a rehab facility to get clean. They saved my life, Ilya. They are the most wonderful, generous people I have ever known."

She swallowed hard, her jaw trembling slightly.

"But while I was in rehab, I realized... I was in no condition to be a mother. Even now, years later, motherhood is not for me. My mind is too damaged. So, when the time came and the delivery was finished, I knew the best thing I could do was leave the child with them. I even moved here to Montreal because I could not bear the risk of accidentally walking down an Ottawa street and seeing the child."

Ursula looked across the table, her hands trembling as she pleaded with him with her eyes.

"Please do not judge me, Ilya," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I did what I believed was truly best for the child."

Ilya sat entirely frozen, the quiet hum of the apartment ringing violently in his ears.

His sharp, analytical mind—the one that read plays on the ice in fractions of a second—instantly caught every nuance in her words. He noticed the careful, deliberate detachment in her voice.

Not once had she specified a gender. Not once had she said my baby, or my son, or my daughter.

It was always the child.

Ilya leaned back against the wooden chair, letting the silence stretch between them as he tried to untangle the knot in his chest.

Was he betrayed?

No. Not really. When he truly thought about it, he barely knew Ursula. He could count the number of times they had been in the same room on one hand—and tonight was one of those times.

Did he judge her?

He couldn't find it in himself to do that, either. A dark, ugly part of him couldn't help but wonder if he would have been better off if Grigori Rozanov had given him away at birth. Maybe then he would have grown up with a father who was proud of him. But then the memory of his mother’s soft hands and tired, gentle smile flashed through his mind, and the thought evaporated. If he had been adopted, he wouldn't have had his mamma.

Besides, Ilya had never been forced to share a bed with someone he hated. He had never carried the blood of his abuser inside his own body. Ursula’s mind was a battlefield of trauma, and the child was a living, breathing tether to Alexei. If the kid was safe, fed, loved, and miles away from the Rozanov curse... what right did he have to ask for more?

Deep down, Ilya knew his reaction was strangely cold. If he hadn't been hit with an avalanche of shock—finding Ursula in Montreal, the story of her escape, and now a secret family—his thoughts would be far more passionate, far more furious. But right now, his brain was running purely on detached, clinical logic.

He took a long, deep breath, running a heavy hand over his jaw.

"Can I meet them?" Ilya asked quietly. "My niece... or nephew?"

Ursula shrank back slightly, chewing on her lower lip. She stayed silent for a long moment, staring down at her cool tea, before she finally spoke. "The one who adopted the child was the son," Ursula explained softly. "The man I met at the airport in Paris."

She swallowed, her eyes flickering up to meet Ilya's.

"When I moved here to Montreal, he told me that if I ever changed my mind... not to be a mother, but just to be a part of the child's life... his door was open. He said I only had to ask." She offered a fragile, uncertain look. "I would have to reach out to him first and ask if he would allow a visit. But he is a good, kind man, Ilya. I do not think he would say no to you."

Ilya stared at her, his expression remaining unreadable.

On the outside, he simply gave her a small, polite nod. But on the inside, a bitter, familiar cynicism settled heavily into his bones.

He didn't believe it for a second. Life had never been that kind to him. People didn't just open their doors to a towering, bruised Russian hockey player carrying the baggage of a dead abuser's legacy. He had never been that lucky, and he doubted his luck was about to start tonight in a bakery in Montreal.

Chapter 3: Oh my god, how did I not put this together?!

Ilya didn't remember paying the Uber driver. He didn't remember walking through the polished marble lobby, or riding the elevator up to the twelfth floor, or using his keycard to open the door to his room. His mind was entirely trapped three miles away, anchored to a small dining table over a closed bakery, looping Ursula’s detached, fragile voice over and over in his head.

The child.

It was always the child.

A hand suddenly clapped against his shoulder, the impact snapping the air right out of his lungs.

Ilya violently flinched, his head jerking around as his body instinctively braced for a hit. He blinked, the hazy hotel room abruptly rushing back into focus. Standing right in front of him, looking concerned was Cliff Marleau.

They were in their shared hotel suite. His duffel bag was sitting dumped on the carpet by his feet, and Ilya was still standing in the middle of the entryway with his wool coat buttoned up to his throat.

"Whoa, Rozzy," Cliff said softly, keeping his hands visible and giving Ilya’s shoulder a gentle, grounding squeeze. "Easy, man. I called your name like three times. Where were you?"

Ilya opened his mouth. He wanted to give a dismissive, casual shrug. He wanted to roll his eyes and tell Cliff that he was fine, just tired, just running on residual post-game adrenaline.

Instead, a sharp, terrifying wave of heat exploded behind his ribs, as the room tilted violently on its axis, the air turning into thick glass that refused to pass down his throat.

"Ilya?" Cliff’s voice suddenly sounded like it was coming from under twenty feet of water.

Ilya stumbled back two steps, his spine slamming hard into the wall beside the door frame. His broad shoulders slouched, his knees threatening to give out beneath his massive weight as he clawed at the collar of his coat. He couldn't get oxygen. No matter how hard he tried, his lungs burned, empty and useless.

A suffocating, agonizing wave of shame crashed over him, hot and sickening.

Weak. The word echoed in his father’s harsh, raspy voice. Pathetic.

He was the captain of the Boston Bears. He was supposed to be built of iron, unbothered, untouchable. Yet here he was, collapsing like a terrified child because of words spoken in a quiet bakery. He felt guilty for hyperventilating over a child he’d never met, guilty for carrying the blood that made Ursula run to the other side of the planet, guilty that he was even breathing the same air that Alexei had wasted.

"Hey, hey—look at me, Ilya. Drop down with me," Cliff commanded, his voice shifting from casual teammate to dead-serious leader in a split second.

Cliff grabbed Ilya by the elbows, guiding his massive frame down until they were both sitting flat on the carpeted floor. Cliff didn't crowd him, but he stayed firmly anchored right in front of him, taking one of Ilya’s trembling, calloused hands and pressing it flat against his own chest.

"Feel that?" Cliff asked, his eyes locked onto Ilya’s panicked, wide gaze. "In and out. Breathe with me, Rozzy. Come on. Four seconds in."

Cliff took a deep, exaggerated breath, his chest rising beneath Ilya’s palm.

Ilya tried to follow, letting out a ragged, pathetic wheeze. Tears of frustration and embarrassment stung the backs of his eyes, but Cliff didn't flinch. He didn't look away, and he didn't judgmentally scoff at Ilya’s weakness. He just held the hand firmly against his chest, counting out loud in a low, grounding rhythm until the terrifying constriction in Ilya’s throat slowly began to loosen.

Five minutes passed before Ilya’s chest finally stopped heaving.

He slumped back, his head resting against the drywall as he let out a long, exhausted shudder of air. His entire body felt as though he had just skated three consecutive double-overtime periods.

Cliff slowly let go of his hand, leaning back on his heels with an understanding nod. He didn't push. He simply reached over, unzipped Ilya’s heavy coat, and handed him a bottle of water from the nightstand.

"Better?" Cliff asked quietly.

Ilya took a slow, trembling sip of the water, the cold liquid soothing his raw throat. He looked down at his shoes. "Thank you, Cliff," Ilya murmured softly, too tired to even translate the words into English. "Sorry."

"Don't ever apologize for that, man," Cliff replied gently, patting Ilya’s knee before standing up. "We're a team. I've got your back, on and off the ice."

It was at that moment that a knock rattled the suite door, but before either Cliff or Ilya could move to answer it, the handle clicked and the door burst open with a loud bang.

In tumbled Hammersmith, practically tripping over his own boots, followed closely by Koslov, St-Simon, and Connors—the wide-eyed rookie who looked like he’d been dragged along for the ride. They were loud, flush-faced, and visibly tipsy from the bar, bringing a cloud of cold air and cheap beer right into the room.

"Who cares about a four o'clock wake-up call?!" Hammersmith bellowed, waving an open can of Molson in the air like a battle flag. "We just destroyed Montreal! We're not sleeping, boys! We are finishing this celebration at the nightclub down the street!"

"We can sleep on the team bus back to Boston!" Koslov chimed in with a boisterous laugh, throwing an arm around Connors' shoulders, while St-Simon clapped his hands in agreement.

The group swarmed two steps into the room before their eyes landed on Ilya sitting on the floor. A chorus of loud, drunken cheers erupted immediately.

"Look who made it back!" St-Simon crowed, pointing a finger at him. "The Captain returns! So, Rozzy, who’s the 'old friend' you ditched us for, huh? She’d better have been gorgeous, or we’re going to be seriously offended you left us for—"

"Shut up and get out," Cliff cut in, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp, lethal register that instantly sliced through the rowdy noise.

Cliff stepped directly between the group and Ilya. He didn't yell, but the flat, warning glare on his face was enough to make even Hammersmith freeze mid-sentence.

"Guys," Koslov muttered softly, the alcohol-induced haze evaporating from his eyes in a split second as he looked past Cliff's shoulder.

The mood in the room plummeted from high-energy chaos to dead, heavy silence.

It was only then that they actually looked at their captain.

Ilya was still sitting flat on the carpeted floor, his back pressed hard against the wall. His coat was unzipped, his hair was a messy, damp tangle, and his face was completely drained of color. He looked pale, hollowed-out, and entirely exhausted—a world away from the unstoppable, terrifying force he usually was on the ice.

Connors shrank back toward the doorway, looking terrified he had done something wrong, while Hammersmith slowly lowered his Molson can, his jaw dropping slightly.

"Cap?" Koslov asked softly, stepping forward without a trace of his earlier drunken bravado. All the loud, boastful energy was gone, replaced instantly by pure, earnest worry. "Ilya, man... what happened? Are you okay?"

"Did someone mess with you?" St-Simon demanded, his fists balling up as his posture instantly shifted to defensive. "Tell us who it was and we’ll make them pay."

"Do you need us to call the team doctor?" Hammersmith asked, his voice dead serious as he reached into his pocket for his phone.

They crowded around the blond, no longer looking like rowdy, tipsy hockey players out for a night of partying, but like a pack of wolves circling one of their own to protect him. Ilya sat on the floor, looking up at their tense, worried faces, and felt a sudden, suffocating lump form in his throat.

In Moscow, showing any sign of weakness meant blood in the water. It meant his father’s heavy hand or Alexei’s cruel taunts. He was so conditioned to hide his cracks, so terrified of being seen as broken, that the raw, unfiltered concern flooding from these four idiots completely overwhelmed him. They didn't care about the nightclub. The second they saw he was hurting; the entire world stopped.

Ilya swallowed hard, a trembling breath escaping his lips as he rested his forearms on his knees. "I am fine," he murmured softly, his Russian accent heavy in his raw throat, before forcing himself to translate into English. "I am... just tired, boys. No fight. Just... bad news."

Koslov let out a sigh, visibly relaxing his shoulders, as he reached down, and gently patted Ilya’s knee. "Alright, Cap. We hear you."

"Yeah," Hammersmith added quietly, rubbing the back of his neck and looking genuinely sheepish. "Sorry for barging in like that, Rozzy. We'll get out of your hair."

"No club tonight," St-Simon announced to the group, gesturing for Connors and Hammersmith to back up into the hallway. "We're going back to our rooms to sleep."

Koslov lingered for a second, looking at Cliff, who gave him a small, reassuring nod. "Call if you need anything, Ilya. Seriously. 2:00 AM, 4:00 AM, doesn't matter."

"Thank you, Kos," Ilya said softly, offering a tiny, exhausted nod.

Carefully the four of them backed out of the suite, until…

"Kos," Ilya called out before the heavy suite door could click shut.

The handle froze. Koslov poked his head back inside, his eyes widening in concern. Behind him, Hammersmith, St-Simon, and Connors paused in the hallway, tensing up as if expecting an alarm to go off.

"Yeah, Cap?" Koslov asked softly.

"Come in. All of you," Ilya commanded quietly.

He didn't wait for a response as he pushed himself up from the carpeted floor. His legs felt like lead, but he forced his massive frame upright, stepping toward the small wet bar in the corner of the hotel room. He pulled open the low door of the mini-fridge, grabbed a tiny glass bottle of Smirnoff, twisted the cap off in one swift motion, and downed the cold, burning liquid in a single gulp.

He tossed the empty bottle into the small wastebasket, where it landed with a loud, hollow clack.

The four men filed into the room on cautious feet, shutting the door behind them. Cliff stayed anchored near the nightstand, watchful, while the rest of the team gathered in a loose half-circle near the edge of the rug.

Ilya leaned his lower back against the edge of the wooden dresser, crossing his broad forearms over his chest. He looked down at the carpet for a long three seconds, collecting his thoughts, before he looked up to meet their eyes.

If he didn't say it out loud right now, he was going to shatter. The weight of it was a physical pressure behind his ribs, an unbearable buildup of poison that had been festering since he was a child.

"I need to tell you," Ilya began, his voice flat and completely free of sarcasm, his Russian accent from how emotionally overwhelmed he felt. "Because if I keep it inside tonight, I will explode."

The room went dead silent. Even Connors stopped fidgeting, staring at his captain in absolute rapt attention. Ilya didn't look away. In plain, unvarnished English, he laid it out for them—the brutal, ugly truth of how Ilya Rozanov had come to be.

He told them about his father, Grigori, a bitter, cruel man who had treated his sons like tools to be broken and rebuilt, and whose mind had rotted away from dementia before he died that summer. He told them about his mamma, Irina, a gentle woman who had been beaten down and hollowed out until there was nothing left of her. He spoke about his older brother, Alexei—the drug addict who had inherited their father's violent nature, beating his wife until she vanished into thin air, before eventually overdosing alone in a Moscow apartment in 2013.

He told them about Ursula. About walking out of the bar tonight and seeing her on the street. And then, his voice cracking just a fraction, he told them about the child. A niece or a nephew somewhere in Ottawa or maybe somewhere else, born to a broken woman fleeing an abuser, raised by a family of strangers because Ursula couldn't bear the sight of Alexei's blood.

He had never spoken these words to a single soul. Not to the media, not to his coaches, not even to Svetlana—who had lived through those horrors beside him and knew the story without him ever needing to articulate it.

When he finally finished, the silence in the room was suffocating.

Hammersmith looked like he’d been punched squarely in the jaw, his eyes wide and unblinking. St-Simon was staring at the floor, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were stark white. Connors just looked utterly stunned, his mouth slightly open as he processed the sheer weight of what he’d just heard.

"Holy shit, Ilya..." Hammersmith breathed out slowly, running a hand over his face. "Man... I... we had no idea. We knew you didn't talk about home, but... Jesus."

"That's heavy, Cap," St-Simon said, his voice unusually soft as he stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on Ilya's shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. "I'm so sorry you had to carry all that alone."

"But you don't have to carry it alone anymore," Cliff added from the corner, his tone ringing with absolute conviction. "You hear us, Rozzy? We're your family now. That bullshit back in Moscow? That's not your life."

Koslov stepped closer than the rest, his dark eyes shining with a profound, quiet understanding. Out of everyone in the room, Koslov was the only other Russian—he knew the cold pressure of the system, the brutal coaches, and the grueling environment they had both been forged in. He had faced his own nightmares back home, but unlike Ilya, Koslov had been blessed with loving parents who supported him.

"Ilya," Koslov started softly. "My like back in Russia... it was hard, yes. The hockey system was brutal. But my parents... they were good to me. What you survived? What your brother became? It is a miracle you are the man you are today."

Koslov reached out, grabbing Ilya's arm near the elbow, his grip tight and unyielding.

"You are not your father," Koslov added firmly, looking straight into Ilya's eyes. "And you are not your brother. You are the Captain of this team. You protect us, you lead us, and we have your back. Whatever you need with this kid... with Ursula... we are here. All of us."

"Damned right," Hammersmith agreed loudly, slapping his palm against his chest. "You want us to drive to Ottawa tomorrow? We'll charter a bus. We'll go right now."

A tiny, breathless sound escaped Ilya's throat—a quiet laugh that felt more like a shudder of pure, overwhelming relief. The heavy, suffocating tightness in his chest didn't disappear completely, but for the first time in his life, the weight of the Rozanov name didn't feel like a solo sentence.

He looked at the five men standing in his hotel room, their faces flushed not from alcohol anymore, but from fierce, unconditional loyalty.

"Thank you, boys," Ilya choked out. "Thank you."

But his gratefulness was soon replaced with confusion when he noticed his rookie furrowing his brows as he stared at the carpet, his face screwed up in intense concentration. "Wait... Why does this story feel so familiar?"

He suddenly gasped, his eyes going wide as saucer plates. "Holy shit! No way. No fucking way!"

Connors started pacing back and forth in the room, slapping his forehead, practically vibrating with chaotic energy. "It's—it's him! It has to be! Oh my God, how did I not put this together?!"

The rest of the room stared at the rookie in utter bewilderment.

"Connors, what the hell are you babbling about?" Hammersmith muttered, looking like he thought the kid had lost his mind.

"Kid, take a breath," St-Simon added, raising his hands.

When Connors opened his mouth to launch into another hyperactive rant, Cliff stepped right into his path, placing a heavy, firm hand on the rookie's shoulder. His glare was stern, commanding instant focus.

"Connors, snap out of it and get to the point," Cliff commanded, his voice hard as iron. "This is Ilya’s family. Stop running your mouth and speak clearly."

Connors swallowed hard, instantly deflating and looking deeply sheepish. "Right. Sorry, Cap. Sorry, Cliff. I got excited."

He took a deep breath, looking nervously at Ilya, who was watching him with a motionless, razor-sharp intensity that could have cut glass.

"Look," Connors began, tone dropping into something far more respectful. "I'm the first hockey fanatic in my family. My dad, my brothers, my uncles—everyone back home in Boston are absolute baseball nuts. Die-hard Red Sox fans. So, I grew up hearing about this stuff constantly."

Connors pointed a finger toward the ceiling to emphasize his point.

"Shane Hollander," Connors said. "He’s the actual captain of the Red Sox. He literally brought back-to-back World Series titles to Boston. Everyone in the city knows who he is—and everyone knows his adoption story. It was a massive deal in the sports media a few years back."

The room went dead quiet as Connors laid out the details he’d grown up hearing on Boston sports radio.

"Right after Shane got drafted, before he reported to the organization, he flew to Japan to visit his grandparents in Kyoto," Connors explained, looking straight at Ilya. "On his flight back, he had a layover in Paris. That's where he met this young woman. She was terrified, fleeing an abusive husband back home. Shane helped her get safely to Canada, connected her with women's shelters and support organizations, and stayed in touch with her while she tried to rebuild her life."

Ilya’s chest tightened, his pulse hammering against his ribs as the puzzle pieces snapped together with terrifying clarity.

"When she gave birth by the end of his rookie year," Connors continued softly, "she made the incredibly hard decision to place the baby up for adoption. Shane stepped up and adopted the baby girl himself. He's been raising her as a single father ever since."

Connors looked Ilya dead in the eye, his voice full of quiet awe.

"Her name is Sofia Hollander. Cap... your niece is living in Boston."

Everyone stared at Connors in absolute, frozen shock. None more so than Ilya. His breath caught in his throat, his broad shoulders locking up as the kid's words echoed off the hotel walls.

Boston.

All this time, while he was driving down Storrow Drive, eating post-game meals, pacing in his penthouse, and agonizing over the dark ghosts of Moscow... his niece had been living in the same city.

Ilya suddenly blinked, stepping back and shaking his head violently, pushing the thought away before it could take root. "No," Ilya said, his tone sharp and defensive. "No, this is... it is a big world. It is a coincidence. It is not her."

"Coincidence?" Connors scoffed, shaking his head like Ilya was being completely absurd. "Cap, come on. A woman fleeing an abuser, Paris layover, Ottawa connections, adoption? If anything, that's straight-up fate."

Before anyone could stop him, Connors whipped out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as he began furiously scrolling through social media.

"The problem is, Hollander is insanely protective of her," Connors muttered, tapping away while complaining to the room. "Like, terrifyingly protective. The guy literally sues the absolute hell out of any paparazzi or fan who tries to take a picture of his kid. There are only, like, five official photos of her on the entire internet."

Ilya kept his expression completely guarded, but internally, a strange wave of approval washed over him. If this baseball captain was really raising Ursula's child—if this girl truly was his blood—then knowing her father would unleash legal hell on anyone trying to exploit her meant she was safe and was being fiercely protected.

"Wait..." Connors suddenly froze. His jaw dropped, his eyes going wide as he stared down at his screen. "Holy shit."

"What is it, kid?" Koslov asked, stepping closer.

Connors blinked up at the room in utter disbelief. "Hollander never posts pics of his daughter. Never. But he literally just uploaded a photo to his official Instagram ten minutes ago."

Cliff crossed his arms, letting out a low hum. "Well, the kid must be what, six? She is growing up and Hollander might not always be able to keep the paparazzi at bay. This might be preventive actions. If there's going to be a picture of the kid online, Hollander might as well be the one controlling what gets put out there."

"Show me!" Ilya snapped, his voice booming through the room with a sharp, desperate authority that made everyone jump.

Connors didn't hesitate. He immediately turned the phone around, extending his arm so Ilya could see the screen.

The photo was crisp, bright, and bathed in golden sunlight. It showed Shane Hollander sitting in the VIP box of a massive tennis stadium, a stunning blue court visible in the background. Standing on the seat right beside him, leaning into his side with a bright smile, was a little girl who looked to be around six years old. They were wearing matching, immaculate white tennis outfits, and the caption simply read: Thank you @rolex for the Australian Open VIP seats.

Ilya couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe.

He stepped forward, his massive hand trembling slightly as he reached out and took the phone from Connors' hands. He brought the screen inches from his face, staring at the little girl.

She had soft, wavy blonde hair falling past her shoulders, but it wasn't the hair that stopped Ilya's heart. It was her face.

She was the absolute mirror image of his mamma.

The shape of her nose, the soft arch of her eyebrows, the gentle curve of her chin—it was his mother’s face looking back at him from a tennis stadium in Australia. The only difference was the eyes. Irina had warm hazel eyes, as sweet as honey.

Sofia had inherited the piercing, icy blue eyes of Grigori Rozanov. The exact same blue eyes that Ilya saw every single morning when he looked into the mirror.

Ilya shook his head, trying to force his racing heart to slow down, his eyes still glued to the glowing screen.

"I have seen this guy before," Ilya muttered, tapping his thumb against the image of Shane Hollander. "His Rolex ads are everywhere in Boston. Even when we travel to New York or Las Vegas. I just thought he was a cute model."

The rest of his teammates completely bypassed the word cute, too stunned by the revelation—except for Connors. The rookie looked like his brain had just short-circuited. He stared at Ilya, his jaw working silently for two full seconds before he completely exploded.

"A model?!" Connors shouted, throwing his hands in the air with unbridled, Boston-bred sports fury. "Are you kidding me, Cap?! He is the highest-paid baseball player in the whole damn MLB! He is a rare two-way player—he pitches, he hits, he’s rocking a .330 batting average! He brought two back-to-back World Series rings to Fenway! How can you, the captain of a Boston team, not know who the fuck Shane Hollander is?! A cute model?! Fuck you, Cap!"

Cliff, Koslov, Hammersmith, and St-Simon all stared at the rookie in utter, wide-eyed shock. Connors stood there, chest heaving, until the sudden realization of what he had just shouted at his terrifying six-foot-three Russian captain finally hit his brain.

All the color drained from Connors' face. He shrank back instantly, his hands dropping to his sides as his eyes darted nervously to Ilya.

"I—I mean," Connors stammered, looking like he was about to faint on the spot. "I apologize, Cap. That was... I went totally overboard. I'm sorry."

For a long moment, Ilya just blinked at him, still holding the phone, before a breathless chuckle escaped his throat. That broken dam released the tension in the room, and the rest of the guys erupted into loud, booming laughter.

"Holy shit, kid!" Hammersmith howled, clapping a hand over his mouth. "You just swore right to Rozzy's face!"

"Okay, yeah," St-Simon laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Now we definitely believe you come from a baseball family. Good lord."

Koslov shook his head, offering Connors a pitying smirk. "You are lucky he is too tired to throw you through the window, rookie."

Even Cliff let out a low, amused huff, shaking his head at the absolute chaos. Ilya looked back down at the screen, staring at the little girl with his mamma’s smile and his father’s icy blue eyes, the laughter around him grounding in the moment.

Once the initial shock in the room finally began to settle, Ilya turned back to the wet bar. He opened the low door of the mini-fridge, grabbed the remaining mini bottles of vodka, and tossed them across the room to Cliff, Koslov, Hammersmith, St-Simon, and Connors.

"It is shitty vodka," Ilya said, his thick Russian accent heavy as he twisted the cap off his own bottle. "But shitty vodka is better than no vodka."

The six of them clinked the tiny glass bottles together in the middle of the room and downed the sharp, burning shots in unison. Ilya let out a deep sigh, the burn settling into his chest, before turning his eyes back toward Connors.

"So," Ilya asked, gesturing vaguely with his empty bottle. "How can this Hollander take time off in the middle of his season to travel to Australia?"

Connors stopped mid-swallow, lowering his bottle and staring at Ilya in total, unadulterated incredulity." Cap..." he said slowly, blinking as if trying to process the sheer depth of Ilya's ignorance. "You... you do know baseball is not a winter sport, right?"

Ilya tilted his head, unbothered.

"It's January," Connors explained, throwing his hands up. "Right now, they're in the middle of their off-season. Spring training doesn't even start until late February! He's literally got nothing to do right now except train and spend time with his kid."

Before Ilya could reply, Connors pulled his phone back out, his thumb scrolling furiously through his feeds.

"Man, Hollander must have taken Sofia on a massive vacation down under," Connors reported, reading off his screen. "There have been sightings of them all over Australia for the last two weeks—at the beach, at the Sydney Opera House, and now in VIP seats at the tennis tournament." Connors shook his head in appreciation. "And still, not a single fan or paparazzi photo leaked. Only the stuff Shane decides to post himself. God, Hollander is one terrifying son of a bitch. He is so protective over his daughter."

Connors suddenly froze mid-sentence. His eyes snapped up from the screen, locking directly onto Ilya, a slow, stunned realization washing over his face.

"Wait..." Connors breathed, his jaw dropping slightly. "He's protective over your niece?"

Ilya simply offered an unbothered shrug, waving his hand dismissively through the air. A rare, genuine touch of relief smoothed out the hard lines of his face. "Good," he said softly. "I am glad he is so protective."

Cliff turned to Connors, raising an eyebrow with a dry, expectant look. "Alright, Hollander encyclopedia. What else do you have in that head of yours about Sofia? We might as well do some digging before Ilya meets her."

Ilya’s stomach did a strange, tight flip. Deep down, a knot of conflicting emotions pulled at his chest—he was touched beyond words by the fierce, unspoken support of his team, but a paranoid voice kept warning him not to get his hopes up. Life had never handed him easy gifts, and expecting a fairytale reunion with a niece he’d just discovered felt like asking for trouble.

Connors winced, shrugging helplessly. "Look, I told you, Shane is ridiculously protective. There isn't a lot of personal stuff out there. Just... little things that slip through here and there. Because as insane as Hollander is about her privacy, the guy also just loves being a dad."

"What does that even mean?" St-Simon asked, leaning his shoulder against the wall and finishing his vodka.

"Well," Connors grinned, his eyes lighting up with another piece of trivia. "In an interview last year, some reporter asked Shane what his favorite off-season activity was. Expecting him to say golfing or fishing or going to Paris, right? And Shane just looks dead into the camera and says, 'Being able to pick my daughter up from school every day and joining the PTA meetings.'"

The entire room went dead silent.

Hammersmith blinked. "The... PTA?"

"The captain of the Red Sox is on the elementary school PTA?" Koslov muttered, looking genuinely baffled by the concept.

Before Ilya could stop it, a genuine laugh rumbled out of his chest. It was a rich, warm sound that instantly cut through the heavy, exhausted fog lingering in the room. He didn't care if it sounded strange or mundane. Hearing that a world-class athlete spent his free time worrying about school bake sales and drop-off lines made Ilya's heart feel lighter than it had all night.

"Good," Ilya said softly, an easy smile resting on his face.

Sofia had a great father. A devoted, fiercely protective man who actually wanted her, who showed up for her every single day—a man who was a universe away from anything Alexei Rozanov could have ever been.

Koslov leaned back against the desk by the side of the room, crossing his arms and looking at Connors. "Alright, kid. Give us what else you know about Sofia. Even the small details."

Connors nodded, pulling up his mental file once again. "Well, her middle name is Yuna—after Shane's mom, Yuna Hollander. And while Shane is notoriously obsessed with Canada Dry, word on the street is Sofia refuses to touch it and strictly drinks City Seltzer's Berry Whip."

Connors grinned, adding, "Oh, and she's already fluent in three languages."

His teammates stared at him incredulously.

"Three?" Hammersmith blurted out, staring at Connors like he’d just claimed the six-year-old was a rocket scientist. "She's six!"

"How?" St-Simon asked, shaking his head.

Connors shrugged casually. "Shane mentioned in a quick post-game interview last year that he only speaks Japanese at home, so Sofia grows up connected to his heritage. Obviously, living in Boston, she uses English everywhere else. But at her school, she’s encouraged to speak French—to the point where she apparently only speaks French during recess with her friends."

Ilya’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening in utter confusion. "Why the fuck French?" Ilya blurted out, his thick Russian accent heavy with genuine bewilderment.

"Cap, they’re Canadian," Connors explained, offering a sheepish grin. "Even though they live in Boston now, Shane wanted her to have the exact same kind of dual-language schooling he had growing up in Ottawa. So, he enrolled her in the International School of Boston. It's a bilingual school that offers a super rigorous dual-language program leading right to the French Baccalaureate or the International Baccalaureate."

Ilya stared at Connors, his mind racing as he processed the information. A six-year-old girl, with his mamma’s face, living right down the road in Boston, drinking berry seltzer, speaking Japanese at home, and chattering in French on the playground.

It sounded so impossibly far removed from the cold, violent world of Moscow where he had grown up—and for that, Ilya felt a profound surge of gratitude.

Connors shrugged, throwing his hands out in a gesture of absolute defeat. "Honestly, Cap, that's literally all I know."

He paused, his brow furrowing as a random memory flickered across his mind. "Oh—wait. The mother of some kid who played with her in the park posted online that Sofia is actually an insane pitcher. Said she's got crazy accuracy for a six-year-old and a total future in the sport if she decides to go professional." Connors rubbed the back of his neck, offering a skeptical look. "Though, I don't know if that's legit or just Boston Red Sox die-hards exaggerating because they want the Hollander name to turn into a multi-generational baseball dynasty."

A frown cut across Ilya’s face, his jaw tightening as he stared at the hotel floor. He silently prayed that this Hollander wasn't forcing the game onto her—that he wasn't dragging a six-year-old girl onto a field just to fulfill his own ego.

Ilya knew what that felt like.

He loved hockey with every fiber of his being now, but it hadn't been a choice. It had been beaten into him by Grigori, the second he showed an ounce of talent on the ice, turned into a transaction long before Ilya was old enough to even understand what a career was.

Ilya didn't want that life for his niece.

Before his thoughts could spiral any deeper into the dark, familiar ghosts of his childhood, the hum of his phone vibrating against the wooden dresser shattered the tension. Ilya glanced down. The screen lit up with an unfamiliar Montreal number, but he knew instantly who it was.

"Ursula," Ilya answered, bringing the phone to his ear.

The room went completely still, five pairs of eyes locking onto him in breathless anticipation.

"Ilya," Ursula’s soft, breathless voice came through the speaker, free of the shaking fear from earlier. "I spoke to him, and... he said yes. He is willing to meet with you the moment he gets back to Boston."

A sudden, brilliant grin broke across Ilya's face, lighting up his hard features and making him look five years younger.

"I do not know if you follow American sports, Ilya," Ursula continued, sounding slightly flustered. "But his name is Shane Hollander, and he plays baseball—"

"Ursula, stop," Ilya cut in softly, a genuine chuckle rumbling in his chest. "My rookie is a massive baseball fan. He figured everything out in about ten minutes."

There was a brief, stunned silence at the other end of the line, followed by a lighthearted burst of laughter from Ursula. "Of course he did. Well... good luck, Ilya. He is a good man. You do not need to worry."

"Thank you, Ursula. Truly."

The call ended with a soft click. Ilya lowered the phone, taking a deep, steadying breath as he looked up at the five men standing in the hotel room, all of them practically vibrating with nervous energy.

"He said yes," Ilya announced, his voice thick with emotion. "I meet them when they get back to Boston."

A collective roar erupted in the suite.

Before Ilya could even react, Hammersmith lunged forward, throwing his broad arms around Ilya's neck, followed instantly by Koslov and St-Simon hauling him into a suffocating, chaotic group hug. Even Cliff was grinning ear-to-ear, clapping a heavy hand on Ilya's back, while Connors stood on the edge of the pile, cheering loudly for his captain.

The weight of Moscow hadn't disappeared, and the path ahead was completely uncharted, but surrounded by the loud, relentless warmth of his team, Ilya Rozanov knew he wasn't walking into it alone.

Chapter 4: How can you guys live in Boston and know this little about baseball?!

Chapter Notes

So, this is quite literally me, and my research spiral trying to learn as much baseball as possible and going a little bit mad and overwhelmed. I hope you liked Fan Connors, because I’ve grown fond of him and he is not leaving any time soon!

The hum of the bus engine vibrated through the floorboards as the team highway-cruised down the interstate, leaving Montreal behind. Up front, the rest of the roster was carrying on as usual—shouting over card games, blasting music, and reliving highlights from the previous night's win in a relentless wall of noise.

In the back, however, it was a completely different world.

Ilya sat wedged into a window seat, surrounded by Cliff, Koslov, Hammersmith, St-Simon, and Connors. The rookie was practically vibrating, leaning over the back of the seat in front of Ilya with a notebook resting on his knees, giving his captain a rapid-fire crash course on the mechanics of Major League Baseball. The rest of the guys hovered nearby, slouched in their seats, casually throwing in jokes while absorbing the lesson through osmosis.

"So, the pitcher stands on the mound, right? Sixty feet, six inches away," Connors explained, drawing a makeshift diamond in his notebook. "And you have three strikes, four balls—"

Cliff shifted in his seat across the aisle, resting his chin on his fist as he watched Ilya intently write down every term in a small pocket pad. "Ilya, do you really need to learn all this?" He asked, a dry smirk tugging at his lips. "Is this actually necessary? Won't the two of you just bond over Sofia?"

Ilya didn't look up from his notepad, his pen scratching against the paper. "I want to be able to bond with this guy outside of Sofia. After all, he will be family. And it is not like we will be able to talk about hockey."

Connors let out a snort, waving his pen in the air. "Honestly, Cap? You might be able to talk more about hockey with him than baseball."

Ilya paused, his blue eyes flicking up to meet the rookie's. "What do you mean?"

"Shane Hollander’s dad, David Hollander, used to be a McGill Redbird," Connors revealed, leaning forward with an authoritative grin. "McGill is that university up in Montreal, and it is considered the Harvard of Canada. David was a center—a pretty damn good one, too. He never went pro, but only because he turned down offers to go into finance instead. In fact, the reason Shane wears number twenty-four on his baseball jersey is because that was the number his dad wore playing for McGill."

Hammersmith raised an eyebrow, letting out a whistle. "No kidding."

"Yeah," Connors continued, gesturing between himself and Ilya. "So, Shane’s situation is basically the exact opposite of mine. I came from a crazy baseball-obsessed family and chose hockey, while Shane grew up in a total hockey household and chose baseball."

Connors leaned back against the headrest, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"Which, if we're being completely honest, was probably a way better move for him anyway. Out of every major sport in North America, baseball has the highest percentage of Asian players, mostly because of Japan. Can you even imagine him trying to make it in the NHL? Boston isn't really like that, thank God, but imagine if he’d been drafted by Montreal? He would’ve been treated like the token Asian player every single day."

Ilya absorbed the information, his fingers tightening slightly around his pen as he imagined a kid trying to navigate the icy politics of Canadian hockey with that kind of target on his back.

"So," Ilya murmured, looking down at his notes on strike zones and pitching rotations. "His father knows the game."

"Trust me, Cap," Connors said. "You bring up a blue-line entry or a power-play setup, and the Hollanders will know exactly what you're talking about."

Ilya shook his head, staring down at his notebook with a fierce, sudden intensity. "No, no. Now I need to learn even more about baseball. I cannot go into this looking stupid and lose against this guy."

The entire back row erupted into laughter.

"And there it is!" Hammersmith cheered, pointing a finger at him. "The Captain's psycho competitiveness is back!"

"He gets one look at a stat sheet and turns into a scout," St-Simon teased, shaking his head.

Ilya absorbed their jokes with an easy grin, leaning back into his headrest and letting the warm camaraderie wash over him. For a few blissful minutes, everything felt simple. The Hollanders lived in Boston. Ilya lived in Boston. His long-lost niece was practically in his backyard, safe, loved, and easily reachable. It was a picture-perfect fairy tale situation.

Then, the dark, hyper-analytical gears in his mind began to spin.

The warmth in his chest evaporated, replaced by a sudden, sharp coldness as a horrifying thought struck him. In pro sports, nothing stayed the same forever. Contracts ended and roster moves happened.

What if Shane Hollander got traded?

What if the Red Sox shipped him off to Los Angeles, or Chicago, or Miami? Sofia would pack up her little life, leave Massachusetts, and move thousands of miles away to another city—maybe even another country if Toronto made an offer.

Ilya sat up straight, the pocket pad suddenly feeling slick in his palm. He looked over at the rookie, his voice dropping into a serious, guarded pitch. "Connors... do you think Shane Hollander could get traded?"

Connors froze and his jaw dropped. "What?"

"I mean, I know he is captain," Ilya continued, the anxiety in his voice rising. "I know he won two World Series, but management is management. What if they decide to trade him?"

"Don't you fucking dare say that!" Connors roared, leaping up from his seat so violently his head nearly clipped the luggage rack above.

The sudden shout blasted through the entire bus. Up front, the music cut out, card games halted, and half the roster turned around in complete bewilderment to see why a rookie was screaming bloody murder at their six-foot-three Russian captain.

Ilya quickly raised a hand, waving his teammates off with a dismissive gesture. "Is fine! Go back to your games!"

Recognizing their captain's 'don't push it' look, the guys up front slowly turned back around, the music kicking back in as the chatter resumed. Back in the rear row, six pairs of eyes were locked dead on Connors, who was standing in the aisle, hyperventilating slightly.

"I am so sorry, Cap," Connors whispered frantically, sitting back down and clutching his chest. "I am so, so sorry for shouting at you. But you have no fucking idea how insane baseball superstition is!"

"Superstition?" Koslov asked, raising an eyebrow. "More than hockey?"

"You think hockey players are bad with their pre-game meals and taped sticks?!" Connors hissed, leaning across the aisle toward Ilya. "You have no idea what you're talking about! Baseball superstition is on a whole other planet. It's ancient, it's arcane, and speaking bad luck into existence is an actual sin!"

Connors jabbed a finger toward the window.

"Do you know what happens when Boston sells its golden child?!" Connors' eyes were practically bulging out of his head. "Have you ever heard of the Curse of the Bambino?!"

Ilya blinked, utterly lost. "The... what?"

"Babe Ruth!" Connors gasped, horrified. "We sold Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees after being the first actual dynasty in baseball history, winning five World Series! And what happened?! Eighty-six years of misery! Eighty-six years without a single championship until 2004! It ruined generations of Boston fans!"

Connors leaned in, lowering his voice to a fierce, desperate whisper.

"Now Shane Hollander brings us two back-to-back titles, and you're putting the idea of selling him out into the universe?! If management even whispered a rumor about trading Shane, the entire city of Boston would burn down. Ten thousand fans would storm Fenway Park just to string up the General Manager! Shane Hollander is never leaving Boston, Cap. Ever. So please, for the love of God, never say that word again!"

Everyone in the back row just stared at Connors in absolute, unblinking shock.

For three long seconds, nobody moved. Then, Koslov slowly leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. "Wow... are you sure you're not the baseball fan in your family?"

"I am mild!" Connors insisted, throwing his hands up in genuine self-defense. "Seriously! You should meet my brothers and my father. I'm practically an outcast in my own house!"

Hammersmith, St-Simon, and Cliff exchange horrified looks, trying to imagine an entire household filled with people five times more intense than the hyperventilating rookie currently sitting in front of them.

"You guys don't get it," Connors added, shaking his head as if pitying their ignorance. "A hockey fan might debate whether a hit was clean." He leaned in closer, dropping his voice into a dead-serious whisper. "A baseball fan might spend three hours arguing about whether a runner left third base too early on a sacrifice fly in 1978."

A collective shiver seemed to pass through the back of the bus.

Ilya looked down at his little pocket pad, taking a slow, steady breath. The absolute madness of Boston sports culture was terrifying, but if the entire city was this obsessively devoted to keeping Shane Hollander in Boston, then Sofia wasn't going anywhere.

She was here to stay. And for the first time in twenty-four hours, Ilya felt like he could finally breathe.

"So..." Ilya began, a amused smirk tugging at his lips as he tapped his pen against his pad. "We must really hate the Yankees."

Connors' eyes flared up like two burning candles. "Hate them? Cap, 'hate' isn't even close to a strong enough word."

The rookie shifted in the aisle, raising a finger to outline the bitter rivalry like a historian laying out a hundred-year war.

"Look at it from Boston's perspective," Connors said, his voice dropping into an intense, dramatic tempo. "First, the Yankees bought Babe Ruth from us. Then, they used him to build the richest, most ridiculous, most successful franchise in baseball history. Meanwhile, Boston spent eighty-six straight years suffering in the dark!"

Connors waved his hand around dramatically. "And the Yankees fans take immense pleasure in reminding the Red Sox fans about it constantly. Every. Single. Season."

"So," Cliff interjected with a dry grin, "they became the ultimate villains."

"Exactly!" Connors shouted, snapping his fingers. "To Boston, the Yankees became the ultimate, evil villain. And to Yankees fans, Boston became this loud, annoying little brother who just wouldn't stop trying to knock them off the throne!"

Koslov shook his head, looking equal parts amused and thoroughly bewildered by the sheer obsession. "Then it is an endless war?"

"It’s a religion!" Connors declared proudly. "You live in Boston now, so you need to know the rules. Rule number one: 'Anyone but the Yankees.' Rule number two: the classic chant, 'Yankees suck!'—which, by the way, you will hear at Fenway even when the Red Sox are playing the Toronto Blue Jays."

Hammersmith snorted out a laugh, leaning back into his headrest.

"Rule number three," Connors finished, holding up three fingers with absolute solemnity. "'I don't care who wins, as long as the Yankees lose.' And rule number four... Never. Ever. Root for New York."

Ilya watched the rookie finish his passionate speech, letting out a low, breathless laugh that warmed his chest. The absurdity of it all was strangely comforting. He tucked his notebook safely into his jacket pocket, feeling the cold anxiety from earlier completely melt away into the background noise of the bus.

Connors continued his uninterrupted monologue for the rest of the three-hour drive, his voice carrying straight through the rear of the bus, taking them far beyond the borders of Massachusetts.

Ilya listened in absolute stillness, his broad back resting against the seat, absorbing every word with the disciplined focus he usually reserved for video sessions and opponent scouting. Beside him, Koslov slowly leaned his head back against the glass, letting out a low, amused huff.

"I actually think this is one of the biggest culture shocks for someone coming from hockey," Connors explained, waving his hands to emphasize the point. "Hockey has a rich history, but it tends to celebrate eras. Baseball celebrates continuity. A game played yesterday is part of the exact same conversation as a game played in 1912. A baseball fan isn't just watching a sport—they're participating in a tradition."

Connors leaned forward, ticking points off on his fingers like a seasoned professor.

"First of all, baseball is an oral tradition," the rookie said, his eyes bright. "You'll hear older fans say things like, 'My grandfather took me to Fenway,' or 'I watched Yaz,' or 'My dad still hasn't forgiven Buckner,' or 'My grandmother cried in 2004.' Every generation passes these stories down. Baseball history is family history."

Hammersmith crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Then it's all storytelling?"

"And rules!" Connors shot back instantly. "The official rulebook is enormous, but that's only half of it. There are 'baseball rules' that aren't written down anywhere, but everyone knows them. You don't bunt to break up a no-hitter. You don't admire your home run too long—though that's changing a bit now. You don't steal bases when you're up by ten runs. You don't show up a pitcher. And if someone hits your star player, you expect retaliation. None of that is in the MLB rulebook, yet every player knows it, and fans will argue endlessly over whether those unwritten rules should even exist."

St-Simon leaned back, shaking his head. "Sounds exhausting."

"It gets crazier," Connors grinned. "Unlike hockey, basketball, or football, every single MLB stadium has different dimensions. Many of the oldest parks were built long before standardized designs."

Connors pointed toward the bus window as if Fenway were right outside.

"Take Fenway Park right here in Boston. You've got the Green Monster—a thirty-seven-foot-high wall in left field. You've got Pesky's Pole, which is an unusually short right-field foul pole. Balls bounce off the Monster in ways unique to Fenway, so a player who knows the park plays that wall like it's another fielder. Then you look at Wrigley Field in Chicago—they have literal ivy growing on the outfield walls, and if a ball gets stuck in it, it's automatically ruled dead, plus the wind completely changes how the game is played. Or Oracle Park in San Francisco, where home runs splash straight into McCovey Cove and fans wait out in the water in kayaks hoping to catch one."

Ilya’s brow furrowed slightly as he tried to visualize a ball landing in the water, but he kept listening, taking it all in.

"And the numbers!" Connors continued, ramping up his speed. "Baseball fans memorize statistics the way other people memorize player names. Not just basic stuff like batting average, ERA, or home runs. I'm talking OPS, WAR, WHIP, FIP, wRC+, BABIP. Entire friendships have been ruined arguing over which statistics actually matter! The sport rewards complete, encyclopedic knowledge. Ask a fan who hit the longest home run, or who was the last pitcher to throw back-to-back no-hitters, or which catcher once caught four different knuckleball pitchers in one career—someone will know the answer instantly!"

"Do you know who caught four knuckleballers?" Cliff asked dryly from across the aisle.

"Of course I do," Connors said without missing a beat, before pressing on. "And the arguments never end. Is bunting good strategy? Should pitchers hit? Was a player actually better than his stats? Is batting average overrated? Who's the GOAT? Those debates have been running for fifty years, and they will run for fifty more."

Connors took a rare breath, his tone turning a bit darker.

"Plus, baseball remembers failure. It doesn't hide its painful history like other sports. Fans still talk about Bill Buckner's error in 1986, the Black Sox scandal, Pete Rose and gambling, the Steroid Era, and the 'Shot Heard 'Round the World'. It stays alive in everyday conversation. Hell, fans even bring scorebooks to games! They sit in the stands and record every pitch, hit, and out by hand. It's a tradition from the 1800s that people still do today."

"They sit there writing down every pitch?" Koslov asked, looking thoroughly baffled.

"Yes! And they have their own language for it," Connors added. "They'll say a pitcher is 'painting the corners,' or to 'turn two,' or call a fly ball a 'can of corn' or a hard hit a 'frozen rope.' They talk about the 'Mendoza Line,' a 'seeing-eye single,' a 'Texas Leaguer,' 'chin music,' a 'walk-off,' or a 'moonshot.' To anyone else, it sounds like complete gibberish."

Connors gestured toward the front of the bus, where the rest of the hockey team was still shouting and laughing over cards.

"That's the biggest philosophical difference between hockey and baseball," Connors finished softly, leaning against the seat back. "Hockey is built around continuous motion and split-second reactions. Baseball embraces pauses. Pitch. Wait. Think. Reset. Another pitch. The tension builds between moments rather than during constant action. Every single pitch is its own little psychological duel between the batter and the pitcher."

He looked directly at Ilya, his voice full of quiet respect.

"A team plays 162 regular-season games, Cap. Fans spend six full months with these guys every single day. They watch rookies develop, veterans decline, slumps turn into hot streaks, and tiny adjustments change entire careers. Over a season that long, every game feels like another chapter in a massive story. That's why baseball fans get so attached. You aren't just watching nine innings, you're carrying around 150 years of lore and adding one more game to it."

When Connors finally went quiet, the low hum of the bus engine filled the back row once again.

Koslov slowly leaned his head back against the glass, letting out a low, amused huff. "Man... and here I thought hockey parents were intense. This is like an entire civilization built on unwritten rules and old grudges."

"It's a living tradition," Connors corrected smoothly, pointing an authoritative finger in the air. "You don't just watch it, Kos. You inherit it."

Cliff leaned across the aisle, his sharp eyes resting on Ilya's face. "So, Cap. After hearing all that... you still think you're going to learn enough baseball by next week to talk stats with Shane Hollander?"

A faint, razor-thin smile touched the corner of Ilya’s lips, but he did not answer. Instead, he looked out the tinted window as the highway signs began announcing their approach to the Boston city limits.

"I do not need to memorize every rule; we will understand each other just fine." Ilya finally said, resting his hand against his coat where his phone sat in his pocket. "If his father was a McGill center, he would understand what it means to defend family on and off the ice."

Hammersmith clapped a hand onto Connors' shoulder, giving the rookie a firm shake. "Well, kid. You might have saved the day with your baseball dictionary. But if we lose tomorrow night because you spent the whole bus ride giving lectures instead of sleeping, Cliff is making you eat the pucks."

"Worth it," Connors grinned, though he quickly scrambled to pull his hood up and lean back into his seat as the bus finally pulled off the exit ramp toward the arena parking lot.

As the bus finally pulled into the arena garage, the guys grabbed their duffel bags and filed out into the crisp night air. Ilya stepped off the stairs and paused near the curb. He certainly didn't need any more lectures on baseball trivia tonight, but looking toward the empty road, he realized he didn't want to go back to a silent home either.

Of course, he wasn't about to admit that out loud.

"My place," Ilya announced casually, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I order pizza and beers. You all come."

Hammersmith grinned, slapping him on the back. "Now that's a captain's order I can get behind."

Twenty minutes later, they were sprawled across the blue sofa in Ilya’s high-rise penthouse overlooking the city lights. Boxes of fresh, piping-hot pizza sat open on the coffee table beside a dozen cold bottles.

St-Simon leaned back with a slice in hand, turning his eyes toward Connors. "Hey, rookie. On the bus, you threw out like fifty random slang terms. What the fuck does 'painting the corners' actually mean?"

Connors swallowed his bite of pepperoni and pointed his bottle at St-Simon. "Oh, that's actually a term commentators use constantly when they describe Shane Hollander's pitching style."

Connors gestured in the air, drawing an imaginary box in front of him. "Think of the strike zone over home plate. 'Painting the corners' means a pitcher is throwing the ball so accurately that it hits the absolute razor edge of that zone. Imagine the pitch barely clipping the outer corner. The batter can't reach it comfortably to get a solid hit, but the umpire still calls it a strike."

He took a quick sip of his beer before adding, "It's the ultimate compliment to a pitcher's control. It means you aren't just throwing hard, but that you're an artist and surgical with your placement. And Hollander? He paints those corners better than almost anyone in the league."

Ilya listened quietly from the armchair, a cold beer resting in his hand, watching his teammates debate baseball in his living room. "What about the Mendoza Line?" He asked, taking a sip of his beer and looking over at the rookie. "You mentioned that one too."

"Named after Mario Mendoza," Connors answered immediately, shifting on the carpet. "He was a light-hitting shortstop whose batting average hovered right around .200. Today, hitting below .200 is often described as being 'below the Mendoza Line.' It's basically shorthand for terrible hitting."

Cliff raised an eyebrow, a dry smirk on his face. "But not Hollander, right?"

Connors scoffed loudly, looking deeply insulted on behalf of baseball itself. "Are you kidding? Hollander bats .330! That is absolute elite-tier hitting!"

Koslov scratched his jaw, tilting his head. "Wait... are pitchers always batters? I thought they just threw the ball."

Connors threw his hands over his face, collapsing back against the sofa cushions in utter despair. "My God. How can you guys live in Boston and know this little about baseball?! It's painful!"

He sat back up, glaring around the living room to make sure they were actually listening.

"Look, as a two-way player, Shane is basically doing the jobs of two roster spots," Connors explained, his voice full of solemn gravity. "He starts on the mound every fifth game as the pitcher. But on the days between those starts? He stays right in the lineup as the designated hitter. That means he's batting almost every single game while simultaneously following a full starting pitcher's throwing program."

Connors shook his head in genuine awe.

"Between starts, the guy recovers, hits in the cages, lifts weights, throws bullpen sessions, and prepares for his next outing. It is one of the most brutally demanding physical routines in all of professional sports. That's why there are so few true two-way players in history—it's insane."

Ilya leaned back into his leather chair, swirling the amber liquid in his bottle as he absorbed the rookie's words. He pictured the man in the Rolex ads—the pristine white tennis outfit, the fierce protection over his daughter—and realized Shane Hollander was built of far tougher stuff than just good looks.

Chapter 5: I'll personally buy you the nicotine patches and the gum

Over the next week, Ilya found himself doing something he had never done in his entire life: obsessively doom-scrolling social media.

If he thought hockey Twitter was a unhinged, hostile wilderness, baseball Twitter was a completely different animal. It was denser, more psychotic, and fueled by a collective obsession that borderlined on a full-blown religion. And right at the center of that cult sat Shane Hollander.

To the city of Boston, Shane wasn't just a star athlete—he was practically worshipped as a living God, the untouchable savior of the Red Sox who had brought the franchise back-to-back titles. Every single pitch he threw was dissected by thousands of accounts, and every statistical split debated as if it were holy scripture.

Yet, as Ilya scrolled through hundreds of fan threads, a bizarre contradiction emerged that surprised him.

For all their wild intensity, Red Sox fans held a strangely sacred code when it came to Hollander’s personal life. The entire city seemed silently terrified of crossing him. They knew that Shane’s absolute, non-negotiable line in the sand was his six-year-old daughter. Everyone on sports forums openly acknowledged that if the media or fans ever made life uncomfortable for Sofia, Hollander would pack up his bags and leave Boston the second his contract was up, no matter how much money they threw at him.

Because of that unspoken threat, the fans acted as an aggressive, protective shield. When an overly eager tourist occasionally posted a fuzzy, far-away photo of Shane and Sofia walking through Logan Airport or grabbing ice cream in the North End, baseball Twitter would turn on the poster like a pack of wolves, forcing them to delete the upload within minutes before Shane could even see it. No pictures of Sofia were ever tolerated on public feeds.

None.

Sitting on his couch in the dark, the blue light of his phone reflecting off his eyes, Ilya tracked the digital breadcrumbs.

By Friday afternoon, the online chatter reached a fever pitch. A flight tracker account subtly flagged a private jet departing Sydney, and within hours, subtle, respectful tweets began popping up without media tags:

@SoxNation24

HE IS BACK IN THE BUILDING. Shane’s flight landed at Logan two hours ago. The King is home. I repeat, THE KING IS HOME. 🏆🏆⚾️

@RedSoxRulez_99

Has anyone spotted him at Fenway yet??? Tell me he’s already in the cages.

@SoxNation24

Bro let the man breathe he just flew 20 hours from Sydney 😭 But knowing Shane he’s probably already doing 6 AM bullpen sessions in his sleep.

@BostonUnfiltered

Honestly, I don’t care if he takes a whole month off. Shane Hollander literally carried this entire city on his back for two straight World Series runs. If he wants to sit on a beach until Opening Day, HE HAS EARNED IT.

@DirtyWaterSports

Month off??? Are you insane??? We need ring #3! Three-peat or bust! Shane knows the mission. He’s not resting until the trophy is back in Fenway.

@FenwayFaithful_617

Y’all are talking about rings, I’m just glad he’s back in Boston. This city belongs to Shane Hollander. The mayor should name a street after him at this point. Rename Storrow Drive. Rename the whole town.

@JDM_Sox_Fan

No fr though... remember when he hit that walk-off HR against Houston in Game 6? I was at Fenway and I swear to God the entire stadium vibrated. People were crying. I was crying. Grown men weeping in the bleachers over this man.

@617_Baseball_Guy

That wasn't even his best moment! Game 7 pitching clinic against the Dodgers. 14 K's. 8 scoreless innings. Then he casually steps up to the plate and drives in two runs himself. HE DOES BOTH. HE IS A GOD.

@SoxFanatic_24

I literally have a shrine of Shane in my living room. My wife thinks I’m crazy, but Shane Hollander has brought me more joy in the last two years than my actual family. God bless number 24.

@617_Kid

Yo did anyone see that guy who posted a pic of Shane at the baggage claim???

@BostonSox_Daily

IT ALREADY GOT TAKEN DOWN THANK GOD. Listen to me very carefully everybody: DO NOT POST PHOTOS OF SHANE AND SOFIA. I don't care if you see them getting coffee, I don't care if you see them at target. NO PHOTOS.

@RedSoxCore

SAY IT LOUDER FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK. We all know the rule!! Shane’s kid comes first. If y’all ruin his privacy and he leaves Boston, I will personally hunt down whoever leaked the picture.

@FenwayLover_88

For real though. Remember two years ago when some idiot blogger tried to follow them into a restaurant? Shane gave him a look that could freeze fire and the whole fanbase ran that blogger off the internet in under 10 minutes. We protect our Captain.

@SoxNation24

Exactly. You respect Shane, you respect Sofia, and you let the man cook. Now everybody shut up and pray for the three-peat. 🏆🏆🏆

Ilya locked his phone and let out a sigh.

He was incredibly grateful for the fierce, collective respect Boston had built around Sofia’s privacy. But as he stared at his reflection in the glass, a cold, nervous knot tightened in his gut.

Shane Hollander was back in Boston. And the nerves were making him feel sick.

Ilya was still staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached out, flipping the device over. A text from a sequence of unknown numbers lit up the screen: Hi, this is Shane Hollander. Ursula passed along your contact info. Sofia and I are back in town, and I am ready to meet tomorrow if that works for you.

A second later, a dropped pin dropped into the chat: an upscale, low-key cafe tucked away in Brookline.

He sat bolt upright on the edge of the mattress, running both hands through his hair in panic. "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" he muttered to himself in Russian, pacing the length of the hardwood floor. Meeting a six-year-old was scary enough, but facing down her hyper-protective, legendary father was an entirely different nightmare.

Seeking sanity, he opened the team group chat and shot off a quick message explaining the update.

The responses flooded in within seconds.

Cliff: You need to bring something for the kid. Do not show up empty-handed.

Hammersmith: Get a gift. Kids love gifts.

Ilya quickly typed back: Shane said first meeting is just with him. He decides after if I get to meet Sofia.

Koslov: Doesn't matter. You still buy the gift! Show the dad you actually care.

St-Simon: Bring it to the cafe. Even if she isn't there, you leave it with him.

Connors: DO NOT BUY BASEBALL GEAR. I REPEAT. DO NOT ENCROACH IN HOLLANDER TERRITORY.

Taking their frantic advice, Ilya threw on a coat early the next morning and drove straight to the team store at TD Garden before opening hours, using his player credential to get inside. He walked past rows of adult hoodies and signed pucks, completely lost, until the store manager pointed him toward the customized plush section.

Twenty minutes later, Ilya walked back out to his car carrying a sleek black box. Inside sat a plush brown teddy bear wearing a tiny, perfectly stitched Boston Bruins jersey—complete with number 81 and ROZANOV stretched across the back.

He placed the box on the passenger seat, took a long breath to settle his nerves, and started the engine, driving towards the Japonaise Bakery & Café. When he finally parked his car along the curb, his hands lingered on the steering wheel as he stared through the glass at the modest storefront.

Taking a deep breath, Ilya unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbed the sleek black box from the passenger seat, and stepped out. He pushed the front door open, the soft chime of a bell ringing above him. He stepped inside and immediately blinked, thrown off by the complete lack of noise. The display cases were filled with fresh pastries, but the dining area was entirely deserted.

Not a single customer sat at the wooden tables.

Before he could wonder if he had the wrong address, an older woman of Japanese descent emerged from behind the counter, wearing a clean white apron. She offered him a warm, polite smile.

"Good morning," she said softly. "Please, follow me."

Ilya hesitated, looking around the empty shop. "Is... is the place closed today?"

The woman chuckled gently, gesturing toward the back seating area. "Hollander-senshu booked the whole venue for the morning so you could have complete privacy."

She led him around a partition, and Ilya’s heart did a sudden, violent flip against his ribs.

Sitting in a sunlit corner booth was Shane Hollander.

Seeing him in person was completely different from seeing him on a billboard or a television screen. Up close, the man was breathtaking. Sunlight hit the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, throwing his sharp jawline and brown eyes into full relief. And even sitting down in casual clothes, the sheer athletic frame of an elite two-way player was impossible to hide—especially those thick, powerful thighs filling out his jeans.

Ilya caught himself staring and instantly snapped his eyes up, a hot flush hitting the back of his neck.

Shane stood up, offering a polite, warm smile as he extended a hand across the table. "Rozanov. Good to meet you."

"Good to meet you," Ilya replied mechanically, shaking his hand. Shane's grip was firm and steady, the hand of a man used to throwing ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball strikes. “Please call me Ilya.”

“Then you may call me Shane.”

They both sat down across from each other. Before the silence could stretch, the baker lady returned, carefully placing a steaming cup of dark drip coffee in front of Ilya, a bowl of whisked matcha tea in front of Shane, and a shared plate of unique, pale-green pastries between them.

"Matcha croissants," Shane explained, gesturing toward the plate with a slight nod. "I took the liberty of ordering. I hope you like them. Sofia and I come here all the time, it’s our absolute favorite breakfast spot. You get the butter and flaky texture of a traditional Parisian bakery, but with Japanese flavors."

Sitting across from him, Ilya felt helplessly charmed.

It was almost absurd. How could a man who carried an entire multi-million-dollar franchise on his shoulders, who was literally worshipped as a sports deity by an entire city, whose face graced towering luxury billboards—how could that man sit here in a bakery and babble so shyly, yet so proudly, about his six-year-old daughter?

Internally, Ilya’s mind went into absolute overdrive.

That’s it, he thought, staring at the gentle curve of Shane’s smile. I am going to charm the absolute pants off this man. I am going to marry him and become Sofia’s other dad.

And, of course, Ilya quickly reassured himself that this brilliant new life plan was purely strategic. It was the ultimate, flawless revenge against Alexei. He was going to make his late brother roll over in his grave, cursing Ilya’s name for stepping into his shoes and building the perfect family. Yes. That was the only reason. It had nothing to do with those ridiculously endearing freckles, those enchanting brown eyes, or the way Shane’s posture relaxed when he talked about his kid. Absolutely zero to do with any of that.

On the outside, Ilya cleared his throat, desperately fighting to keep his signature stoic composure intact. "Do not worry," he said, his deep voice smooth as he reached for a croissant. "I think I will enjoy it. I can eat anything."

Shane let out a genuine, lighthearted laugh—a warm, bright sound that echoed softly against the bakery walls.

I need to go buy an engagement ring right now, the blond thought, his internal panic spiking as he took a bite of the pastry just to give his hands something to do.

Shane took a slow sip of his matcha tea, set the ceramic bowl down on the table, and let his expression settle into something more serious.

"I wanted to apologize to you, Ilya," Shane said, his voice dropping into a sincere, grounded tone. "Ursula... she never told me much about her past, or you. She only came clean about everything recently. I didn’t know Alexei’s name, his background, or that he had a brother living in the exact same city as me."

Shane looked up, his eyes meeting Ilya's. "Looking at you now, the family resemblance is uncanny. But back then, I had no idea. It must have been a massive shock for you to find out about her existence, even worse that she was here all along. If I had known, Sofia could have had you as an uncle earlier. She could have had a piece of her family and a connection to her Russian heritage."

Ilya felt a tight knot form in his throat. He looked down at his hands, then shook his head firmly. "Do not worry about it. It was not your fault. If anything, I am glad it did not happen sooner."

Shane tilted his head slightly, listening intently.

"If she was around my family back then..." Ilya continued, his voice steadying. "Sofia would not have been safe. Not with Alexei, and definitely not with my father."

Shane’s sharp, perceptive eyes flicked over Ilya’s face, catching the shadow that crossed the captain's features. "Were you?" He asked quietly. "Were you safe?"

Ilya’s instinct was to shut down, to pull up his usual walls and brush the question off with a deflective joke or a stoic shrug. But looking at Shane—a man who held the key to his niece's life, a man who built his entire world around protecting a child—Ilya knew honesty was the only currency that mattered here.

"No," Ilya admitted, staring straight into Shane's eyes. "I was not."

Empathy passed over Shane's face. He reached slightly across the table, his shoulders dropping. "I'm really sorry, Ilya. No kid deserves that." He paused, offering a faint, reassuring smile. "At least now... we can try to be family."

Ilya felt the lingering tension in his chest dissipating. "Yeah," he said softly. "We can. And if it helps in any way, I am very glad Sofia had you. You were the father Alexei never could have been."

Shane nodded slowly, his fingers tracing the rim of his matcha bowl as his expression turned contemplative.

"I also wanted to be upfront with you about Sofia's upbringing," Shane said, his voice quiet and careful. "She doesn't really know much about Russian culture, traditions, or the language. When Ursula agreed to the adoption, that was her one absolute rule. She was emphatic that she didn't want Sofia having any connection to Russia or anything Russian."

Shane looked right at Ilya, his open, candid demeanor showing a vulnerability that Ilya realized was either complete honesty or a touch of lingering nervousness.

"So... I raised her Japanese," Shane explained. "She's Buddhist, like me. She speaks Japanese fluently and understands the culture. Every time we visit my family in Japan, my grandmother takes her to tea ceremony classes and flower arrangement lessons."

Shane paused, rubbing the back of his neck with a faint, sheepish smile. "Looking back, I knew Ursula’s request came from deep trauma and PTSD from her time in Moscow. But to be completely honest with you... a part of me was also grateful for it back then. It allowed me to fully share my heritage with her, to raise her as part of my family without conflict."

Ilya looked down into his coffee, watching the dark liquid swirl before raising his eyes to meet Shane's.

"Russia... it is not the best in many ways," Ilya confessed. "It is cold and expects too much of you. Politically, socially... it can be very hard. But it also has good traditions. Good food and warm people behind stern faces. It has its good and its bad, like anywhere else."

He sighed, leaning slightly forward.

"I do not blame you, Shane. You adopted her. She was raised as a Hollander, and that is good. It is much better to be raised as a Hollander than a Rozanov." Ilya hesitated, his pulse quickening just a bit. "But... will I be allowed to show her some of these things? The good Russian traditions? The food?"

"Of course," Shane answered immediately, without a second's hesitation. "Of course you can, Ilya. She deserves to know that part of herself."

Shane tilted his head, thinking it over for a second. "Though... as far as learning the language goes, maybe we wait until she’s a little older? She already has quite a lot on her plate language-wise." Shane offered a slight, amused smile. "I don't know if Ursula mentioned, but she’s already managing three."

"Don't worry, I know," Ilya let out an amused huff, a genuine smirk breaking through his usual stoic mask. "My rookie is a massive Red Sox fan. He gave me an entire lecture on the team’s bus."

Shane threw his head back and laughed—a rich, ringing sound that made Ilya’s heart do another utterly dangerous, treacherous flip. After calming down from his laughter, Shane took another quiet sip of his matcha. His expression shifted, settling into something far more serious.

"When it comes to your time with her," Shane began, his voice dropping into a protective register, "I want to be completely straight with you. I know better than to judge someone based on TMZ or tabloid headlines. God knows journalists write whatever they want, and paparazzi exaggerate everything. I am not sitting here trying to slut-shame you or tell you that you can't go out, drink with your teammates, or live your life."

Shane leaned across the table, his clear locking onto Ilya’s with full intensity.

"However, when it comes to Sofia, I have non-negotiable boundaries," he continued firmly. "Rule number one: zero alcohol in the house when Sofia is there. If your teammates are around her, nobody drinks. And you especially do not drink. Rule number two: no bringing girls or hookups around her, ever. And rule number three: if she is spending time with you, she is your absolute priority. You do not leave her with a nanny so you can go out partying."

Shane paused, letting the weight of the rules settle in the quiet bakery before continuing.

"We are not jumping straight to overnight visits or leaving her alone with you right away," Shane clarified. "We build up to that slowly as trust develops. And one thing must always remain clear: I am Sofia’s father. That does not change. You are her uncle."

Connors was completely right, Ilya thought, a wave of profound respect washing over him. Shane wasn't just protective; he loved Sofia with every fiber of his being. This child had truly escaped the dark, cold shadow of the Rozanov name and found the ultimate guardian.

On the outside, Ilya nodded slowly, meeting Shane's intense gaze without flinching.

"Do not worry about it," Ilya promised, his tone thick with sincerity. "She is the priority. I know that much. My personal life is for my own time, never when I am with Sofia. I will follow every rule you set, and I will earn your trust."

Shane’s shoulders visibly relaxed, a subtle nod of approval easing the tension in his jaw. "Good. That's good to hear."

Then Shane's eyes narrowed slightly, as if remembering one final detail. "Oh—and one more thing. Absolutely no smoking around her. Secondhand is extremely dangerous for developing kids."

Ilya winced slightly and replied with a sigh. "Ah... that one will be harder."

Shane let out a dry chuckle, a mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. "Don't worry. I'll personally buy you the nicotine patches and the gum."

A genuine laugh broke from Ilya, echoing off the wooden partitions as the last lingering traces of tension between the two captains finally melted away. With the terms laid out, Shane took a final sip of his tea, bringing their breakfast to a close.

"So, that's it for our first meeting," Shane said, his tone turning gentle and thoughtful. "I wanted to sit down with you alone first before I said anything to Sofia. Now that we've talked, I need to go home, sit her down, and explain everything. I want to get her thoughts and make sure she’s comfortable before we set up a date for you two to meet."

Ilya felt his respect for the man grow even deeper. Shane didn't just manage her life, he genuinely valued her opinion, treating a six-year-old’s feelings with care.

"I understand," Ilya replied, picking up the sleek black box resting on the seat next to him. He slid it across the table toward Shane. "This is a gift from me to Sofia."

Shane gave him an appreciative nod, but before putting it aside, he unfastened the lid to inspect the contents.

Internally, a small part of Ilya wondered if he ought to feel offended, like a proud captain insulted by another man screening his gift for any danger. But he didn't. In fact, he didn't mind at all. Shane didn't know him yet, and he shouldn't blindly trust a stranger near his daughter. If anything, this was going far better than Ilya could have ever dreamed, only proving what an extraordinary, vigilant father Shane really was.

Shane lifted the lid, and a bright laugh spilled from his lips as he pulled out the plush brown bear wearing the mini ROZANOV 81 jersey.

"A Bear from a Boston Bear," Shane grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

It was such a terribly corny joke, but Ilya found himself chuckling anyway, completely and utterly charmed by the ridiculousness of it all.

"You know," Shane hummed, setting the plush back into the box with careful affection, "when she was just a baby, I bought her a Wally the Green Monster plushy. To this day, she still sleeps with it every single night."

Ilya raised an eyebrow, a subtle smirk touching his lips. "Ah... the Red Sox mascot."

Shane blinked, looking up in genuine surprise. "Wait, you know about Wally? How much did that rookie teach you?"

"Let’s just say that half of the Boston Bears roster is quite knowledgeable about baseball," Ilya answered smoothly, leaning back in the booth, "Especially about the Red Sox. Connors’ family are massive fans. These last few days, his monologues have shown me entirely new facets of his personality."

Shane threw his head back and burst out laughing.

Yeah, Ilya thought. This really went much better than he had ever expected.

Chapter 6: I think I do need help

The following weekend, Ilya’s phone buzzed with a new message from Shane: I talked to Sofia. She’s open to meeting you. We can bring her over tomorrow afternoon if the invite to your penthouse still stands.

Ilya spent the entire next morning in a state of absolute, high-alert chaos.

He went through his apartment like a man possessed, baby-proofing every square inch. Every adult item, every loose cigar, every sharp or questionable object was locked away out of sight. He cleared out every trace of alcohol from his counters, throwing open his fridge to stock it with juices and fresh ingredients. Taking a cue from what Connors had mentioned in Montreal, he bought Sofia's favorite city seltzer flavor and spent two hours meticulously preparing homemade tuna melts from scratch, wanting everything to be completely perfect.

By 2:00 PM, the doorbell rang.

When Ilya opened the door, Shane stepped inside, holding the hand of a tiny, fiercely adorable six-year-old girl. She was decked out head-to-toe in Red Sox memorabilia—a little red baseball cap pulled low over neat French braids, and a number 24 HOLLANDER jersey that swallowed her frame.

"Ilya, this is Sofia," Shane introduced gently. "Sofia, this is your Uncle Ilya."

"Hello, Sofia," Ilya said softly, kneeling down to her level.

She didn't answer. She just crossed her arms, pulled her cap lower, and stared at him with an unwavering pout.

An hour later, Ilya was inwardly spiraling as his flawless plan was falling apart.

Sofia sat on his plush sofa, refusing to engage in anything. She hadn't touched the tuna melt sitting on her plate, and she hadn't taken a single sip of her Berry Whip. She just sat there, glaring at Ilya with an intense, icy suspicion that made his heart sink deeper and deeper into his chest.

Did I ruin it? he thought frantically. Is my face too scary? Did I put too much mayonnaise in the tuna?

When Shane excused himself to use the restroom, Ilya saw his window. He walked over to carefully sit down on the edge of the ottoman across from her. "Sofia," he began, keeping his voice gentle. "You do not like the tuna melt? Or the soda? I was told it was your favorite."

Sofia dug her sneakers into the rug, her French braids swaying as she turned her head away, her lips pressed into a tight line.

Ilya sighed, the weight of the rejection crushing his spirits. He looked at her small, stubborn face and finally asked the terrifying question that had been haunting him all afternoon. "Do you... do you hate me?"

Sofia immediately stopped pouting, her blue eyes snapping to his. "No," she answered sternly. "Hating people is bad. Tosan taught me better than that."

At least there is that, Ilya thought, feeling a microscopic thread of relief.

"Okay," Ilya said softly. "Then can you tell me why you are so unhappy? I thought you told your dad you were okay with meeting me."

Sofia adjusted her oversized Red Sox cap, her tiny jaw set with absolute conviction as she looked up at him.

"I don't want you to take me from Tosan," she blurted out, her voice trembling slightly.

Ilya blinked, completely startled. He stared at her, his mind reeling. "What? What do you mean, take you from your dad? I would never do that."

"But you can!" Sofia insisted, her small hands clutching the hem of her jersey. "Tosan explained to me that you are my blood uncle. And I have a friend at school whose moms got divorced, and he was forced to go live with only one mommy because that’s the one who is blood-related to him!"

She blinked back tears, her chest heaving under her little jersey.

"Tosan chose to love me," she whispered fiercely. "He chose to adopt me, but we do not share blood. I know that! So, if you wanted to, because you are blood, you could take me away from him!"

Ilya sat frozen in absolute, stunned silence.

He stared at the six-year-old girl sitting in front of him, terror gripping his heart at how perceptive—and how utterly terrified—children could be. She had been carrying that heavy, heartbreaking fear in her tiny chest the entire time she walked through his front door.

"Sofia, look at me," Ilya pleaded. "I would never, ever take you from your father. I promise you." He reached out, keeping his hands open so she could see them. "I am not here to take you away," he repeated, staring straight into her eyes. "I am only here to be your uncle. Your Tosan is a great father, the best father you could ever have."

Sofia sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her jersey. Looking up at him with wide, shiny eyes, she asked the question that utterly shattered Ilya's heart: "You mean that? Do you promise? No! Do you pinky promise?"

A gentle smile broke across his face, a look few people outside his closest circle had ever seen. He extended his hand, looping his long, calloused finger through her tiny one. "I pinky promise, Sofia," Ilya assured softly, sealing the vow.

When Shane walked back into the living room moments later, the tension had completely evaporated. Sofia was sitting cross-legged on the couch, laughing as Ilya attempted to demonstrate a silly card trick, he had learned from St-Simon. On the coffee table, the plate was completely cleared of its tuna melt, and half of the Berry Whip was already gone.

Shane paused in the doorway, a soft, immensely relieved smile touching his lips as he watched them.

The rest of the afternoon flew by in a bright, effortless blur. Sofia opened up completely, chatting animatedly about school, her favorite playground games, her best friend, and her art projects. Ilya listened with absolute, disciplined focus, completely captivated by every single story she told.

When it was finally time for them to head home, Ilya felt a pang of sadness settle in his chest, mixed with an overwhelming sense of gratitude that everything had worked out so well.

As they gathered their coats near the front door, Sofia threw her little arms around Ilya’s waist and squeezed with all her tiny might. Ilya froze for a split second, utterly overwhelmed by the spontaneous gesture, before wrapping his broad arms around her shoulders and hugging her back tightly.

"Thank you for the teddy bear, Uncle Ilya," Sofia whispered into his coat, looking up with a bright grin. "He sits right next to Wally on my bed now."

Ilya’s chest swelled with what felt like another massive, undisputed victory.

He walked them down to the lobby and waved as Shane’s car pulled out into the afternoon traffic. As he rode the elevator back up to his penthouse, Ilya caught his reflection in the mirrored glass—and realized that the soft, lingering smile on his face wasn't going to leave for the rest of the day.

Once back inside, he got to work and cleaned everything up. It was incredible how much mess one single six-year-old girl could leave behind in just a few short hours. Crumbs, stray cans, and scattered drawing papers were strewn across the living room. He couldn't even fathom the utter chaos Shane’s house must be on a daily basis.

As he was loading the last of the lunch plates into the dishwasher, the electronic keypad on his front door chimed, and the deadbolt clicked unlocked.

The door swung open, and in walked Svetlana, wheeling her designer luggage behind her. She had just returned from one of her annual long trips back to Moscow. In typical fashion, she hadn't bothered to text or call ahead—she was a free spirit like that, coming and going from the penthouse whenever it suited her.

Ilya shut the dishwasher, dried his hands on a kitchen towel, and walked over to wrap her in a bear hug. "Welcome back."

Svetlana hugged him back, but as she pulled away, her sharp eyes immediately scanned the living room, taking in the half-tidied coffee table and the scattered pillows. She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You had company?"

Ilya let out a sigh, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. "You have no idea how much you missed in the last couple of weeks."

Svetlana’s amused expression instantly shifted into one of genuine concern. "What happened?"

"Sit," Ilya told her, as he walked over to the kitchen, poured two fresh cups of hot coffee, and brought them over to the sofa.

They sat down, and Ilya laid out the entire wild story. He told her about running into Ursula in Montreal, about discovering he had a six-year-old niece, about how that niece was adopted by Shane Hollander, and how his rookie, Connors, turned out to be the ultimate Red Sox super-fan who had to explain the entire sport of baseball to him.

Svetlana sat frozen, staring at him as she processed every detail. Then, she slowly placed her coffee cup on the table and massaged the bridge of her nose.

"You... you have lived in Boston for how long," she looked at him like he was an alien species, "and not once did you know who Shane Hollander was?! I am purely a hockey fan, and even I know who Shane Hollander is! You are lucky Connors didn't kill you, because even I am tempted to slap you right now."

Ilya threw his hands up defensively. "Do not blame only me! Not even Cliff, or St-Simon, or Koslov, or Hammersmith knew about it!"

Svetlana closed her eyes, tilting her head toward the ceiling as if silently praying for strength. "God, hockey players are so dumb."

She took a deep breath, letting the humor fade as she looked back at Ilya with a softened expression.

"I am just so happy for you, Ilya..." she began gently, reaching out to squeeze his arm. "I'm glad you found her, and that Shane seems to be such a good man. Because God knows... this whole situation could have been so much more horrendous if Shane hadn't been so welcoming."

"I know," Ilya admitted, staring into the dark surface of his coffee. "I was catastrophizing from the exact second Ursula told me in Montreal. Honestly, sitting in that bakery across from Shane... it felt like stepping into the Twilight Zone, like the Americans say. I am just so grateful for how it turned out." He paused, a faint smirk touching his lips.

"Well, he is also very nice to look at," Svetlana teased, a sharp, knowing glint in her eyes.

Ilya burst out laughing, shaking his head. "Yeah. I mean... those freckles. They are like constellations."

Svetlana laughed even harder, nudging his shoulder. "You have always had a weak spot for freckles, Ilya." Her laughter gradually ebbed away, settling into a thoughtful silence. She set her mug down on the table and turned toward him, her expression turning earnest. "Ilyusha... have you ever considered going to a therapist?"

Ilya stiffened slightly, but Svetlana kept her tone soft and filled with warmth.

"Because your life in Moscow was not good," she continued gently. "With your brother’s overdose, your father’s dementia… and now Ursula, and a surprise niece out of nowhere... it is just so much. It is okay to need help, Ilyusha. You don't have to carry everything by yourself."

Every instinct inside Ilya screamed at him to push back. He wanted to tell her no. That he was strong and he could handle it. He wanted to put up the shield his father had forged into him.

But as he sat in his sunlit penthouse, he realized that acting like a Rozanov—the cold, unyielding armor Grigori had always demanded—had never brought him anything but misery.

The moments when good things actually entered his life were the moments he dropped the act. Choosing to build a real friendship with Svetlana. Opening up to his teammates. And now, getting a chance with Sofia and finding an unexpected ally in Shane.

Yet beneath it all, he could still feel it—that lingering darkness, those heavy, suffocating thoughts lurking in the back of his mind, waiting for a quiet moment to claw their way back up.

"Yes," Ilya finally admitted, looking up to meet her eyes. "I agree with you, Sveta. I think... I think I do need help."

Which is why he later finds himself in an office tucked away on a side street in downtown Boston.

Katerina sat in a comfortable armchair across from Ilya. She had her silver hair tied back, sharp hazel eyes, and an easygoing, grounded presence. Being a Russian, and a lesbian living in exile at that, meant Ilya could speak his native language without having to translate his feelings into English. And without having to censor himself with anything.

Not even his sexuality.

Even so, sitting on the plush sofa felt unnatural. Ilya stared down at his designer shoes, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, his hands resting heavily on his knees.

"So, Ilya," Katerina began gently in fluent Russian. "First sessions are usually just about getting comfortable. We don't have to fix everything today. Where would you like to start?"

Ilya shifted, the leather of the couch squeaking under his weight, as he didn't answer right away. The silence stretched between them for a good minute, but Katerina didn't rush him.

"I have never talked to someone like this before," Ilya admitted, his voice low and rough in his throat. "In Russia... where I grew up... you do not do this."

"I know," Katerina agreed softly. "Mental health in Russia is stigmatized. People think getting help means you are weak or crazy."

"My father definitely thought so,” Ilya scoffed. “Grigori Rozanov did not allow weakness. If you were sad, you were useless. And if you were hurt, you played through it."

"Grigori," Katerina repeated thoughtfully, writing the name down in her notepad. "Sounds like a man who ruled with a very tight grip."

"He ruled everything," Ilya crossed his arms over his chest, his posture defensive, thinking about how much he wanted to admit out loud. "Everything was about the family name. The legacy. Appearing strong to the outside world, no matter what was actually happening inside the house."

"And what was happening inside the house, Ilya?"

Ilya looked toward the window, watching the sunlight filter through the blinds, as he picked at a loose thread on his pullover. "My mother… When I was twelve... I found her in the bathroom after she had swallowed a whole bottle of pills."

Katerina stopped her pen. She didn't gasp dramatically or give him pitying look, but her expression shifted into one of compassion. "I am sorry you had to go through that, Ilya. Finding your mother at twelve years old... that is a massive trauma."

"My father did not treat it like a trauma," Ilya scoffed again, harsher this time. "He treated it like an inconvenience. An embarrassment to the Rozanov name. He told the media, the relatives, everyone... that it was an accident. He made me and my brother, Alexei, repeat the lie. Because in Russia, suicide brings stigma. He cared more about the rumor mill than the fact that she was gone."

"So, at twelve years old, you lost your mother, and then you were forced to help cover it up to protect your father's reputation," Katerina summarized, her voice calm, clear, and validating. "You were never allowed to just grieve."

"No," Ilya felt his throat dry up. "I was told to go back to the ice. To practice harder and to be a man."

He stopped there, leaning back against the cushions. His heart was beating a little faster in his chest just from saying those few sentences out loud. It felt strange—dangerous, even—to lay out piece by piece what had been locked away for years.

"That is enough for that part today if you want," Katerina said smoothly, picking up on his tension. "We have plenty of time, Ilya. We don't need to dig through all twenty-six years of your life in fifty minutes. But I will tell you this: what your father did was wrong. Forcing a twelve-year-old child to carry a lie like that isn't strength. It's abuse."

Ilya blinked, swallowing hard against the knot in his throat. Hearing a neutral third-party state it so plainly hit him harder than he expected.

"I just..." Ilya rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. "Lately, everything is changing. My brother and father died. I found out I have a niece here in Boston. I met the man who adopted her... and it just feels like the old walls I built aren't working anymore. The heavy feeling keeps coming back."

Katerina offered a small, reassuring smile.

"The walls were built to help twelve-year-old Ilya survive Grigori," she said gently. "You don't need them to protect you from him anymore. You're allowed to put them away. We can take it one small step at a time."

After leaving Katerina’s office and setting up his next appointment for the following week, Ilya didn't want to go back to an empty penthouse.

Instead, he just drove. He took his Porsche out onto the highway, moving aimlessly through the city traffic, watching Boston blur past his window until, entirely by instinct, he found himself pulling up along the curb in front of the Hollander household.

He put the car in park, turned off the engine, and slumped forward, resting his forehead against the cold leather of the steering wheel with a weary sigh.

It took over a month for him to go from admitting he needed help to finally gathering the courage to get it. February was drawing to a close now, and in the weeks following his talk with Svetlana and his decision to start seeing Katerina, his world had shifted in ways he never expected. There had been countless play dates with Sofia. They had built up trust so smoothly that she had once stayed over at the penthouse for the weekend. And whenever Shane’s spring training schedule ran long, Ilya was the very first person Shane called to pick her up from school.

Driving to the Hollander house had become second nature to him.

Yet today, in the wake of his therapy session, Ilya hesitated. He desperately wanted to go inside. He wanted to sit in the warm living room, drink tea, spend time with Sofia and Shane, and just let their presence soothe the ache in his heart. But an old, stubborn voice in his head—the one Katerina had challenged just an hour ago—kept asking if he was really allowed to just show up like this. If he was allowed to lean on them when he felt weak.

Thankfully, the choice was taken out of his hands.

Knock. Knock.

Ilya startled, snapping his head up. Standing outside his driver’s side window was Shane, dressed in a comfortable grey hoodie, looking down at him with a mix of surprise and clear concern.

Ilya pressed the button to roll down the window, the chilly February air rushing into the warm cabin.

"Ilya?" Shane asked, leaning down slightly to meet his eyes. "Are you okay? I saw your car parked out here."

Ilya swallowed, suddenly feeling foolish for sitting in his driveway like a ghost. "Just... a long day," he admitted, feeling raw after his talk with Katerina. "I wanted to see Sofia. Is that... okay?"

Shane’s sharp eyes softened instantly, a warm, reassuring smile breaking across his features. "Of course it's okay," assured Ilya gently, stepping back from the car door. "Come on inside."

Relief washed over Ilya, as he unbuckled his seatbelt, stepped out into the cold, locked the Porsche, and followed Shane up the front steps. The moment Shane opened the front door, the cozy warmth of the home embraced them, smelling faintly of toasted bread and vanilla.

"Tosan, who was at the—"

Sofia came running out from the kitchen, her eyes widening the second she spotted him standing in the foyer. A brilliant, sun-bright beam exploded across her face.

"Uncle Ilya!" she squealed happily.

She sprinted down the hallway, her little socks sliding on the hardwood floor, and threw herself forward into a leap. Ilya caught her effortlessly, pulling her small frame tight against his broad chest.

As Sofia wrapped her arms around his neck and babbled excitedly about an art project she had finished that afternoon, Ilya closed his eyes, burying his face in her soft hair. All the heaviness, the ghosts of Moscow, and the difficult words spoken in Katerina's office completely evaporated from his shoulders, replaced by an overwhelming, beautiful sense of home.

Chapter 7: That is the first step, and it is the hardest one

The afternoon was bright and crisp over Boston, but inside Fenway Park, the good weather barely registered against the sheer wall of noise. It was Opening Day, and the ancient brick-and-steel ballpark was packed to the gills with thirty-seven thousand fans screaming in unison.

Up in the lower bleachers, tucked just far enough back to stay out of the direct focus of the rest of the fans, sat an unlikely group of spectators. Ilya, Cliff, Koslov, Hammersmith, St-Simon, and Svetlana occupied a whole row, decked out in crisp navy Red Sox caps and heavy jackets. Right in the middle sat six-year-old Sofia, squeezed securely between Ilya and Svetlana, wearing a kid-sized number 24 HOLLANDER jersey that almost reached her knees.

For a group of professional hockey players who usually spent their spring preparing for the Stanley Cup playoffs from inside an icy arena, sitting in the middle of a screaming baseball crowd was a completely novel experience.

"Man, this place is wild," Cliff yelled over the deafening roar of the crowd, adjusting his cap. "Usually we're the ones getting screamed at on the ice. It feels weird to just sit here with a coke and yell at someone else for once."

"Speaking of yelling," St-Simon shouted, leaning over from his seat, "where the heck is Connors? He’s the biggest Red Sox fanatic on the team! He should be the most excited out of all of us."

Ilya leaned back into his seat, adjusting his dark sunglasses against the glare. "Connors is down in the lower bowl near the field," Ilya said, his voice cutting through the noise. "Because of all the baseball knowledge he gave me this season, I bought him and his whole family tickets. So, he is sitting with them today."

Koslov raised his eyebrows, letting out a sharp bark of laughter. "Oh, look at our Captain! Buying gifts for the rookie! That’s almost sweet of you, Ilya."

"Don't get used to it," Ilya replied dryly, though a faint, subtle smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Sofia, who had been listening intently while holding a soft pretzel twice the size of her face, perked up instantly. Her blue eyes went wide as she looked up at Ilya. "Wait! Your rookie knows a lot about baseball? I want to talk with him!"

Ilya looked down at his niece in amusement. Of course she does, he thought. Sofia might have inherited her blue eyes and stubborn streak from the Rozanov side, but at the end of the day she was raised as a Hollander. Still, it struck Ilya how similar Sofia is to Svetlana in some ways. Maybe it was because both of them are the only daughters of professional athletes.

Svetlana had never played a single shift of organized hockey in her life, yet as the daughter of one of the greatest goalies to ever wear a Boston Bears jersey, she possessed a massive hockey IQ purely by osmosis—and because she genuinely cared about the sport. Sofia was built the exact same way, except her brain was wired for pitch counts, exit velocities, and defensive shifts from being raised by a single father.

Suddenly, the stadium PA system crackled to life, the deep bass shaking the concrete under their boots.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... YOUR BOSTON RED SOX!"

The roar that erupted from the crowd was physical, a wall of sound that vibrated right through the bleachers. The visiting team from Washington took their seats in the away dugout, while the Red Sox defense ran out onto the brilliant green grass to take their positions.

Sofia jumped up onto her seat, clutching Svetlana’s arm for balance, and pointed frantically toward the center of the diamond. "Look, Uncle Ilya! Look! Tosan is pitching Opening Day!"

Ilya squinted down at the field. Standing right on the raised dirt mound in the middle of the infield was Shane Hollander. He stood tall in his crisp white and red home jersey, tapping his cleats against the rubber and adjusting his cap.

"That man is insane," Hammersmith remarked, shaking his head in sheer respect from the seat next to Koslov. "I cannot believe that he will be throwing ninety-five-plus for seven innings and then stepping into the box to bat. The guy's cardio must be off the charts."

"He works very hard," Sofia nodded with extreme gravity, sounding like a tiny head coach.

Sitting in the bleachers, tucked securely into his row as the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the brilliant green grass of Fenway Park, Ilya’s mind began silently working through every single detail. His athlete’s brain couldn't just sit and watch casually; it instinctively began dissecting the game piece by piece, pulling up every random stat and crude diagram Connors had spewed at him during long bus rides, overlaying them with the serious, authoritative explanations Sofia had given him while sitting on his living room floor.

Down on the mound, Shane went through his final warm-up throws. He looked completely in control, commanding the entire stadium from the dirt circle. Shane stood on the raised dirt mound in the middle of the diamond, looking entirely in control as he worked through the top half of the inning. Ilya watched his pre-pitch ritual with hyper-fixated attention. Shane took a long breath, picked up the rosin bag, dropped it, and locked his eyes on the first Washington batter stepping into the box.

The stadium hushed for a split second, as thirty-seven thousand people holding their breath.

The wind-up, Ilya thought, remembering how Connors had tried to explain the mechanics of a delivery using a rolled-up magazine. Shane’s motion was fluid, powerful, and ridiculously smooth. He drove off his back leg, his hips rotating with power, and exploded forward, his arm whipping through the air like a catapult. The baseball vanished into a white blur, streaking across the plate at ninety-nine miles per hour.

THWACK!

The ball slammed into the catcher's mitt with a sound like a gun crack before the Washington hitter could even finish starting his swing.

"STRIKE ONE!" The home plate umpire bellowed, dropping into his squat and pumping his fist.

The bleachers erupted. Cliff and Koslov leaped out of their seats, howling at the top of their lungs alongside the crowd. "Yeah! Paint the corners!" St-Simon screamed, completely surrendering to the fan experience.

Down on the field, Shane didn't even celebrate. He caught the ball back from his catcher, stepped back onto the rubber, and immediately set his sights on the next pitch. He was completely locked in.

Pitch sequencing, the phrase floated into Ilya’s head, spoken in Sofia's precise voice from when she had sat him down to explain that pitching was a psychological chess match. Shane dropped a sharp, nasty slider that looked like a strike before snapping down and away toward the dirt, forcing a desperate, empty swing at air for strike two.

Then came the changeup, the pitch Connors had described as a trick meant to disrupt a batter's timing. The hitter, expecting another fastball, committed too early, but managed to foul the pitch off into the dirt.

With two strikes locked on the board, Shane stepped off the rubber, wiped his brow, and delivered his final statement. He threw a hundred-mile-per-hour fastball right past the hitter's shoulders. The batter lunged, his front foot planting way too early and his body lunging forward while his bat dragged behind, swinging wildly in the air.

"STRIKE THREE! HE'S OUT!"

"One down!" Sofia squealed, clapping her hands together happily.

The top of the first inning was an absolute masterclass. The second Washington batter managed to make contact, but it was a weak, helpless pop fly that drifted into shallow right field. The Red Sox second baseman drifted back and caught it easily in his glove for the second out.

The third batter didn't fair much better, swinging at a nasty cutter inside and lining out directly to the third baseman for a routine play.

Then came Washington's fourth batter—their clean-up guy, the power hitter brought in to clear the bases. He stepped into the box, digging his back cleat into the dirt and trying to crowd the plate to intimidate Shane. Shane didn't flinch. He threw a heavy, sinking pitch inside that jammed the batter, forcing him to swing late. The ball dribbled harmlessly down the third-base line, where the third baseman fielded it cleanly and fired a rocket to first base.

Out three.

Four batters up. Three retired. The Red Sox defense closed out the top of the first in under ten minutes, leaving Washington stranded without a single run.

As Shane walked off the mound toward the Red Sox dugout, rolling his shoulders and staring straight ahead in total focus before shedding his glove and heading toward the tunnel to prepare for his at-bat, the entire stadium rose to its feet to give him a roaring standing ovation.

"He makes it look easy," Svetlana commented with a smirk, glancing sideways at Ilya.

"It is never easy," Ilya replied softly in Russian, though he couldn't hide the pride shining in his eyes. He looked down at Sofia, who was practically vibrating with excitement as the Red Sox players gathered their bats for the bottom of the first inning.

Ilya leaned over, gently bumping his shoulder against hers. "Now," he said, a genuine smile breaking across his face, "we get to see your dad hit."

As the Red Sox took their turn on offense, the atmosphere inside the stadium shifted from tense concentration to pure, unadulterated chaos. The stadium speakers suddenly crackled, and a massive, heavy drumbeat echoed through the concrete structure of Fenway, accompanied by a soaring, anthemic vocal line: "This is not another story.
This is not another drill..."

Instantly, all thirty-seven thousand fans in the stadium erupted. It started in the lower bowl and swept through the bleachers like a wildfire—thousands of people stamping their feet against the metal stands in perfect, thunderous synchronicity, clapping their hands overhead in rhythm with the music. STOMP-STOMP-CLAP. STOMP-STOMP-CLAP. The entire stadium began to physically shake under the force of the crowd.

“I refuse to be another number now, never staying down.
This is something real.”

Ilya blinked, clutching his plastic cup a little tighter as the bleachers vibrated beneath his boots. He looked left and right, entirely thrown off by the sudden, hive-mind unity of the crowd. "What the fuck is going on?" he muttered, leaning down toward Sofia.

Sofia was already bouncing on her seat, clapping her hands overhead in time with the song. "That's his song!" she yelled back over the deafening chant. "It's The Glory by The Score! It's been his walk-up song since his rookie season!"

“I'm a name that you'll remember.
I am more than just a thrill.”

As the music swelled, the crowd began singing along at the top of their lungs, turning the lyrics into a massive, roaring chant that filled the Boston sky. Ilya looked down toward the Red Sox dugout, expecting to see the reserved, intensely humble Shane he knew in private, the guy who usually avoided the spotlight at all costs.

Instead, Shane stepped out of the dugout holding his wood bat, and the sight almost made Ilya double-take.

“I am gonna be the greatest ever now, watch out.
I'm a force that you will feel.”

Shane was strutting. He rolled his shoulders back, nodding his head to the heavy beat—uh-huh, uh-huh—owning every single inch of the dirt as he walked toward home plate. He looked entirely in his element, radiating an arrogant, magnetic energy that seemed straight out of a viral Twitter edit brought to life. He tapped his cleats with the barrel of the bat, adjusted his gloves with confidence, and smirked up at the crowd, letting the roar of the stadium wash right over him.

Ilya stared down at the field, a slow, disbelieving smirk spreading across his own face. It was unbelievable. The reserved Hollander was nowhere to be seen, and in his place was the undisputed king of Boston, completely in control of thirty-seven thousand people screaming his name.

Then the song hit the drop, and the entire stadium exploded into pure, unfiltered euphoria.

It wasn't just noise anymore; it was an electric, physical force vibrating right through the concrete and into Ilya’s boots. Thirty-seven thousand voices locked together in absolute, thunderous unison, roaring the chorus back at the field until the air itself felt heavy with it:

“And it goes something like

Ooh

I'm victorious

Ooh

It's my time

Ooh

There's no stopping this

'Cause I was born for this

I do it for the glory (whoa, whoa) (whoa, whoa)

I do it for the glory (whoa, whoa)”

The raw, intoxicating energy of it made the hair on Ilya's arms stand up. Down on the dirt, Shane strutted right into the center of the roar, rolling his shoulders to the heavy beat, completely feeding on the crowd's worship. For a man who usually moved through the world like he was trying not to take up space, seeing him claim thirty-seven thousand screaming people was intoxicating. It was worship. It was power. It was Boston laying its heartbeat right at his feet, and Shane taking every single bit of it.

As the crowd's chants faded into a charged stillness, Shane dug his back cleat into the dirt and set his stance. The Washington pitcher wound up, desperate to take back control of the atmosphere, and fired a fastball high on the outer half of the plate.

Shane didn't just meet it—he exploded into it. The sound of the wood hitting the ball was like a rifle shot cracking through the air.

Ilya’s eyes tracked the white sphere as it launched into the sky, tearing toward left field. In his mind, Connors' loud, rambling voice instantly echoed back: “Most guys treat the Green Monster like a wall to hit over, but the real geniuses? They use it as part of the field. They aim for the brick and wood to get the rebound angle right.”

Shane had done exactly that. The ball slammed violently off the high, emerald wall, taking a sharp, unpredictable bounce away from the left fielder.

The moment the bat made contact, Shane was already flying.

There was no hesitation, no waiting to watch where it landed. Shane dug his cleats into the dirt and accelerated around first base like a bullet. Ilya leaned over the railing, his breath catching in his throat. Shane moved with a lethal, fluid grace, it was raw, predatory power. He looked like an intense panther tearing across the field, his jaw set, eyes locked on the bag ahead. As the outfielder finally wrangled the bouncing ball, Shane hit second base at full tilt, dug his foot into the corner of the canvas, and slid head-first into third base just a fraction of a second ahead of the tag.

"SAFE!" the umpire roared, throwing his arms wide.

The stadium exploded into pure bedlam. Down on third, Shane popped up from the dirt, slapped the dust off his chest, and flashed a sharp, blinding grin up toward the crowd, looking every bit the dominant force in the stadium.

Up in the bleachers, Ilya stood frozen, his hand still gripping the metal railing, as an overwhelming wave of heat flushed right through his chest, making his throat go dry under his collar. His heart was hammering against his ribs—not from the noise, not from the game, but from the sight of the man standing down on third base.

Fuck, Ilya thought, feeling suddenly, intensely hot and bothered under his jacket.

He had a massive, undeniable crush on Shane Hollander. He was sitting right next to his niece, staring down at her father, completely undone by the way he commanded a stadium. And he had only just realized it.

Ilya dragged a hand over his face, letting out a sigh. The memory of the very first time he had ever laid eyes on Shane flashed through his mind—that instant, bizarre pull he had felt, a thought so intrusive and crazy he had buried it deep down. The first time I saw him, I thought about buying him a ring.

Ilya closed his eyes for a split second, a helpless smirk touching his lips as the roaring crowd chanted Shane's name around him. God, he finally admitted to himself, his chest burning as he looked back down at the dirt. I am done for.

Ilya didn't hear a single pitch for the rest of the afternoon.

Normally, when a sudden, inconvenient attraction hit him, Ilya’s playbook was simple, brutal, and effective: find a private room, get the person out of his system, and move on with his life.

Except he couldn't fuck Shane Hollander out of his system. Shane wasn't just some beautiful athlete in a red cap—he was Sofia’s father. He was the legal guardian of Ilya’s sole living relative, the anchor of her world, and the single most untouchable man on the eastern seaboard. If Ilya messed with that balance, he wasn't just risking a messy fallout; he was risking Shane prohibiting him from ever seeing Sofia again.

I can't do this, Ilya thought, his jaw clenching as a cold wave of internal panic washed over the sudden heat in his blood. I literally cannot do this.

The rest of the game dissolved into a colorful, meaningless blur. Baseballs were thrown, bats swung, and forty thousand people reacted in bursts of collective sound, but Ilya’s mind was stuck in a catastrophic loop. He didn't see the fourth inning, didn't notice the sixth, and completely missed a pitching change in the eighth.

He was only dragged back to reality when the metal bleachers under his boots began to shake violently.

"HOL-LAND-ER! HOL-LAND-ER! HOL-LAND-ER!"

The roar was deafening, a rhythmic wall of noise that echoed off the green walls. Ilya blinked, snapping out of his daze to look at the massive jumbotron hovering over center field. The final score was flashed in bold, glowing numbers: RED SOX 5, WASHINGTON 2.

The game was over. The Red Sox had won, Shane had closed out an Opening Day victory, and Ilya had missed the entire damn thing.

"Uncle Ilya, come on!" Sofia squealed, yanking hard on his jacket sleeve. She was practically vibrating with adrenaline, her little face flushed red. "We have to go down! Tosan's waiting!"

Shaking the fog from his head, Ilya stood up. "Right. Let's go."

Guiding Sofia through the dense, celebratory crowds filling the concourse, they made their way down into the bowels of Fenway Park. A team security guard recognized Sofia immediately, unhooking the heavy velvet rope to let them pass into the restricted corridor leading toward the Red Sox home clubhouse.

When they reached the heavy double doors of the locker room, the smell of damp grass, leather, and victory washed over them. Shane was standing near his locker in a dry team shirt, his hair still dark and damp from the showers, surrounding himself with towels and gear.

"Tosan!" Sofia shrieked, breaking away from Ilya and bolting across the room.

Shane turned, his tired face instantly lighting up with a warm, brilliant smile as he caught her mid-air, lifting her into a hug. "Hey, bug! Did you see that slide on third?"

"You used the wall just like you practiced!" Sofia chirped, throwing her arms around his neck and showering him with endless praise about every single play.

While Sofia kept Shane completely occupied, three massive Red Sox players—including their towering catcher and a scowling relief pitcher—slowly ambled over, blocking Ilya’s view. Before Ilya could react, a hand clamped onto his shoulder, steering him away from the family celebration and back toward the quiet corner near the athletic tape station.

Ilya froze, his heart dropping through his stomach. Oh, fuck. He stared at the three giant baseball players surrounding him. They know. They must have seen my pathetic crush written all across my face somehow.

The lead catcher leaned in, his expression dead serious, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Listen up, Rozanov," he grunted, his voice dropping to a low, protective rumble. "We know you're Sofia's uncle. We know you're blood-related to the kid, and that's great for her. But Shane is the heart of this team, and he is a damn good father."

The relief pitcher stepped closer, cracking his knuckles with a quiet, ominous pop. "If you do anything to mess up his head, or if you bring any of your crazy hockey drama into his life and ruin things for that little girl... we will personally ruin your face. Got it?"

A wave of pure, intoxicating relief washed over Ilya so fast he almost laughed out loud. They don't know. They didn't suspect a single thing about his humiliating, devastating crush. They just thought he was going to be an annoying, disruptive uncle.

"Do not worry," Ilya assured quickly, schooling his face into his best, most stoic captain's expression. "I have no interest in making trouble. I just want to be Sofia's uncle."

Well, his brain traitorously supplied a split second later, unless I somehow manage to convince Shane to marry me. Then I can be Sofia's papa.

Ilya’s internal monologue grounded to a screeching, horrific halt.

He stared blankly at the baseball players in front of him, the sheer insanity of his own thought echoing in his mind. Married? Papa?

"Good," the catcher nodded, oblivious to the existential crisis occurring inside Ilya's head. He gave Ilya's shoulder a hard, friendly slap. "Glad we're on the same page."

The players dispersed, leaving Ilya standing alone against the wall. He stared down at his boots, his throat tight, and his pulse hammering in his ears as he watched Shane laugh at something Sofia said across the room.

Oh, I am so fucked, Ilya thought, cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. I need to book a session with Katerina. Immediately.

The walk out of Fenway Park felt like navigating a battlefield while carrying a live grenade inside his own skull.

The stadium corridors were packed with euphoric fans, but Ilya barely registered the ocean of navy and red around him. His hand was shoved deep into his coat pocket, his thumb flying across his phone screen blindly, trying to type without making it obvious to Svetlana or Sofia that he was experiencing a full-scale psychological breakdown.

Ilya: Katerina. Emergency.

Ilya: Need session. Today. Or tomorrow. As soon as possible.

"Uncle Ilya, look!" Sofia squealed, tugging violently on his jacket sleeve as they pushed through the turnstiles into the crisp Boston afternoon. She pointed at a row of street vendors selling oversized foam fingers. "Can I get a big finger? Tosan said I could get one!"

"Uh. Yes. Get two," Ilya muttered, his eyes darting down to his phone as it buzzed violently in his palm.

Katerina: Ilya? What is wrong? I am packed with patients until tomorrow 5:15.

Ilya: Brain is broken.

Ilya: Need session. Please. I am in parking lot.

"Ilya, why are you walking so fast?" Svetlana asked, her sharp, perceptive eyes locking onto him as they reached the player-family parking enclosure. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, squinting at his tense shoulders. "You look like you're trying to outrun a bear."

"I am fine," Ilya lied smoothly, shoving his phone back into his pocket with the speed of a seasoned criminal. He adjusted his dark sunglasses, offering his friend a tight, stoic smile that felt entirely fake. "Just cold. Very windy."

"You play hockey in a freezer for a living," Svetlana noted dryly, raising an eyebrow. "And your face is completely red."

"It is the... emotional excitement of baseball," Ilya said evenly, unlatching the door of the SUV so Sofia could climb into her booster seat. "A very intense sport."

The high-safety van wasn't his typical car—he usually preferred fast sports cars that made his chest thrum with adrenaline. But the moment Shane allowed Sofia to spend time alone with Ilya, he had walked straight onto a dealership lot and bought the top-of-the-line, ultra-armored SUV exclusively for the days his niece was with him.

It was built like a tank and spacious enough to hold three car seats, four hockey bags, and half a grocery store. It was the physical manifestation of his fierce, protective paranoia, and he didn't care for a second how much Cliff teased him for driving a "soccer dad mobile."

His phone buzzed again against his leg. He waited until Svetlana walked around to the passenger side before whipping it out like a switchblade.

Katerina: Fine. Send me the link or come to the office. What does "broken" mean? Give me context so I can prepare.

Ilya stood behind the open trunk of the car, pretending to adjust a bag of merchandise Sofia had accumulated. His thumbs flew across the glass in a blur of broken English.

Ilya: Shane Hollander.

Ilya: I saw him run to third base.

Ilya: He was like panther. I realized I have crush on him.

Ilya: No. Worse. I thought about buying him a ring.

Ilya: I THOUGHT ABOUT BEING SOFIA'S PAPA KATERINA. I AM LOSING MY MIND.

The typing bubble on Katerina's end appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared for three agonizingly long minutes.

"Uncle Ilya!" Sofia called out, poking her head out of the rear window, holding up a massive foam finger with RED SOX #1 printed on it. "Look! I can wave at the cars!"

"Very good, pcheolka," Ilya said, forcing his voice into a calm, gentle octave. He patted her head, giving her his best reassuring uncle smile. "Wave at all of them."

He looked back down at his screen.

Katerina: ...I am clearing my 5:15 tomorrow.

Katerina: Do not drive while typing. Sit down, breathe, and get home safely. We have a lot to talk about.

Ilya closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cold metal of the SUV frame for a split second, letting out a long, shuddering sigh. He was the captain of the Boston Bears. He handled high-stakes playoff games, hostile media, and two-hundred-pound defensemen trying to put him through the glass.

But right now, as he climbed into the driver's seat and caught a glimpse of Shane walking toward the car, completely unaware of the chaos he had caused, Ilya felt entirely at the mercy of the universe.

The next afternoon, the illusion of control completely shattered. Ilya didn't even remember the drive to Katerina's office. He practically vibrated with nervous energy as he took the private elevator up, and the moment the heavy oak door opened, the floodgates broke.

He didn't wait for her to welcome him. He didn't even wait to close the door behind him.

"I am losing my mind, Katerina," Ilya blurted out in rapid-fire Russian, his voice tight, pacing straight past her empty guest chair toward the window. "I look at him and my head turns to soup. I am thinking about rings! I am thinking about legally adopting my niece as his co-parent! I am a captain of a hockey team, not a character in a trashy romance novel, but I watched him run to third base yesterday and I wanted to throw myself off the bleachers!"

Katerina didn't interrupt. She simply let him pace, let him wave his hands, and let him bleed out every ounce of panic he had bottled up since the first pitch at Fenway. Only when he finally ran out of words and collapsed heavily onto the leather sofa—staring at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger—did she smoothly step over and click the door shut.

Silence settled over the room, as Katerina sat in her armchair, looking over her glasses at Ilya as he picked at the seam of his jeans.

"Ilya," she began softly, keeping her Russian measured and relaxed. "When you talk about your niece, or about your teammates... even when you talk about building a life here in Boston, there is always this hesitation in your voice. Like you are waiting for someone to hand you a bill."

Ilya let out a faint, cynical huff. "Nothing is free. You know how it is back home."

"I do know," Katerina agreed. "But this isn't just about 'nothing being free.' It feels like you truly believe, deep down, that you do not deserve good things. That happiness is something meant for other people, but not for Ilya Rozanov."

Ilya didn't answer right away. He shifted his broad frame against the couch, staring at the floorboards between them.

"Sometimes... yes," Ilya admitted. "I feel like... why should I have a good life? My mamma didn't get one. My brother certainly ruined his. And my father was a monster. So, who am I to sit in a nice apartment and have soft things? Every time something good happens, I feel like I am stealing it."

"And what about love?" Katerina asked gently. "Having a family, being in love with someone... whether it's a woman, or a man. Having someone to share that life with is something you deserve. Especially when that person is Shane Hollander."

Katerina offered a calm, reassuring smile. "Ilya, you live in Boston. If you want to love a man, you can love a man. If you want to love a woman, you can love a woman. Russia's laws and your father's homophobic hatred do not govern your life in this country. You can get a green card through the Bears, establish your permanent residency, build a real home... you are allowed to want those things. And you deserve to have them."

Ilya ran a palm over his face, rubbing his tired eyes. "It sounds easy when you say it. But inside my head... it doesn't feel that way."

"Tell me what it feels like inside your head on the bad days," Katerina prompted softly, clicking her pen open and resting it on her notebook.

Ilya dropped his hand, letting his arm rest on his knee. He looked toward the window, watching a cloud pass over the afternoon sun. "On bad days... I do not believe anything anyone says," he said slowly, picking his words with care. "People tell me I played a great game, or that I am a good captain, or that Sofia had fun with me... and I just think they are lying to be polite. Or they just don't know the real me yet."

He stopped, taking a grounding breath before continuing.

"And some mornings... I wake up, and the penthouse is totally silent, and I just... I do not want to leave the bed. There is no reason to get up, and the weight on my chest is so heavy that just reaching for my phone or putting my feet on the floor feels like climbing a mountain. So, I just lie there for hours, staring at the ceiling, and waiting for the day to end."

Katerina listened intently, her hand moving smoothly across her notepad as she jotted down his words. She didn't interrupt, letting the silence sit between them for a moment after he finished speaking.

When she finally looked up, her expression was filled with understanding. "Ilya... has it ever occurred to you that you might be suffering from the exact same illness your mother had?" Katerina asked gently. "Depression?"

Ilya went rigid for a fraction of a second. "I am not... I do not want to end my life,” he snapped, his voice dropping into a low, defensive register.

"Depression is not just suicidal thoughts, Ilya," Katerina explained, keeping her tone completely grounded and non-judgmental. "It is that heavy weight on your chest. It is the exhaustion that keeps you in bed. It is the voice that tells you that you are unworthy of love, or that everyone around you is lying when they care about you. It is a chemical imbalance, compounded by years of severe emotional trauma."

She set her pen down and looked him straight in the eyes.

"Your mother was sick, and in Moscow, nobody helped her. They ignored it, or they buried it under shame. But you are not in Moscow, Ilya. And you are not handling it the way your father did."

Katerina offered him a small, encouraging nod.

"You walked into this room today," she said softly. "You sat on this couch, and you talked to me. That means you are already doing what she was never allowed to do. You are getting help. That is the first step, and it is the hardest one. If you want to keep going... we can work through the next steps together."

Ilya sat in silence for a long time, processing her words in the warmth of the office. He looked down at his calloused hands, feeling the tension slowly drain from his broad shoulders.

"Okay," Ilya whispered softly in Russian, looking back up at her. "Okay."

Chapter 8: And just like that, the dark thoughts vanished

Chapter Notes

So... this story actually started because I wanted an excuse to write a baseball player's walk-up song. I heard "The Glory" by The Score and immediately thought, Yep. I have to write this. I hope you enjoyed the scene in the last chapter!

Somehow, along the way, the story evolved into Ilya's perspective instead—which is just one of those things that happens when drafts are rewritten and polished.

The funny part is that, 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. A sport with one of the largest percentages of Asian players among the major North American leagues? A game that lets him push himself to the absolute limit as a two-way player? Honestly, what more could Shane ask for?

That said, Homerun to You has always been Ilya's healing journey. Giving baseball—or even Shane himself—a bigger role toward the end would have taken the focus away from the story I wanted to tell, much in the same way that continue writing about Shane's return to the NHL would have distracted from his healing journey in Tadaima, Okaeri.

You'll also notice that I brought back Sofia, who completely stole all of our hearts in The Sun Beyond Winter. I loved revisiting a familiar character, so I decided to do something similar with the next installment.

Yuri, from Tadaima, Okaeri, is coming back! This time, she'll be the daughter of Alpha!Ilya and Omega!Shane—captains of the Boston Bears and the Boston Red Sox, respectively.
I really hope you'll enjoy it.

The next story in the series is called Out of Left Field. ❤️

The weeks following Opening Day were a blur of endurance for Ilya, but a different kind of grind than the one he was used to on the ice.

Accepting that he had a crush on Shane Hollander was one thing; figuring out how to survive inside his own skin while carrying it was another entirely. The panic that had seized him in the Fenway parking lot didn't just fade away with a single therapy session. It had unspooled into weeks of intense, raw sessions with Katerina, picking apart the absolute tangle of anxiety, responsibility, and terrified longing that Shane represented.

Eventually, Katerina had gently nudged him toward a psychiatrist, introducing the idea of daily medication to help stabilize the suffocating spikes in his brain. It had taken time—weeks of staring at the small, amber plastic bottle sitting on his bathroom counter, feeling shame before finally swallowing the daily tablet.

By the end of April, though, the routine had settled. He didn't flinch every time he saw the bottle sitting beside his toothpaste. He had gotten lucky; the dosage was right on the first try, leveling out the jagged edges of his depression without dulling his sharp, instinctual edge on the ice.

And it showed. The Boston Bears had torn through the final stretch of the regular season, clinching their spot in the Stanley Cup playoffs. Right now, they were suspended in that brief, electric lull—a rare three-day window between the end of the regular season and the grueling marathon of Round One.

Inside Ilya’s sprawling Boston penthouse, the massive floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the glowing skyline, but no one was looking at the view.

Instead, the enormous sectional sofa was completely overtaken. Cliff was sprawled across one end with his feet propped on the coffee table, a slice of cold pizza balanced on his chest. Connors was sitting cross-legged on the rug right in front of the massive flat-screen, clutching a couch cushion like a shield, while Sofia—decked out in a pair of oversized, fuzzy Red Sox pajamas—was tucked securely into the crook of Ilya’s arm, her small chin resting on his chest.

On the screen, the bright green grass of Wrigley Field shone under the Chicago lights. The Red Sox were on the road playing the Cubs, and the tension in the living room was suffocating.

"If this umpire calls one more ball inside a strike, I'm going to drive to Chicago and fight him myself," Connors grumbled, pointing a half-eaten crust aggressively at the TV. "That was two inches off the plate! Right, Sofia?"

"Tosan says you shouldn't argue with the umpire from the living room because they can't hear you," Sofia offered practically, not taking her eyes off the screen.

Cliff let out a snort, taking a sip of his coke. "Your dad is too polite, kiddo. If I was pitching and got robbed like that, I'd be throwing my glove at the guy."

Ilya didn't say anything, his large hand resting gently on Sofia’s shoulder, thumb stroking the soft cotton of her sleeve. His gaze was locked on the television screen, watching Shane—lit up by the stadium floodlights thousands of miles away—step back onto the mound, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple before adjusting his cap.

A month ago, watching Shane on a screen would have sent Ilya’s heart hammering into his throat, triggering a spiral of internal catastrophizing. But tonight, with the steady pulse of his routine and the pill working in his system, Ilya felt clear and grounded.

"Look at his pitch count," Connors murmured, leaning closer to the screen. "He’s at eighty-four in the seventh. He’s gonna close this inning out easy."

"He looks tired," Sofia whispered softly, leaning further into Ilya's side.

Ilya looked down at her, his expression softening into something warm and protective. He reached up, gently tucking a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear. "He is strong, pcheolka," he assured her. "He will finish the inning, and then he will go to the hotel and sleep. And tomorrow, he comes back to Boston."

"And then the playoffs start for you!" Sofia perked up, looking up at him with bright eyes. "Are you going to win the Cup, Uncle Ilya?"

Cliff chuckled from the end of the couch. "No pressure, Cap."

Ilya kept his eyes on the television, watching Shane wind up and deliver a ninety-eight-mile-per-hour fastball right down the pipe, catching the batter looking for strike three. The crowd in Chicago groaned, while the Red Sox dugout erupted, and down on the field, Shane let out a slow, exhausted breath as he walked off the mound.

Ilya’s lips twitched into a faint, private smile. "Yes," he said quietly to Sofia, his thumb rubbing a small circle on her shoulder as the broadcast cut to commercial. "We are going to win."

After the game finished, Ilya slipped out of the living room and stepped into the kitchen island, where the heavy white bakery box sat waiting. Inside were four thick, perfectly neat slices of strawberry shortcake—light-as-air chiffon layered with clouds of whipped cream and brilliant red fruit—that he had picked up earlier that morning from the Japonaise Bakery & Café.

Carrying the box back into the living room on a round tray, Ilya set it down on the low wooden coffee table right in front of the sofa. The sweet, subtle scent of fresh cream drifted out the moment he opened the lid.

Sofia’s eyes went huge. She practically dropped her stuffed bear, lunging forward onto her knees. "Is that the strawberry shortcake?!" she squealed, clapping her hands together. "Did you get it from the Japonaise bakery, Uncle Ilya?!"

Ilya couldn't help the soft, amused smile that pulled at his mouth as he handed her a small silver fork. "Yes, pcheolka. I went there this morning just for you."

Sofia let out a triumphant little cheer and immediately spun around on the rug, tugging aggressively on Connors' sweater sleeve. Connors, who had been completely glued to the TV, blinked and looked down at her.

"Connors, look!" Sofia said, her voice filled with absolute, dead-serious gravity. "You have to try this! Whenever Tosan and I go to Japan to visit my great-grandparents, this is the only cake I eat! And this bakery is the only place in Boston that makes it as good as the ones in Kyoto!"

Connors, who had somehow become Sofia's absolute best friend over the course of three playoff-race weekends, leaned in close, examining the cake like it was a sacred artifact. "Wait, really? Better than regular cake?"

"Way better," Sofia insisted, nodding with extreme authority. "It's not too sweet. It's like eating a cloud."

"Say no more," Connors said, grabbing his own fork off the tray without hesitation. "If it's endorsed by you, I'm all in."

The two of them immediately dug in like a pair of hyper-focused conspirators, sitting cross-legged on the rug, comparing notes on every single bite.

"Oh, man," Connors mumbled around a mouthful of whipped cream, his eyes going wide. "Sofia, you were not lying. This is insane."

"I told you!" she beamed, her cheeks flushed with pure delight.

From the other end of the sectional, Cliff let out a booming laugh, shaking his head as he watched the six-year-old and the nineteen-year-old rookie devour their slices in complete, synchronized joy.

"Look at the kids," Cliff snorted, leaning back into his cushions with a wide grin. "Two absolute sugar monsters."

Ilya leaned against the back of the sofa, holding a warm cup of coffee in his hands. He didn't take a slice for himself; he just stood there in the warmth of his penthouse, watching Connors and Sofia laugh together while the broadcast hummed softly in the background.

His chest felt light, steady, and completely unburdened. He took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes resting fondly on his niece as she pointed out the strawberry layering to an overly invested Connors, knowing that for the first time in a very long time, everything in his home was exactly as it should be.

Or almost as if should be. Shane was the only one missing from this picture-perfect moment.

It was then that the warm, easy atmosphere in the penthouse dissolved in a single heartbeat.

On the massive television screen, the broadcast cut away from the field to a sideline interview. A tall, broad-shouldered Chicago Cubs player stood in front of the dugout, wiping sweat from his forehead while answering a reporter's question.

Instantly, Connors dropped his fork onto the box, letting out a sharp, visceral, "BOOOOOOO!"

Right beside him, Sofia leaped up onto her knees, her little face twisting into a furious scowl as she joined in, her high-pitched voice echoing through the living room. "BOOOOO! Get off the screen!"

Across the sofa, Ilya and Cliff exchanged an amused look. Ilya raised an eyebrow, entertained by how seamlessly his rookie and his niece had aligned into a two-person fan club, while Cliff hid a smirk behind his can of coke.

Then, without a single second of warning, Sofia snatched a heavy, velvet throw pillow off the sectional, wound her arm back, and chucked it with terrifying precision straight at the center of the sixty-five-inch flat-screen.

THUMP.

The pillow bounced off the glass, clattering harmlessly onto the TV stand. Cliff’s jaw dropped, while Ilya froze, his posture snapping straight as his captain's instincts kicked in.

"Sofia! No," Ilya scolded her firmly, his deep voice slicing through the living room as he set his coffee cup down on the table. "What are you doing? This is not like you at all."

Sofia didn't yell back, she didn't even argue. Instead, her little shoulders began to tremble violently. She turned around to face him, and Ilya’s chest seized, as her blue eyes were completely brimmed with huge, hot tears that were already spilling over her flushed cheeks.

"B-but that's Amini!" she sobbed out, her voice breaking into a ragged, pitiful hiccup. "I hate him! We hate him!"

Before Ilya could even begin to process the name, Sofia hurled herself across the rug and scrambled right up into his lap, burying her wet face directly into the crook of his neck, clutching his shirt with both of her tiny hands like she was holding on for dear life.

Ilya was utterly startled, his hands hovering in the air for a fraction of a second before his arms instinctively wrapped tightly around her small frame, pulling her securely against his chest. He smoothed a hand over her blond hair, holding her close while his mind raced, trying to figure out what had just triggered such a fierce breakdown in a child who was usually so sweet and composed.

Holding her tight, Ilya snapped his head up, locking his eyes onto Connors. He didn't speak, but his gaze was a sharp, urgent demand: Explain. Now.

Connors winced, immediately recognizing the non-verbal order to clarify, and lowered his voice to a quiet, serious rumble so Sofia wouldn't be triggered further.

"It wasn't a dirty hit, exactly," Connors explained softly, rubbing the back of his neck as he avoided looking at the muted TV screen. "It was Game Two of the 2014 playoffs. Shane was running home—he got waved in from third on a tight play. And Amini was catching for Chicago. The throw was coming in late, and Amini instinctively slid his left leg into the baseline before he even had full possession of the ball."

Ilya’s brow furrowed, his athlete's brain instantly visualizing the biomechanics of the collision.

"Shane had already committed to his slide," Connors continued, his tone heavy. "He couldn't pull back. Instead of sliding past the tag, his shoulder slammed right into Amini's planted leg at full speed. The force drove Shane's shoulder straight backward giving him a broken collarbone, a dislocated shoulder, and a torn AC joint. It took him out for months and completely killed the Red Sox's championship run."

Ilya felt Sofia shudder against his chest at the memory, and he tightened his grip on her, pressing another gentle kiss to the side of her head while Connors finished.

"It’s the kind of play baseball fans still fight about," Connors added quietly. "Shane's team argued it was an illegal block—that Amini never gave him a lane to slide. The Cubs argued it was just a tough, instinctual baseball play to save a run. MLB investigated it frame-by-frame for days, but nobody got suspended because there wasn't malicious intent. But for Sox fans... and for Sofia... it doesn't matter if it was an accident. It destroyed the season, and it put Shane in the hospital."

In Ilya's lap, Sofia let out another tiny, shuddering breath, her small fingers clutching the fabric of Ilya’s shirt like a lifeline.

"I-I was there," she whispered into Ilya's shirt, her voice tiny and raw with an old, unhealed trauma. "I was in the family lounge... and then they took me to the room. And Tosan was lying on the bed and his eyes were closed. I called to my Tosan to wake up... and he ignored me. My Tosan never ignores me, Uncle Ilya..."

Ilya felt his heart break right in his chest, a sharp, terrible ache blooming behind his ribs.

The image of a tiny Sofia—even smaller than she was now—standing in a sterile hospital room, terrified and crying out to a father who was knocked out on pain medication, tore through Ilya with brutal force.

"Shh, tishe, pcheolka... I know. I know," Ilya murmured in soft, low Russian, swaying her gently back and forth. He rested his cheek against her head, stroking her hair with one broad hand. "It was scary, but your Tosan is okay now. He is strong. He was throwing a hundred miles an hour today, da? He is completely fine."

Sofia gave a small, wet nod against his chest, her gasping hiccup slowly beginning to taper off as the warm, steady rhythm of Ilya’s heart grounded her. Across the table, Connors quietly grabbed the remote, switching the TV channel off entirely and silencing the living room.

The evening, which had started with such easy warmth, ended in a sour mood.

After Cliff and Connors quietly packed up their things, Sofia—exhausted from the sudden flood of old, terrifying emotions—calmed down just enough to give both of them sleepy hugs goodbye.

Ilya didn't let her skip a single step of her nightly routine, despite her drooping eyelids; he gently guided her through a warm bath, made sure she brushed her teeth, and tucked her under the soft duvet of his guest room, lingering by the door until her breathing slowed into deep, peaceful sleep.

Once the penthouse was completely silent, Ilya walked back into the dimly lit living room to clean up the remnants of the night. He picked up the empty pizza box, stacked the dessert plates from the bakery, and began fluffing the sofa cushions.

He stopped right in front of the TV, holding the velvet throw pillow Sofia had hurled earlier.

The silence in the apartment suddenly felt too loud. Before his brain could stop him, Ilya pulled out his phone, sank down onto the edge of the sectional, and opened a browser tab. He typed in three words he knew he shouldn't: Shane Hollander 2014.

It took less than five seconds to find the video.

It was a broadcast clip from Game Two of the 2014 ALCS. Ilya watched the high-definition footage in cold, frozen silence. He saw Shane—years younger but playing as if he had decades of experience—rounding third base, sprinting with that raw, fierce athleticism for home plate. He saw the throw coming in from right field. And then he saw the Chicago catcher slide his left leg across the baseline, completely sealing off the lane before the ball even hit his mitt.

The collision was brutal.

Shane didn't have time to dodge or adjust. He hit the catcher’s planted leg at full tilt, his body twisting violently as his shoulder took the entire impact. The sound of the crowd gasped through the phone's speaker as Shane rolled onto his back, his face instantly twisting into an expression of unadulterated, agonizing pain. He didn't get up. He just lay there in the dirt, clutching his right arm, completely motionless while the medics swarmed the field.

Ilya’s blood froze, as his throat tightened so violently, he could barely swallow.

For the first time since starting his daily medication, a sharp, suffocating wave of catastrophizing surged back. His mind spun completely out of control, painting horrific, vivid pictures: What if it happens again? What if he gets hurt on the mound? What if he falls during a slide? What if Sofia has to go through that again? What if I lose him before I ever even get to tell him—

He forced himself to swipe away from the video, his thumbs trembling slightly as he opened Twitter, searching the team hashtags.

If Ilya thought his own brain was spiral-inducing, Baseball Twitter was a relentless, feral war zone. Red Sox fans had explicitly never forgotten 2014, and with today’s game against the Cubs in full swing, the animosity was nuclear.

@RedSoxStateOfMind

I don’t care if it was two years ago, Amini is a villain in Boston forever. If I ever see that man setting foot in New England, I’m throwing my Dunkin Iced right at his head. 🤬⚾️☕️

 

@FenwayFrankie

Watching Shane dominate the Cubs today after what they did to his shoulder in 2014 is pure poetry. Bro threw 100 MPH right past Amini’s ugly face and stared him down. THAT IS MY TWO-WAY KING. 👑🔥 #RedSoxNation #SweepChicago

 

@DirtyWater_Dan

Never forget they took a World Series ring from Shane Hollander because their cheap-ass catcher didn’t know how to give a lane. Amini blocked the plate on purpose, and I will DIE on this hill. 🖕🧱

 

@SofiaHollanderFanClub

Sox nation will NEVER forgive Chicago for making a four-year-old Sofia watch her dad get carried off on a stretcher. I literally sob every time I think about little Sofia crying in that sterile hospital room. Amini you will PAY for your crimes 😭😭😭💔

 

@MonsterMash_617

Friendly reminder that Mark Amini has NEVER apologized to Shane Hollander for sliding his knee into the baseline and snapping his collarbone. Dirtbag behavior. Once a Cub, always a bum. 🗑️

 

@985SportsHub_Mick

Call into the show tomorrow morning at 6 AM. We are talking about Mark Amini’s dirty slide in Game 2. Two years later and my blood is still boiling. He should’ve been banned from the league. 🎙️📻

 

@SoxEditsHQ

[VIDEO ATTACHED: 0:45]

Made a compilation of Shane striking out Amini 14 times set to "The Glory" to heal the collective trauma of 2014. Enjoy. 🎥🍿

 

@CubsCentral_IL

It was a clean baseball play in 2014, move the fuck on Boston fans. Hollander took a bad angle on the slide. Stop crying over a shoulder injury. 🙄

 

@BOS_Sports_Take

"Bad angle"? HE EXTENDED HIS LEFT LEG BEFORE HE EVEN HAD THE BALL. Read the rulebook you absolute clown. Your catcher ruined a generational playoff run, and you know it. 🤡🤡🤡

 

@SoxDaily__

Amini's stats vs. Shane Hollander tonight:

• 0 for 4
• 3 Strikeouts
• 1 Broken bat
• 0 Pride left

POETIC JUSTICE. 🧹🧹🧹

 

@617_Papi

I will teach my children to hate Mark Amini. I will teach my grandchildren to hate Mark Amini. It is a family tradition in this household. #RedSox

 

@BleacherBums_BOS

Imagine thinking you can come into Wrigley, hit a 2-run home run, pitch 7 shutout innings, AND humiliate the guy who put you in the hospital. Shane Hollander is not human. 🐐⚾️

The entire night dissolved into an exhausting blur. Ilya didn't sleep a single second. He stayed on the sectional in the dark, bathed in the blue glare of his phone screen, endlessly doomscrolling, watching clips, and reading bitter tweets until his eyes burned. The medication had done its best to keep the physical panic at bay, but his mind had found every crack in the armor, spiraling into a nightmare of what-ifs.

By 5:00 AM, one thing was blindingly clear: he needed to book an urgent session with Katerina before the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs started, or he was going to break under the sheer weight of his own mind.

It was nearly seven in the morning when the quiet chime of the front door's keypad broke the silence of the penthouse.

Ilya barely reacted at first, his tired brain taking a few seconds to register the sound. Only two people possessed the access code to his home: Svetlana and Shane. And Svetlana was currently in New York on a three-day business trip.

His heart did a sudden, violent kick against his ribs.

Ilya stood up from the sofa, his limbs stiff, and walked down the hallway toward the foyer. Halfway there, he met Shane coming around the corner. Shane looked tired from the overnight flight from Chicago, wearing his favorite soft gray hoodie, his dark duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"Hey," Shane greeted him warmly, setting his bag down on the hardwood floor with a tired sigh. His voice was polite and gentle, the exact same tone he always used. "I'm so sorry for coming in so early. The team flight landed at six, and I just... I've been on the road for two weeks, and I really just wanted to see Sofia. Thank you again for taking care—"

Ilya didn't let him finish.

The months of quiet longing, the terrifying spiral of the night, the image of Shane hurt in the dirt, the secret medication, the sheer suffocating weight of loving this man from a distance—it all snapped. Ilya took two long strides, closed the distance between them, cupped Shane’s jaw in his broad hand, and pulled him in, pressing his lips firmly against Shane’s.

For a fraction of a second, Ilya braced for the sudden crash of reality, waiting for his brain to panic, for Shane to pull away, for the catastrophic consequences to start tumbling down. Instead, Shane let out a content sigh against his mouth, slid his hand up the back of Ilya's neck, and kissed him right back.

When they finally pulled back just a few inches, their foreheads resting together, Shane’s dark brown eyes were open, a faint, breathless smile tugging at his lips. "Well," he murmured, his thumb resting against Ilya's cheekbone. "Took you long enough."

A loud, genuine laugh burst out of Ilya's chest—a sound he hadn't made in weeks. He smiled, leaning in to kiss Shane again, softer this time, sinking into the impossible relief of it.

"Uncle Ilya?!"

Both of them froze.

They turned carefully to look down the hallway. Sofia was standing near the door of the guest room, her blonde hair messy and standing up in wild bedhead, rubbing her blue eyes with a small fist. She was staring at them with her mouth wide open in a dramatic, tiny gasp.

"Are you and Tosan dating?!" she demanded, her voice ringing out in the hallway.

A beat of surprise passed between Ilya and Shane. They exchanged a quick, cautious glance, both of them instantly shifting into careful, protective father-and-uncle mode. Shane took a small step forward, keeping his tone extra gentle. "Sofia, bug... is that okay with you?"

Sofia looked between them, her eyes going huge, and then a brilliant, gap-toothed smile burst across her face. "Ok? Uncle Ilya is Papa Ilya now!" she squealed, clapping her hands together. "And you're back. This is the best day ever!"

She didn't hesitate for a second, sprinting down the hallway in her fuzzy pajamas and launching herself straight at Shane. Shane laughed, dropping to one knee to catch her effortlessly, sweeping her up onto his hip.

Ilya stood there, watching the two of them with awe. He looked at Shane—at the warm morning light hitting his face, bringing out the faint dusting of freckles across his nose and the soft, glowing warmth in his brown eyes. He looked at Sofia, clinging to Shane's neck, her wild blonde hair messy, her bright blue eyes shining with pure, unadulterated joy.

And just like that, the dark thoughts vanished. How could any dark thought survive in a room when such brilliant, blinding light had finally stepped into his life?

Chapter 9: Took you long enough

Chapter Notes

So, I was not expecting to ever write a chapter from Shane's perspective in this fic. But all the comments inspired me to add this interlude. I do hope you enjoy it and that it fills out the gaps and unanswered questions left from Ilya's perspective. Anyway, this is the only chapter from Shane's pov. We are back to Ilya's in the next chapter.

P.S. I've researched so much about baseball that Google is giving me Red Sox notifications that I did not ask for! 🤣🤣🤣 It seems like we destroyed the White Sox yesterday 🤭

Shane adjusted his sunglasses, resting his arm over the back of Sofia’s stadium seat. Both of them were dressed in matching white tennis whites—a detail arranged by his publicist and greenlit by Rolex, who had flown them out for the Australian Open finals. Shane wore a pristine, custom-fitted polo, while Sofia had a small pleated tennis skirt, a tiny white visor pulled down low over her eyes, and the silver-cased Rolex Oyster Perpetual on Shane's wrist caught the sharp afternoon sun whenever he reached over to pass her a drink.

"Look at the ball kid on the left," Shane pointed down toward the court. "Watch how he stays on his toes. That's good footwork. Same thing on the diamond."

Sofia squinted through her visor, chewing on a Walker’s shortbread. "He looks like he’s playing dodgeball."

Shane laughed, leaning back. "It's called agility, Sof."

Being on the road eight months out of the year meant moments like this were rare. Usually, travel meant hotel rooms, team buses, post-game ice baths, and endless media availabilities. Real downtime—where he wasn't checking his watch or counting down the hours until a late-night flight to the next series—felt almost foreign. Seeing Sofia sprint across a hotel lobby in flip-flops or lose her mind over a koala sanctuary was worth every red-eye flight he’d ever taken.

During the changeover between the third and fourth sets, the stadium erupted in chatter as the players walked to their benches. Shane felt his phone buzz twice in his pocket.

He pulled it out.

Mom: I know you two are having fun, but don't forget to post something on Instagram. Rolex tagged you twenty minutes ago, and the team PR wants an update before the match ends.

Shane sighed, resting his forehead against his knuckles for a brief second.

He loved his mother endlessly. She was sharp, fiercely protective, and easily the best manager in professional sports. She handled his contracts, his endorsements, and his image with a ruthless efficiency that kept him afloat. But every time the conversation turned to putting Sofia on the Internet, Shane felt a natural pull to lock the door and draw the blinds.

His phone buzzed again.

Mom: Better a photo from your phone than a grainy lens from a guy sitting fifteen rows back in the press box, sweetie. Control the narrative.

She wasn't wrong. She was never wrong about this stuff. If he posted a photo himself, the paparazzi lost half their paycheck, and the narrative stayed where it belonged: a dad taking his daughter to a tennis match.

"Hey," Shane nudged Sofia softly with his elbow. "Look up for a second. Let's send a picture to Grandma."

Sofia perked up instantly, wiping a crumb off her chin. "Can I make a face?"

"Only if it's a good one."

Shane held the phone up, angling it to catch the sun and the bright blue court in the background. Sofia immediately stuck her tongue out and held up two fingers in a peace sign. Shane grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he snapped two quick shots.

He selected the second one, tagged the official tournament page and Rolex, added a quick caption, and hit post. He didn't wait to watch the likes or comments roll in; he dropped the phone straight back into his pocket, out of sight.

"Alright," Shane said, pointing down toward the server lining up at the baseline. "Pay attention. He’s going down the T."

Sofia leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, completely locked in. Shane settled back into his seat, resting his hand on the back of her chair, and let the rest of the world fade out into the background noise of the crowd.

The fourth set proved to be a masterclass in precision. Shane watched Sofia’s head swivel back and forth with every crack of the racquet, her visor tilting higher as the rally count climbed. When the final serve cleared the net and caught the chalk for match point, the arena erupted into a standing ovation.

Shane stood up with the crowd, clapping while Sofia cheered, her small hands making as much noise as she could manage.

Leaving the stadium was a familiar drill. Escorted by tournament security through the private subterranean tunnels of Rod Laver Arena, Shane kept Sofia in front of him, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. The Rolex liaison gave them a warm send-off at the private car bay, and within twenty minutes, they were gliding through the Melbourne traffic back toward their hotel.

By the time they reached the suite overlooking the Yarra River, the heat and excitement had completely caught up with Sofia. She barely made it through her evening bath before her eyes started heavy-drooping. Shane tucked her in, pulling the light duvet up to her chin and smoothing back her damp blond hair.

"Goodnight, Tosan," she murmured, already drifting off.

"Night, bug," Shane whispered, pressing a soft kiss on her forehead.

He left the bedroom door cracked open, leaving a sliver of light from the hallway, and walked into the main lounge of the suite. Settling onto the plush sofa, Shane pulled out his phone. He opened the photo gallery, a fond smile spreading across his face as he swiped through the week’s memories: Sofia wide-eyed next to a sleepy koala, the two of them eating gelato on St Kilda Pier, and the selfie from the tennis court where she had her tongue stuck out. Eight months on the road was grueling, but moments like these made every endless flight worth it.

His phone began to vibrate, the screen flashing with an incoming call from an international number.

Shane frowned slightly. Most of his administrative affairs—especially those involving Ursula—were handled strictly through his agent, Farrah. Ever since Ursula had relocated to Montreal, every installment paying back the money Shane had lent her was routed directly through Farrah’s office. Shane hadn't expected to ever get the money back anyway; every cent was quietly funneled straight into the trust fund he had set up for Sofia's future.

As he hadn't spoken to Ursula directly in months, getting a call from her out of the blue was a surprise.

Silently, holding his breath so as not to wake Sofia, Shane stood up and slid open the glass door leading out to the balcony. The warm Australian night air hit him immediately, as he slid the glass door shut behind him and swiped to accept the call.

"Ursula?" Shane answered, his voice was low murmuring.

"Shane," her voice came through the speaker, thin and tight with nerves.

A sharp spike of concern rose within Shane. For a split second, he wondered if her abusive ex-husband had somehow tracked her down to Canada. "Is everything okay? Are you safe?"

"Yes, I'm safe," Ursula assured him quickly, though her breathing remained uneven. "It’s not... it’s not about that."

She took a ragged breath, and then the words came spilling out. She finally told him about her past in Russia, about Alexei and Grigori, and how they were dead now. Then she told him about the sudden appearance of Alexei's younger brother, Ilya. She explained how Ilya had found her out in Montreal and how he had learned about Sofia.

Shane stood frozen against the balcony railing, looking out over the illuminated skyline of Melbourne. The sheer volume of information had him short-circuit from the shock. Just a few minutes ago, the only blood-relative Shane knew about was Ursula. Now there was a biological uncle who knew about Sofia and was actively asking to see the little girl sleeping in the next room.

Silence stretched between them over the line for several long seconds. Shane reached up, rubbing the back of his neck as he processed it all.

"He wants to meet her," Ursula murmured softly. "He is... he is not like them, Shane. I would not ask this of you if I thought he was."

Shane looked back through the glass door toward the dark bedroom. His instinct as a father was always to build the wall higher, to protect Sofia from every danger in the world. But hearing the sincerity in Ursula's voice—and knowing how fiercely protective she was of Sofia's safety—the tension in his jaw slowly eased.

Family was complicated, but if Ilya was genuine, Sofia deserved to know she had people in her corner. More people to love and protect her was never a bad thing.

"Okay," Shane finally said. "Okay. Pass me his contact and I’ll reach out when we're back in Boston."

Shane hung up, leaning back against the cool balcony glass as the warm Australian night hummed around him. His mind was already miles away, calculating dates, schedules, and the logistics of a meeting that couldn't afford to go wrong.

He didn't tell a soul about what he arranged next. Not Farrah, not his Red Sox teammates, and certainly not his parents. If Yuna Hollander had caught wind of it, she would have gone straight into manager mode, showing up at the table flanked by two contract lawyers and an NDA the size of a phone book.

Shane didn't want that. Involving legal teams before the first meeting would only put them on opposite sides before they'd even met, and Sofia didn't need that. Still, sitting in the back corner of Japonaise Bakery & Cafe a few weeks later, Shane felt a sharp prickle of nerves.

He knew who Ilya Rozanov was, of course. His mother made sure he knew the major players across all sports, but hockey was her personal obsession. Shane’s father had grown up on Canadian rinks, and Yuna had fully intended for Shane to follow suit.

Things might have played out differently if Shane had grown up in Ontario. But his father’s promotion at Global Affairs Canada took the family to Tokyo, where he served as a Trade Commissioner and diplomat. The assignment had made sense—his father had married a Japanese woman, and Yuna’s deep understanding of the culture made them a powerhouse diplomatic team.

For Shane, it meant spending middle school and high school one quick train ride away from his grandparents in Kyoto. In Japan, baseball was secondary to nothing. Joining the school baseball club had been his way of fitting in with his classmates, but what started as a social bridge quickly turned into an obsession. The rest was history: he fell in love with the game, built his life around it, and eventually brought two World Series titles to Boston.

None of that stopped Yuna from remaining the world's biggest hockey fan, constantly dropping NHL stats into Sunday morning family calls. So, yes—Shane knew exactly who Ilya Rozanov was. He knew about the 2014 Stanley Cup run, the sheer physical dominance on the ice, and the intimidating reputation that followed the Russian captain everywhere he went.

He had braced himself for a cold, guarded athlete defending a dark family name.

What he hadn't expected was the man who actually walked through the bakery door.

Ilya didn't push. He didn't demand rights or raise his voice. He sat across from Shane, settled his broad shoulders into a chair that looked too small for him, and listened. When Shane laid down his strict boundaries regarding Sofia’s privacy, routine, and safety, Ilya simply accepted them, agreeing without a single argument. He was surprisingly soft-spoken, remarkably understanding, and carried an understated respect that immediately caught Shane off guard.

And then there was the gift.

Shane looked at the teddy bear, then back up at the imposing hockey player finishing his coffee. The bear was adorable. And Shane realized with a dangerous jolt, so was Ilya.

Introducing Sofia to the idea of Ilya required a gentle touch. On the drive home from school one day, Shane picked a moment when the traffic was slow along Storrow Drive. He didn't make a grand announcement; he simply told her that he recently found out that Sofia’s biological uncle was living in Boston, playing hockey for the Bears, and wanted to say hello. Sofia had listened quietly from the backseat, her blue eyes reflecting in the rearview mirror, before giving a single, cautious nod.

When the weekend came, Shane brought her to Ilya’s high-rise penthouse overlooking the city. But the meeting did not start smoothly.

Sofia’s guard was up and she retreated behind Shane’s legs, clutching the hem of his jacket and refusing to make eye contact. Every time Ilya tried to offer a gentle greeting, Sofia sank further into silence, her shoulders tense and her lower lip set in a stubborn line. The tension in the living room was thick enough to cut with a knife, with Shane caught in the middle, trying to balance encouraging his daughter without pushing her past her comfort zone.

After twenty agonizing minutes of standoff, Shane excused himself to use the bathroom, stepping out of the room to give them both time to breathe. When he returned to the living room a few minutes later, the mood had completely shifted.

Shane stopped near the hallway, mesmerized by what he was seeing. Ilya was sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, his massive frame folded down to Sofia’s level. Sofia was sitting right across from him, practically leaning over his knee, her earlier suspicion entirely vanished.

Whatever magic Ilya had pulled out of his hat, it had worked. They were deep into a ridiculous, fast-paced card trick, with Sofia proudly revealing the cards exactly when Ilya told her to. Every time she beat him to the reveal, he pulled an exaggerated look of pride that had her giggling—a full, delighted laugh Shane rarely heard around strangers.

The sunlight coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the gold in Ilya’s hair, softening his hard jawline as he leaned in to hand Sofia her next card. Shane felt a sudden, unmistakable jolt in his chest.

He is gorgeous, Shane thought, his pulse quickening.

Watching Ilya interact with Sofia—patient, playful, and so genuinely careful with her feelings—made the truth hit Shane with total clarity: he had a massive crush on the Russian hockey player.

Yet, as Shane watched them, he held himself back. He remembered their conversation at Japonaise Bakery—the subtle, guarded way Ilya spoke, the lingering shadows behind his eyes, and the unspoken weight of a childhood that clearly lacked the warmth and security Sofia had now. Ilya carried deep scars, and while Shane could catch the subtle, flickering heat in Ilya’s gaze whenever their eyes met—a shared, silent attraction that was entirely mutual—he could also tell that the blond wasn't ready for anything more.

Ilya was still unlearning a lifetime of fear and obedience. Pushing him now would only send him back into his shell.

Shane leaned against the doorframe, a small, fond smile touching his lips as Sofia proudly beat Ilya for the third round in a row. As an elite pitcher, Shane had learned early in his career that the best plays required timing, precision, and, above all, restraint. Patience was something he had in abundance.

He could wait. For Ilya, he was slowly learning, he would wait as long as it took.

The weeks bled into months, turning the harsh Boston winter into the pale, humid heat of early spring, and Shane’s life accelerated into its usual, relentless rhythm.

Spring training in Florida meant early morning bus rides, forty-five minutes of long-toss on sun-bleached grass, and the familiar, satisfying pop of leather as his fastball hit the catcher's mitt. It meant balancing a grueling conditioning schedule with the endless obligations of his public life. He moved seamlessly from pitching bullpens to suit fittings for Rolex, signing off on draft approvals for City Seltzer billboards, and sitting through marathon media sessions where reporters asked the same three questions about his contract extension.

Through it all, his mind remained stubbornly fixed on a single goal: a third World Series ring. He didn't care about the brutal travel schedule, the icing routines that left his shoulder numb, or the physical toll of being a two-way leader. Boston had trusted him with the captaincy, and he intended to deliver, even if it was the last thing he did in a Red Sox uniform.

Yet, despite the chaos of the MLB season and the mountain of responsibilities resting on his shoulders, an entirely new pattern began to form beneath the noise.

What had started as a tentative, carefully negotiated arrangement quickly evolved into something effortless. Between team flights, late-night road games, and home stands at Fenway, Shane, Sofia, and Ilya became a well-oiled machine.

There was no grand declaration or formal schedule; they simply adjusted to each other’s orbits with remarkable ease. On days when Shane had to report to the ballpark by one in the afternoon, Ilya would show up at their home in a non-descript hoodie, carrying a box of fresh pastries from Japonaise Bakery. He would sit on the rug with Sofia, helping her build impossibly complex LEGO structures while Shane finalized his pre-game routine, checking his uniform in the mirror while listening to the two of them debate the structural integrity of plastic castle walls.

Shane quickly learned that Ilya possessed a strange, steadying presence. When Shane’s flight back from a west-coast road trip got delayed by three hours, he didn't have to panic about finding last-minute childcare; he opened his phone at two in the morning to a single text from Ilya: She is sleeping. I ate two of your yogurts. Fly safe.

When Shane arrived home, exhausted and smelling of jet fuel, he found Ilya asleep on the couch with a dog-eared Russian fairy tale book resting on his chest, while Sofia’s favorite nightlight threw soft yellow stars across the ceiling.

Small moments accumulated after that.

There were afternoon walks through the Public Garden where Ilya would hold Sofia’s small hand in his massive, calloused palm, his gaze constantly sweeping the perimeter for pushy photographers before Shane even had a chance to react.

There were rainy Tuesdays in April when the Red Sox had an off-day and the Bears were between series, resulting in the three of them cooking far too much food together and crowding around the kitchen island.

Ilya would patiently teach Sofia how to pronounce long, complex Russian words, his tone softening every time she got the syllables right, while Shane leaned against the counter, sipping his matcha tea and letting the warmth of the scene wash over his tired muscles.

During home games at Fenway, Shane would occasionally catch a glimpse of them in the family box—Sofia wearing a tiny customized baseball jersey over a hoodie, and Ilya sitting beside her, wearing a low-profile cap, silently studying the mechanics of Shane’s delivery with sharp, analytical eyes. Knowing they were up there anchored Shane on the mound in a way he hadn't experienced in years.

The attraction between them remained an unspoken thread woven into every interaction. It was there in the lingering touch of Ilya’s fingers when he handed Shane a fresh cup of coffee; in the appreciative looks Ilya gave him whenever Shane walked into the room fresh out of the shower; and in the way Shane’s chest tightened whenever Ilya laughed—a real, unreserved sound that reached his eyes. Shane noticed every bit of it, but he kept his promise to himself. He let the quiet moments build, giving Ilya the time and space he needed to feel safe, confident in his own patience.

As the Red Sox pushed through, stacking wins and climbing the division standings, Shane realized his life had transformed. The overwhelming weight of being a single parent, an elite athlete, and a public icon hadn't vanished, but it was no longer his alone to bear. They had built a sanctuary out of shared coffee, glances, and a little girl’s laughter.

That sanctuary became his anchor through the season grind, a beacon waiting for him at the end of every grueling road trip. So, when a game against the Cubs finally wrapped up on a humid Sunday night in Chicago, Shane didn't head for his house upon landing back in Massachusetts. He went straight to Ilya’s penthouse.

The chime of the front door's keypad broke the absolute silence of the penthouse, making Shane's heart lift before he even stepped over the threshold.

It was nearly seven in the morning. He was exhausted from the overnight flight, and his shoulder aching slightly from the physical toll of a hard-fought win against the Cubs, but the fatigue didn't matter. He was wearing his favorite soft gray hoodie, his heavy dark duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and after two long weeks on the road, all he wanted was to be back in this sanctuary.

He set his duffel down on the hardwood floor with a tired sigh, turning the corner into the foyer. Ilya was already there, coming down the hallway toward him.

"Hey," Shane greeted him warmly, keeping his voice polite and gentle. "I'm so sorry for coming in so early. The team flight landed at six, and I just... I've been on the road for two weeks, and I really just wanted to see Sofia. Thank you again for taking care—"

Shane didn't get to finish.

Ilya took two long, sudden strides across the floor, closing the gap between them before Shane could even blink. A broad, calloused hand came up to cup Shane’s jaw—warm, firm, and deliberate—and then Ilya pulled him in, pressing his lips firmly against Shane’s.

For a fraction of a second, the world stood entirely still.

The months of careful patience, the restraint, the unspoken heat lingering between them, it all dissolved in a single, breathless instant. Shane let out a low, content sigh right against Ilya's mouth, slid his hand up the back of Ilya's neck, fingers tangling in the blond hair, and kissed him right back with everything he had.

It was deep, honest, and entirely earned.

When they finally parted just a few inches, keeping their foreheads resting together, Shane kept his eyes open, looking straight into Ilya's. A faint, breathless smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Well," Shane murmured, resting his thumb against Ilya's cheekbone, feeling the rapid, steady pulse beneath his skin. "Took you long enough."

Chapter 10: There is no 'easier' version of that he would ever choose

Chapter Notes

First of all, I don't know if any of you have been checking the playlists I've been adding at the end of each completed story, but I've been having so much fun putting them together.

Trying to find the perfect song for every chapter while also making sure I don't repeat myself has become one of my favorite parts of writing. It's also led me down some wonderful musical rabbit holes and introduced me to artists I'd somehow never listened to before.

My current obsession is Sleeping at Last. I'd heard Turning Page before (thanks, Twilight), but I never actually looked into the artist behind it. Now I've fallen headfirst into their discography, and I have a feeling you'll be seeing a few more of their songs pop up in future playlists.

Second... today is my birthday! 🥳 So I wanted to celebrate with all of you the best way I know how: by posting a second chapter today.

I hope you enjoy it, and thank you all so much for reading, commenting, and sharing this journey with me. It really does make every update—and every birthday—a little brighter. ❤️

The playoff schedule didn't leave much room for slow mornings, but Ilya made sure to hold onto this one.

With the Bears heading into the Stanley Cup Finals at the end of the week and Shane on a road trip with the Red Sox, Ilya’s days were usually a blur of morning skates, strategy meetings, and physical therapy. But Tuesday was their designated morning.

Sofia and Ilya sat at a small corner table inside Japonaise Bakery & Cafe, between them sat a single slice of Japonaise green tea cake, green layers neatly stacked, alongside a pot of warm barley tea for Sofia and a dark drip coffee for Ilya.

Sofia pulled off a small section of the cake with her fork, but instead of eating it, she simply rolled the piece around her plate. Ilya leaned back in his chair, resting his forearms against the table edge. He watched her for a moment, taking in the furrow of her brow and the deliberate way she avoided his eyes.

"You are breaking the cake, not eating it," Ilya noted, his tone mild. "This is a crime against deserts."

Sofia looked up, letting out a small sigh. "I'm eating it."

"No," Ilya pointed a finger at her plate. "You are not. What did the cake do to you?"

A faint, fleeting smile touched her lips, but it disappeared just as fast. She set her fork down with a small clatter against the porcelain. "Do you think Tosan gets tired?" she asked softly.

Ilya paused, adjusting his coffee cup. "Your dad is currently leading the American League in strikeouts. He is fine."

"That's not what I mean," she pouted, leaning her chin on her hand, looking out the bakery window toward the street. "At school yesterday, someone asked how he manages to always find time for bake offs or the science fair. And I also heard Maya's mom gossip with Neil’s mom about how I do not look anything like him and Obaachan."

To the sports media and the city of Boston, Shane Hollander was a superhuman figure—an elite athlete balancing a championship career and single fatherhood with flawless grace. But he knew the burden Shane carried.

The reality behind the curtain was less glamorous than others made it look. He had seen the color-coded calendars taped to Shane's desk, the midnight alarm clocks set for middle-of-the-night FaceTime calls from West Coast locker rooms, and the lingering guilt Shane held in his chest every time a road trip pulled him away from home.

Shane constantly worried that he wasn't giving her enough, even when he gave her every spare second of his life.

"People ask stupid questions when they do not understand things," Ilya said gently, keeping his voice steady. "Your father works harder than any man I have ever met. Not just at baseball. For you."

"I know," Sofia murmured. "He tries to do everything. He always comes to the school plays, even when he has a night game right after. But sometimes I think... maybe it would be easier for him if I looked like him. Or if he did not worry so much about me."

"Sofia."

Ilya’s voice held a firmness that made her look up instantly.

"He does not want you to be different," Ilya said, looking straight into her dark eyes. "Not by one hair. When you were small, before I knew about you, Shane held the entire world on his back for you. He did not care about the sleep he lost or the work it took. You are his daughter. There is no 'easier' version of that he would ever choose."

Sofia stared at her tea, her fingers tracing the rim of the cup. "It’s just weird," she said, her voice dropping lower. "In Boston, everyone looks at me and thinks I don't belong to him. And when we went to Kyoto to see my great-grandparents last winter... I spoke to the lady at the bakery in Japanese, and she still answered me in English. Just because my hair isn't black like Tosan's."

She looked at Ilya, a rare, vulnerable frustration showing through her normally cherry demeanor. "I speak Japanese at home every day. But over there, they just see a tourist."

Ilya reached across the table, covering her small hand with his broad palm. The frustration she felt—the sensation of being caught between two worlds, belonging fully to neither—was something he understood better than anyone.

"I know," Ilya said softly. "It is frustrating when people only look at the outside. In Russia, they looked at me and saw my family's name. In America, they look at you and try to put you in a small box that fits their mind. But you do not belong in a box, Sof."

He leaned in slightly, a small, warm spark returning to his eyes. "You speak Japanese with your father. You speak French at school, and English with the rest of the world. And now, you know enough Russian to yell at me when I forget to buy your favorite City Seltzer."

Sofia let out a genuine laugh, her shoulders finally dropping some of the tension. "Your accent is still terrible when you say arigatou."

"My accent is perfect," Ilya countered without missing a beat. "It has character."

He squeezed her hand before releasing it, pulling the cake plate an inch closer to her.

"You do not need to look like Shane to be a Hollander," Ilya assured her firmly. "And you do not need to prove anything to shopkeepers in Kyoto or mothers at your school. You have a father who built a fortress around you before I even knew you existed. And now, you have me. If anyone asks you stupid questions again, you tell them your family is too big for them to understand."

Sofia looked at him for a long moment, the doubts that had been hovering around her all morning slowly clearing away. She picked up her fork, cut a proper piece of the green tea cake, and ate it.

"Papa Ilya?" she asked after swallowing.

"Yes?"

"Can we bring a slice of this to the rink for your practice?"

Ilya smiled, picking up his coffee cup. "Only if you do not tell your dad. He thinks we only eat protein powder."

Ilya called the barista back over and ordered an entirely cake of Japonaise green tea wrapped neatly in a box with a red ribbon. Sofia’s eyes sparkled with mischievous victory as they walked out of the Bakery, the cake resting safely in Ilya's arm.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the subterranean parking facility at TD Garden.

The atmosphere around the Bears’ facility was charged with the electric focus that only came with the Stanley Cup Finals. Banners were hung, media trucks were already staging outside, and the coaching staff were pacing the hallways. But the moment Ilya walked through the rink doors with Sofia in tow, the high-stakes tension snapped like a dry twig.

"Look who’s here!" Connors yelled from down the hall, tossing his stick into a bin and jogging over. "The real boss has arrived!"

Within seconds, half the roster swarmed them. Koslov immediately dropped to his knees to offer Sofia a high-five, while Cliff took the bakery box from Ilya with extreme, dramatic care, declaring it off-limits to the defensemen. The team adored her—not just because she was Shane’s daughter or Ilya’s world, but because she treated the towering, bruised hockey players like goofy older cousins.

Sofia wasn't wearing her Red Sox jersey today. Instead, she had on a custom-knit oversized cream cardigan with ROZANOV 81 stitched neatly across the back—a gift Ilya had commissioned for her birthday. The sleeves were rolled up twice at her wrists, making her look impossibly small and absurdly cute.

Coach LeClaire walked up, a whistle hanging from his neck and a dry, rare smile on his face. He didn't ask why there was a child in the locker room three days before Game 1 against the Detroit Red Wings; he simply handed her a mini whiteboard, a dry-erase marker, and a spare whistle.

"You're on board duty today, Sof," LeClaire said, leaning down. "If Ilya misses a backcheck, you put a checkmark next to his name."

"I will put two," Sofia promised solemnly, clutching her tiny clipboard.

While Ilya laced up his skates and stepped onto the ice for power-play drills, Sofia sat on the bench right beside the coaching staff. She wore a pair of bulky, noise-canceling headphones over her ears, her feet dangling above the rubber floor, taking her job as "assistant coach" with deadpan seriousness. She drew little stick figures, tracked line changes, and held up her whiteboard to show Cliff whenever he skated past the glass.

Every few laps, as the ice sprayed against the boards and the heavy thud of pucks echoed through the arena, Ilya would glide by the bench.

He didn't make a big deal of it—just a quick, subtle glance over the glass to check on her. Every single time he looked, Sofia would catch his eye, hold up her little marker, and tap her board to let him know she was watching his every move.

Seeing her sitting there—safe, cherished, wearing his name on her back, and having the absolute time of her life while he prepared for the biggest series of his career—filled Ilya with grounding peace.

The Detroit Red Wings were going to bring hell in Game 1, but right now, looking at his daughter on the bench, Ilya knew he had already won.

Moving into Shane’s home had happened almost without a formal conversation. Ilya still kept his penthouse—technically—and a few suits still hung in its closets, but his life had completely migrated. Most of his wardrobe was jammed into Shane’s dresser, his preferred brand of dark coffee sat on the kitchen counter, and whenever team buses dropped him off at two in the morning, it was in front of Shane’s front door.

Now, with the Stanley Cup Finals in full swing, that sanctuary felt miles away.

The guilt settled deep in Ilya’s chest, heavy and nagging. He was barely home. Between late-night flights to Michigan, endless video reviews, and mandatory medical treatments, his time with Shane and Sofia was reduced to brief, frantic fragments. He’d catch five minutes with Sofia before her bedtime, kissing her forehead while she was half-asleep, or share an exhausted cup of tea with Shane in the dim kitchen at 6:00 AM before heading back to the rink.

Yet, underneath the guilt, there was an exhilarating, terrifying rush. Ilya was pouring every ounce of his soul into the ice. Every hit, every backcheck, every precise wrist shot carried the frantic energy of a man who knew exactly what he was fighting for.

During the away games in Detroit, those brief video calls became his lifeline.

He’d sit in his hotel room in a pair of sweatpants, his face bruised and iced, looking at the small screen of his phone. On the other end, Shane and Sofia would be curled up on the living room couch—Sofia wearing her oversized cardigan and Shane looking soft and relaxed in a faded t-shirt, both of them cheering, dissecting his plays, and telling him about their day.

"You missed three backchecks in the second period," Sofia would inform him gravely over the screen.

"Coach LeClaire already yelled at me, Sof," Ilya would sigh, though a small, helpless smile always broke through his exhaustion. "Do not add to it."

Shane would just look at him through the lens—that warm, steady gaze that grounded Ilya instantly—and whisper, "Bring it home, Ilya. We're right here."

Before the series started, Ilya had braced himself for a public storm. He had expected the media circus, the intrusive headlines, and the inevitable paparazzi stakeouts once he started staying at the Hollander house full-time. But the explosion never came.

Shane’s protective fortress was absolute. The sports journalists knew better than to risk their press credentials; Shane’s legal team had a terrifying reputation for shutting down unauthorized personal intrusion before it even reached a draft desk. More than that, the Boston fanbase possessed a strange, fierce devotion to their captain. The unwritten rule among local fans was ironclad: Shane Hollander’s private life remained private. Aside from a few speculative, quickly-deleted Reddit threads, there was barely a peep online.

Instead, the noise was kept entirely where it belonged: on the ice.

The Detroit Red Wings were giving the Bears absolute hell. It was a brutal, physical, unforgiving series. Every game was a war of attrition, with bruised ribs, swollen jaws, and double-overtime thrillers that pushed both rosters to the absolute brink of collapse. But the Bears gave hell right back.

Losing wasn't an option. Not now. Not when Ilya had an entire family waiting for him on the other side of the glass. They fought through six bloody, exhausting games, trading blow for blow, until the series reached its absolute pinnacle.

Game 7 at TD Garden was an arena transformed into a pressure cooker of noise and shaking concrete.

Up in the VIP box, high above the ice, Shane and Sofia were locked in. Both of them wore ROZANOV 81 jerseys—Sofia’s practically drowning her, Shane’s fitting snugly over his broad shoulders. Sofia’s eyes never left the ice, her hands clutched tightly over the railing, shouting until her voice was raspy every time Ilya led the rush over the blue line.

Down below, Ilya felt the weight of every single person in that building. A win tonight meant the Boston Bears would claim their second Stanley Cup—two championships in his first four years as team captain. It wasn't quite back-to-back like Shane’s legendary World Series runs, but it was a statement.

It was a legacy in the making.

And Ilya Rozanov refused to let it slip away.

From the moment the puck dropped at center ice for the opening faceoff, Ilya dictated the rhythm of the game. As the top-line center, the heavy burden of responsibility rested entirely on his shoulders. A center in hockey is the engine of the unit—required to lead the rush into the offensive zone, orchestrate passing lanes, and instantly transition back to act as a third defenseman deep in his own end. Detroit knew this, and they targeted him from the opening whistle.

In the first period, the game was a physical grind. The Red Wings ran a aggressive 1-2-2 forecheck, clogging the neutral zone to prevent Ilya from gaining speed across the blue line. Every time Ilya touched the puck, Detroit’s defensemen swarmed him, pinning him against the boards with bone-rattling body checks. But Ilya used his massive frame to protect the puck, cycling it down low into the corners to wear down Detroit’s top pairing. He won seven of his first nine faceoffs in the defensive circle, tying up his opponent's stick and sweeping the rubber back to his defensemen to clear the zone before Detroit could set up their offense.

By the second period, the ice became a warzone of technical execution and tactical discipline. Trailing 1-0 after a Detroit power-play goal, the Bears needed their captain to spark the offense. Taking a breakout pass from Cliff in his own end, Ilya accelerated through the neutral zone, drawing two Detroit defenders toward him. With a slick, blind drop-pass between his skates, he opened up a lane for his winger, who snapped a wrist shot past the goalie’s glove side to tie the game.

Minutes later, Ilya put Boston ahead 2–1 on a masterclass power-play sequence. Operating out of the bumper spot in the high slot, Ilya screened the Detroit goaltender, using his height to block the goalie's sightlines while remaining ready to pounce on any loose rebounds. When a point shot generated a scramble in the crease, Ilya used his long reach to jab the puck through a maze of skates and over the goal line.

The third period, however, tested the absolute limits of his endurance. With Boston clinging to that narrow 2–1 lead, Detroit pulled their goaltender in the final three minutes, gaining a 6-on-5 skater advantage. The game descended into raw survival. As a center, Ilya had to read Detroit’s point-men, shifting horizontally across the slot to deny high-danger passing lanes while staying low enough to clear any loose pucks out of the crease.

He played like a man possessed. He threw his body into every check, blocked shots with his ankles, and commanded the ice with a relentless, terrifying authority. The Red Wings matched them hit for hit, pushing the game to an agonizing 2–1 score in the final minutes of the third period. The last two minutes were a blur of flying rubber, shattered sticks, and desperation. Ilya blocked a final, desperate slapshot with his shin guard as time expired.

The horn blared.

The arena erupted into a deafening, thunderous roar that shook the glass. Gloves and helmets rained onto the ice as the entire Bears roster charged toward Ilya, tackling him against the end boards in a frantic, ecstatic pile of black and gold. Ilya screamed into the rafters, the months of exhaustion, guilt, and grueling physical pain instantly burning away in a rush of pure adrenaline.

He had never been prouder of a group of men in his entire life.

The presentation was a blur. When Commissioner Roger Crowell handed Ilya the Stanley Cup, Ilya hoisted the thirty-five-pound silver trophy high over his head, his muscles shaking as thirty thousand fans roared his name. He skated a solo lap around the perimeter, feeling the cool air against his bruised face, before passing the heavy steel to Cliff, who let out a guttural scream as he took it.

Then, the ice opened up for the players' families.

Ilya was standing near the blue line, his heart hammering against his ribs, when he spotted them.

Sofia came flying across the slick surface in her winter boots, her arms outstretched, totally fearless. Ilya dropped to one knee, sweeping her up into his arms the second she reached him, lifting her effortlessly onto his hip. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder, screaming, "You did it! Papa Ilya, you did it!"

"We did it, Sof," Ilya laughed, his voice thick with emotion, pressing a hard kiss to the side of her head.

Shane was trailing just behind her, walking onto the ice with careful steps. He wore a proud smile, but he stayed a few paces back near the boards, always cautious and aware of the public eye and wanting the moment to belong entirely to Ilya and the Bears.

Ilya wasn't having any of it.

Holding Sofia securely on one hip, Ilya skated straight toward the boards, closing the distance between them in three long, powerful strides. He reached out with his free arm, grabbed the lapel of Shane’s coat, and pulled the Red Sox captain directly into him.

Right there on the center ice of TD Garden, surrounded by flashing cameras, roaring crowds, and trailing confetti, Ilya kissed his boyfriend before pressing his forehead against Shane’s, letting out a long, shuddering breath of total surrender and joy.

Shane didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Ilya’s waist, pulling both Ilya and Sofia into a tight, fierce embrace, completely careless of who was watching. "I told you," he whispered against Ilya’s ear, his voice tight with pride. "I told you you'd bring it home."

Chapter 11: BOSTON STANDS TOGETHER

The air in the corner office on the thirty-fifth floor of the National Hockey League headquarters in Manhattan smelled expensive, heavy with polished mahogany, leather, and tailored wool. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk, the skyline of New York stretched out in sharp gray angles, but Ilya kept his eyes fixed on the man sitting across from him.

Commissioner Roger Crowell looked clean-shaven and impeccably pressed, but there was a faint, frantic tightness around his eyes. A silver-framed photograph of Crowell shaking hands with corporate sponsors sat on the mahogany desk next to a copy of the morning’s Boston Globe, its front-page photograph showing Ilya holding the Stanley Cup aloft on TD Garden ice while Shane stood beside him, their foreheads pressed together, Sofia lifted high on Ilya’s hip.

In his pocket, Ilya’s thumb felt the smooth glass screen of his iPhone. Three seconds before walking through the heavy double doors, he had unlocked the phone, opened the voice memo app, and hit record.

"I don't think you grasp the severity of this, Rozanov," Crowell said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk. His tone was smooth, carrying the practiced authority of a man accustomed to managing crisis PR for multi-billion-dollar athletic franchises. "We are forty-eight hours removed from a historic Game Seven. The parade yesterday was a masterpiece. The TV ratings were the highest the league has seen in twelve years. And instead of talking about your performance, every network from ESPN to CNN is playing a three-second clip of you on the ice."

Ilya leaned back in his leather armchair, resting his hands quietly on his knees. "It was not three seconds," he corrected, his voice flat, his accent thick and unhurried. "It was longer."

Crowell’s jaw twitched. "Don't get smart with me. You know exactly what I am talking about." He slid a draft release across the polished wood toward Ilya. "This goes out to the Associated Press in twenty minutes. You are going to sign it."

Ilya didn't reach for the paper. He simply looked down at it.

Statement on behalf of Boston Bears Captain Ilya Rozanov:

Following the intense emotional release of our Stanley Cup victory, a moment of celebratory horseplay between myself and Red Sox captain Shane Hollander was misconstrued by the media...

"Horseplay," Ilya repeated, the word tasting like lead on his tongue.

"It was a joke," Crowell instructed, tapping his pen against the desk with a sharp, rhythmic click. "An adrenaline-fueled, hyper-emotional moment between two elite Boston athletes who share a professional friendship. You were caught in the excitement. That’s the story. That will be the only story."

"It was not a joke," Ilya said calmly. "And Shane is not just my friend. He is my partner."

Crowell snapped the pen down against the leather desk mat. The polished demeanor cracked, revealing a sharp, ugly heat beneath. "Listen to me very carefully, Rozanov. You are the captain of an Original Six franchise. You represent corporate sponsors who put millions of dollars into this league every single quarter. I am not going to let you drag this sport into a cultural war because you decided to lose your mind in front of thirty cameras."

"I did not lose my mind," Ilya replied. "I kissed my fiancé."

At Crowell’s surprised expression, Ilya smirked predatorily. “Da, I proposed after the parade. He said yes.”

"You will sign the statement," Crowell repeated, his voice dropping into a harsh, warning register, completely ignoring Ilya’s statement. "Or you will find out very quickly how cold the bench is in Boston. I can suspend you indefinitely for conduct detrimental to the league. I can strip the 'C' off your jersey before the opening night of the season, and I can make sure your name is synonymous with the biggest embarrassment in modern hockey history."

Ilya didn't flinch. He had grown up under the shadow of men far more dangerous than Roger Crowell—men who backed their threats with cold steel and total isolation. A bureaucrat in a two-thousand-dollar suit trying to intimidate him felt almost pathetic.

"You think you can bully me, Roger?" Ilya asked softly. "You think I care about the captaincy if the 'C' means I lie about my family?"

Crowell stood up, leaning over the desk, his knuckles turning white against the wood. The mask fell off completely. "You fucking faggots think you own the city just because you win a couple of trophies?" he hissed, his voice raspy with venom. "Shane Hollander might run baseball, but this is the NHL. Baseball is soft and can afford to let its poster boy run around kissing men. Hockey cannot become baseball. I will not let a couple of fairy athletes turn this league into a circus."

The room went dead silent, as the faint hum of the Manhattan traffic far below seemed to fade entirely.

Ilya sat still for a long moment. He looked at Crowell—at the red flush crawling up the commissioner's neck, at the tremble in his hands, at the sheer, suffocating fear of a dying status quo.

"Are you finished?" Ilya asked.

Crowell blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the total absence of panic in Ilya's face. "Sign the paper, Rozanov. Or you're done."

Ilya stood up. He reached down, picked up the drafted statement, and deliberately tore it in half, then tore it again, dropping the white fragments onto the polished mahogany desk.

"I am not done," Ilya told him, his voice steady and echoing off the glass walls. "You are."

He turned and walked out of the office, his designer shoes silent on the plush carpet, the recording still ticking quietly in his pocket.

The drive to the airport was a blur of gray highway and heavy rain. By the time Ilya unlocked the door to his penthouse back in Boston, the sun was beginning to drop over the Charles River, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and bruised purple.

The penthouse was quiet. Shane and Sofia were visiting Shane’s parents in Ottawa for the weekend, giving Ilya the space he had requested after leaving for New York.

Ilya walked straight to his study, setting his phone down on the desk. His hands were completely steady as he exported the digital audio file from his phone to his laptop. He didn't edit a single frame. He didn't trim the silence before the door opened, nor the quiet sound of his own breathing as Crowell hurled slurs across the mahogany desk.

He opened his social media accounts and attached the twenty-minute raw audio file. Beneath it, he typed his statement in plain, unvarnished English: I have spent enough of my life being told who I should be. I will not begin my marriage by pretending my family doesn't exist.

Commissioner Roger Crowell demanded I sign a statement claiming my relationship with Shane Hollander was a 'joke.' When I refused, he threatened my career, my captaincy, and used slurs against the man I love and the family we are building.

I am bisexual. I am the captain of the Boston Bears. Shane Hollander and I are engaged to be married. We have already begun legal proceedings for me to adopt his daughter, Sofia Yuna Hollander. Following our wedding, I will legally change my surname to Hollander.

I am done lying. Here is the audio.

Ilya hit post.

He closed the laptop, walked out to the living room, and poured himself a glass of cold water.

Within four minutes, the internet exploded.

By midnight, the recording had crossed twenty million views. By seven the following morning, it had surpassed one hundred million.

Ilya sat on his couch in a Red Sox hoodie, watching the coverage unfold across three separate television monitors mounted on his wall. On ESPN, analysts sat in stunned silence as the unedited audio played over national airwaves, Crowell’s raspy, angry voice echoing through millions of living rooms across North America. On CNN, legal experts were already breaking down the potential criminal liability of Crowell’s threats, pointing out explicit elements of extortion and workplace harassment under federal law.

But what caught Ilya’s attention was the street coverage coming out of New York.

It had started at five in the morning—a small, organized group of Boston fans boarding a chartered bus at South Station. By noon, it was an armada.

Thousands of Red Sox and Bears supporters had organized a massive, spontaneous convoy across State Lines. Buses, passenger trains, and hundreds of personal vehicles streamed down Interstate 95, converging on Manhattan.

The street outside the NHL headquarters on 6th Avenue was completely blocked.

Ilya watched the live helicopter footage in disbelief. The crowd stretched for six city blocks—a vast, surging sea of Bears black and gold mixed with Red Sox navy and red. Pride flags waved alongside worn replica jerseys bearing HOLLANDER 24 and ROZANOV 81.

Handmade signs cut through the afternoon sun, held high above a sea of winter coats and team caps:

PROTECT OUR CAPTAINS.

LOVE WINS CHAMPIONSHIPS.

BOSTON STANDS TOGETHER.

The sound of the crowd chanting vibrated through the television speakers, a thunderous, unified roar echoing off the glass and steel of the New York skyscrapers: "FIRE CROWELL! FIRE CROWELL!"

On the center monitor, a live field report cut through the ambient noise of the apartment. A seasoned sports correspondent stood on a concrete median in the center of Sixth Avenue, his winter parka pulled tight against the wind, clutching a microphone with a gloved hand as the chaos swirled behind him.

"If you are just joining us," the reporter shouted into the mic, leaning in so his voice could carry over the wall of sound behind him, "what we are witnessing right now outside the National Hockey League headquarters is entirely unprecedented in the history of North American professional sports. What began at dawn as three chartered buses from South Station has morphed into a full-scale occupation of midtown Manhattan by Boston sports fans."

The camera zoomed out, panning across the vast, surging crowd that effectively choked off traffic for five blocks in either direction.

"I want to stress the sheer surreal nature of this visual," the reporter continued, gesturing toward a cluster of fans holding a massive, hand-painted banner spanning three lanes of traffic. "You have diehard, generational Red Sox supporters standing shoulder-to-shoulder with diehard Bears fans. These are fanbases that usually argue about parking and playoff tickets, but today, they are operating as a single, fiercely protective unit. We’ve seen local union workers in hi-vis jackets holding Pride flags next to college students wearing replica 2014 championship jerseys. The message coming out of Massachusetts today is unequivocal: an attack on Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander is an attack on the city of Boston itself."

The live feed suddenly jolted as the camera operator swung toward the barricades near the building's primary glass entrance. A small, vocal group of counter-protesters—carrying megaphone rigs and aggressive signs—attempted to push through the metal bike-racks, trying to provoke a reaction from the front line of the rally.

Before security personnel could even react, the Boston supporters moved.

They didn't throw punches, and they didn't break line. Instead, a row of nearly fifty fans—led by a group of burly off-duty Boston firefighters wearing matching Bears hoodies—locked arms tightly at the elbows. They formed a thick, immovable human wall, blocking the agitators' path and absorbing the pressure without yielding an inch of ground. They stood silent and stoic, holding the perimeter until a squad of NYPD officers moved in to separate the groups and restore order.

The television reporter shook his head, a look of genuine awe crossing his face as he turned back to the camera. "As you can see, NYPD is actively keeping the peace, but the solidarity here is absolute, fierce, and entirely unstoppable. The league office thought they were dealing with a routine PR crisis. They clearly did not account for what happens when you anger the entire sports culture of New England."

In his silent penthouse, miles away from the roaring streets of New York, Ilya leaned forward. He rested his chin in his calloused hands, his blue eyes reflected in the glow of the television monitors as he watched the city that had adopted him march into battle for his family.

A tight, painful lump formed in his throat—a deep, overwhelming warmth that swept through his chest, burning away every remaining trace of the quiet, lingering fear he had carried since leaving Moscow years ago. Back home, survival had meant silence. It had meant shrinking himself down, hiding his heart behind cold eyes and iron discipline, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Now, looking at thousands of strangers standing in the cold, screaming his name and defending his right to love the man who made him whole, the last wall inside him collapsed.

He was no longer alone. He had a team, a city, and a family that belonged to him just as much as he belonged to them.

On the monitor, the screen split to broadcast a live press briefing directly from Major League Baseball offices in Manhattan. Commissioner Daniel Ortega stepped up to the podium, his posture rigid and his expression carved from stone. He didn't wait for questions; he adjusted his glasses, looked straight into the bank of camera lenses, and delivered a scathing, surgical strike.

"An attack on Shane Hollander because of who he loves is an attack on every player who believes professional sports should be open to everyone," Ortega declared, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet apartment. "Shane Hollander is a world-class athlete, an exemplary team captain, and a cornerstone of Major League Baseball. Baseball stands with Shane, with Ilya Rozanov, and with every athlete who refuses to hide who they are."

Ilya watched in quiet respect as Ortega fielded a brief barrage of questions, refusing to soften his stance by a single degree. For the head of another major sports league to openly condemn the leadership of the NHL was unprecedented—a total breach of executive etiquette that effectively left Roger Crowell isolated on a rapidly shrinking island.

Less than two hours later, the dam broke completely.

A special bulletin flashed across all three network monitors. The NHL Board of Governors had convened an emergency remote session and voted unanimously to terminate Roger Crowell’s contract immediately. Furthermore, the league confirmed it was fully cooperating with a formal federal investigation led by the FBI into allegations of extortion, harassment, and abuse of official authority.

The monitor shifted back to the podium at league headquarters, where Angela Brooks stepped up to address the nation as the newly appointed Commissioner of the National Hockey League—the first person of color to hold the office in league history.

Brooks stood tall, her presence radiating an unquestionable, grounded authority. She didn't rely on prepared PR scripts. She looked into the camera with sharp, warm eyes and addressed the scandal head-on.

"No player should ever fear losing their career because of who they love," Brooks said, her tone carrying both weight and genuine compassion. "The National Hockey League belongs to every athlete willing to dedicate themselves to this game. Our responsibility is to protect them, not silence them."

Ilya sighed in relief, resting his head back against the cushion. The nightmare that had begun in Crowell's office had dissolved into a historic, sweeping transformation.

The soft, familiar chime of the front door keypad broke the silence of the penthouse.

Ilya didn't move from the sofa, but his shoulders visibly relaxed as familiar footsteps sounded down the entryway hardwood. Shane walked into the living room, wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans, looking slightly windswept from the Boston evening air.

He didn't say anything at first. Shane simply set his car keys on the entry table, walked straight across the living room, and sat down on the sofa right next to Ilya. For a long moment, they just sat side by side, their shoulders pressed together, watching the final news recap on the silent screens.

"I left Sofia with my parents in Ottawa, better to keep her away from this circus until everything calms down." Shane explained, his voice soft in the dim room. "Mom made me promise to tell you that she’s already drafted a five-page letter to the NHL Board of Governors thanking them for firing Crowell but informing them that their press release had three grammatical errors."

A faint, breathless laugh escaped Ilya’s chest—the first real sound he had made in hours. "Yuna is terrifying."

"She is," Shane agreed softly. He reached out, taking Ilya’s large, calloused hand in his own, lacing their fingers together tightly. Shane turned his head, his dark brown eyes searching Ilya’s face with intense, gentle care. "Are you okay? Really?"

"I am better than okay," Ilya assured him. He looked down at their joined hands, feeling the steady, warm pulse beneath Shane’s skin. "The media is insane outside, but inside... inside it is quiet."

"They’re going to be out there for a while," Shane reminded him, a small, fond smile touching his lips. "The whole city is having a block party on your front steps."

Shane leaned in, resting his shoulder heavily against Ilya’s arm. "I read your statement on the plane ride back from Ottawa," Shane whispered, his voice dropping into a tender, solemn pitch. "About... you taking my name."

Ilya turned his hand, gripping Shane’s fingers firmly. "You do not mind? I did not ask you before I posted it. About the name."

"Mind?" Shane looked up, his eyes shining with an emotion so deep and raw it made Ilya’s heart hammer against his ribs. "Ilya... when I read that, I had to pull my hoodie over my face so the other passengers wouldn't see me crying on the plane."

Shane sat up slightly, turning to face Ilya fully on the couch. "Sofia asked me about it tonight before she went to sleep. She asked if 'Papa Ilya' was really going to have the same last name as us now. I told her yes. And she asked if that meant we were a real team forever."

Shane reached into his pocket and pulled out two folded pieces of paper—a legal document stamped with the official seal of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and another one with the official seal of the Province of Ontario.

He laid them gently on Ilya’s lap.

"I had my lawyers draft the formal co-adoption papers since we started dating," Shane said softly. "It might have been rushed, but I always known this was where we would end. I was just waiting for the right time. But after everything you did today... after how fiercely you fought for us... there is no one else on this earth I would ever trust with her life. She is your daughter, Ilya. On paper, on the ice, and in every way that matters."

Ilya stared at the documents, his vision blurring slightly around the edges as the gravity of Shane's gift washed over him. He wasn't just being accepted into Shane's life; he was being given a permanent, unbreakable anchor.

Slowly, carefully, Ilya reached into his own hoodie pocket.

He pulled out a small, dark velvet box he had bought on his way to New York. When he had proposed after the parade, it had been a spur of the moment thing, and he did not have a ring. This time, it will be different.

Ilya opened the box. Inside sat a thick, unadorned platinum band, crafted with the same simple strength as the man sitting beside him.

"Shane," Ilya began, his voice thick and rough with emotion. "You gave me a home when I had nothing left. You gave me a daughter. You gave me a future I did not think I was allowed to have."

He looked straight into Shane’s dark eyes, holding the ring between his thumb and forefinger.

"I do not want to be Ilya Rozanov anymore," Ilya whispered, his accent soft and solemn. "I want to be your husband. I want to be Sofia’s father. And I especially want to be a Hollander. Will you marry me?"

Shane stared at the ring, a breathless, radiant smile breaking across his face. He didn't hesitate for a single second.

"Yes," Shane breathed, sliding his hand forward so Ilya could slip the platinum band onto his finger. "Yes, absolutely."

Shane leaned in, cupping Ilya’s jaw in both hands, pulling him into a deep, slow kiss that tasted like relief, victory, and total surrender. Ilya wrapped his broad arms around Shane’s waist, pulling him close, burying his face in the crook of Shane’s neck as the noise of the world outside faded into nothing at all.

They were no longer two captains fighting their battles alone. They were a family—and nothing in the world could tear them apart.

Chapter 12: The Russian Love Machine found love

@BostonBears

WHAT THE FUCK?! WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS HAPPENING?!

So let me get this straight.

The Boston Bears just won their second Stanley Cup in four years under Captain Ilya Rozanov.

The man has basically dragged this franchise back into relevance, collected another Conn Smythe-worthy playoff run, lifted the Cup, kissed someone on the ice...

...and somehow the biggest headline isn't the championship.

It's that the Russian Love Machine™ is apparently off the market.

Not only that, but the man we've spent years watching leave clubs with half of Back Bay seems to have casually informed the entire hockey world that he is either gay or bisexual by kissing Shane Hollander—yes, that Shane Hollander—right there on center ice after the final buzzer.

You know.

The captain of the Boston Red Sox.

The guy with two consecutive World Series rings.

The global ambassador of Rolex.

The first openly gay player in Major League Baseball.

That Shane Hollander.

I'm sorry...

WHAT THE FUCK, ROZANOV?!

Nobody had this on their bingo card.

Congratulations on the Cup, I guess.

But seriously...

WHAT THE FUCK?!!!

Comments:

@PuckBunny1995

No.

No.

NO.

THE RUSSIAN LOVE MACHINE CANNOT BE RETIRED.

I REFUSE TO ACCEPT THIS.

 

@BearsDynasty81

We're celebrating the wrong thing.

The captain just delivered another Stanley Cup.

Can we maybe appreciate that first?

 

@BostonSportsGuy

Exactly.

Dude has two Cups in four seasons.

I couldn't care less who he's dating.

 

@StanleyCupAddict

The only thing I took away from that kiss was that our captain looked happier than I've ever seen him.

Good for him.

 

@HockeyHistoryNerd

Honestly...

Rozanov dating another elite athlete makes perfect sense.

The man is a perfectionist.

Of course, he'd date someone who's more famous than him.

 

@SoxNation24

Be respectful.

He's dating our captain.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Boston sports really said,

"What if our baseball captain dated our hockey captain?"

 

@OriginalSixForever

Disgusting.

He shouldn't have kissed another man on the ice in front of everyone.

Kids were watching.

 

@GreenMonster1912

Kids also watched him raise the Stanley Cup.

Pretty sure that's the part they'll remember.

 

@BearsDynasty81

Imagine watching your captain win the Cup...

...and deciding the kiss bothered you more.

Couldn't be me.

 

@SoxNation24

As long as he treats Shane well, he'll be welcomed by Red Sox fans.

 

@RedSoxTillIDie

Exactly.

Hurt our captain and we'll have problems.

 

@PuckTalk

...why do baseball fans sound threatening?

 

@FenwayBleachers

Because we are.

No body no crime.

 

@BruinsGuy88

I genuinely can't tell if that's a joke.

 

@GreenMonster1912

It's Boston.

Assume it isn't.

 

@Hollander24

Shane has spent years carrying this city on his back.

If Rozanov makes him happy, he's family now.

 

@OriginalSixForever

Still think it's wrong.

Athletes shouldn't push this stuff publicly.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Buddy.

Shane has been openly gay for years.

Won two World Series.

Collected MVP votes.

Captain of the Red Sox.

Boston threw him a standing ovation every Pride Night.

You're yelling into the void.

 

@BaseballIsLife24

Also, you picked literally the worst city to post this in.

 

@PuckTalk

Why?

 

@BaseballIsLife24

Because Boston baseball fans are clinically incapable of letting insults toward Shane slide.

Watch.

 

@RedSoxTillIDie

Already reported him.

 

@FenwayBleachers

Same.

 

@MonsterSeats

Same.

 

@CityOfChampions

Same.

 

@OriginalSixForever

You people are insane.

 

@BackBayFaithful

Nah.

We're loyal.

Big difference.

 

@FenwayBleachers

Out of curiosity...

did anyone else click on this guy's profile?

Interesting that someone posting about "traditional values" has his city publicly visible.

Bold choice.

 

@BaseballIsLife24

Oh...

that's certainly a decision.

 

@BearsDynasty81

Guys...

don't.

 

@GreenMonster1912

Too late.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Relax.

We're not doing anything.

We're just saying...

Boston remembers.

 

@PuckTalk

You baseball people are terrifying.

 

@SoxNation24

We spent years defending Shane from every idiot with a microphone.

Do you really think we're going to start tolerating it now?

 

@HockeyNorth

I came here expecting hockey discussion.

Instead, I discovered Red Sox fans apparently operate like the mafia.

 

@FenwayBleachers

We're actually much nicer.

The mafia usually does not give warnings.

 

@BearsDynasty81

I'm crying.

This thread somehow went from "Rozanov is dating Shane Hollander" to baseball fans accidentally declaring cyber war.

 

@PuckBunny1995

I'm still grieving.

Everyone else has moved on.

I miss the Russian Love Machine era.

 

@StanleyCupAddict

Counterpoint.

The Russian Love Machine found love.

That's actually a pretty good ending. ❤️🏆

---

The Boston Globe

NHL Commissioner Roger Crowell Fired After Explosive Homophobia Scandal; FBI Opens Extortion Investigation as Ilya Rozanov's Recording Shakes Professional Sports

What began as a Stanley Cup celebration has become one of the most consequential scandals in modern North American sports.

Less than forty-eight hours after leading the Boston Bears to their second Stanley Cup championship in four seasons, captain Ilya Rozanov publicly confirmed what millions had witnessed during the championship celebration on TD Garden ice: the man he kissed after lifting the Cup was Boston Red Sox captain Shane Hollander, and the two were in a relationship.

The moment immediately became one of the most talked-about images in recent sports history. While the overwhelming public response was celebratory, sources now confirm that the reaction inside NHL headquarters was very different.

According to documents released over the weekend, Commissioner Roger Crowell privately summoned Rozanov to league offices the morning after the championship parade. What Crowell apparently did not know was that Rozanov recorded the entire conversation.

The recording, uploaded by Rozanov to his personal social media accounts the following day, has since been viewed more than one hundred million times.

Throughout the audio, Crowell repeatedly pressures the Bears captain to issue a public statement claiming that the kiss had been "a joke," insisting that fans had "misunderstood the moment." When Rozanov refuses, the commissioner allegedly threatens disciplinary action, including stripping him of the captaincy and benching him indefinitely if he does not publicly deny being bisexual.

The recording becomes increasingly disturbing as the conversation continues.

Crowell is heard directing multiple homophobic slurs toward both Rozanov and Hollander before describing the relationship as "a disaster for the league." At several points, he refers to the Red Sox captain using explicitly derogatory language while insisting that hockey "cannot become baseball."

Rather than complying, Rozanov ended the meeting without agreeing to any of Crowell's demands.

The following morning, he answered publicly.

Posting the complete, unedited recording online, Rozanov released a written statement confirming not only that he is bisexual, but also announcing that he and Shane Hollander are engaged to be married. In the same statement, he revealed that the couple had already begun legal proceedings for Rozanov to adopt Hollander's daughter, Sofia Yuna Hollander, and that, following the wedding, he intends to legally change his surname from Rozanov to Hollander.

"I have spent enough of my life being told who I should be," Rozanov wrote. "I will not begin my marriage by pretending my family doesn't exist."

The response was immediate.

Within hours, current and former NHL players publicly condemned Crowell's remarks. Several organizations released statements supporting Rozanov, while sponsors reportedly began contacting league offices demanding an explanation for the commissioner's conduct.

The situation escalated further after Major League Baseball Commissioner Daniel Ortega publicly entered the dispute, condemning Crowell's remarks and expressing full support for Hollander, one of baseball's most recognizable stars and the league's first openly gay player.

"An attack on Shane Hollander because of who he loves is an attack on every player who believes professional sports should be open to everyone," Ortega said during an afternoon press conference. "Baseball stands with Shane, with Ilya, and with every athlete who refuses to hide who they are."

Boston responded in characteristic fashion.

Thousands of Red Sox supporters organized buses, trains, and carpools to New York, where they gathered outside NHL headquarters demanding Crowell's resignation. What began as a peaceful demonstration quickly became one of the largest sports-related protests in recent memory, with fans carrying both Red Sox and Bears jerseys alongside Pride flags and handmade signs reading Protect Our Captains, Love Wins Championships, and Boston Stands Together.

Although the demonstrations remained overwhelmingly peaceful, several confrontations between protesters and counter-protesters required police intervention as crowds continued to grow throughout the weekend.

By Monday morning, the NHL Board of Governors announced Crowell's immediate dismissal.

In the same statement, league officials confirmed they had fully cooperated with federal authorities after learning that the recording may contain evidence of attempted extortion and abuse of official authority. Federal investigators later confirmed that the Federal Bureau of Investigation has opened a formal investigation into Crowell's conduct, though officials have declined to comment further while the inquiry remains ongoing.

Just as significant as Crowell's departure is the announcement of his successor.

In a unanimous vote, the Board of Governors appointed Angela Brooks as the National Hockey League's new commissioner, making her the first person of color to lead the league in its history. Brooks, a longtime sports attorney and former deputy commissioner, has frequently spoken about building more inclusive professional organizations and has openly discussed how raising her lesbian daughter shaped her views on leadership, equality, and representation.

During her introductory press conference, Brooks addressed the controversy directly.

"No player should ever fear losing their career because of who they love," she said. "The National Hockey League belongs to every athlete willing to dedicate themselves to this game. Our responsibility is to protect them, not silence them."

Only a week ago, Boston believed it was celebrating another Stanley Cup. Instead, professional sports may have witnessed a defining cultural turning point.

It is difficult to imagine anyone predicting such a sequence of events.

Yet here they are, rewriting the history of professional sports one extraordinary headline at a time.

Comments:

@SoxNation1912

I have never seen an entire sports league implode before breakfast.

 

@BearsForever81

48hs ago we won the Stanley Cup.

Today the commissioner got fired and the FBI is involved.

What the actual hell is happening.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Roger Crowell really listened to Shane Hollander's fanbase and thought,

"Yeah, I can threaten the fiancé."

Bold strategy.

 

@PuckTalk

I'm a hockey fan.

Can one of the baseball people explain why you're all... like this?

 

@MonsterSeats

Because you threatened our captain.

 

@PuckTalk

...that's it?

 

@MonsterSeats

That's it.

 

@GreenMonster1912

No.

That's everything.

 

@BearsDynasty81

I still can't get over the fact that Rozanov RECORDED THE MEETING.

 

@LawAndSports

That's the funniest part.

Crowell thought he was intimidating the captain.

Instead, he accidentally produced Exhibit A.

 

@BostonSportsGuy

Imagine ending a forty-year career because you couldn't mind your own business.

 

@SoxNation24

And then imagine doing it to SHANE HOLLANDER.

Possibly the most beloved athlete in Boston.

 

@PuckHistory

I'm starting to realize hockey fans and baseball fans are built differently.

 

@FenwayBleachers

Correct.

You fight on the ice.

We organize.

 

@PuckHistory

...

That somehow sounds scarier.

 

@RedSoxTillIDie

We didn't even have to organize.

Somebody posted "Bus leaving Fenway at 6."

Five thousand people showed up.

 

@BruinsGuy88

WAIT.

THAT'S HOW THE PROTEST STARTED??

 

@RedSoxTillIDie

Pretty much.

 

@PrideAtFenway

My favorite part is that every interview with Red Sox fans was basically,

"I came because nobody gets to threaten our captain."

 

@BaseballMom76

My son is twelve.

He wears number 24 because of Shane.

When I heard that recording, we got in the car and drove to New York.

 

@RainbowDiamond

People keep saying this is "just sports."

No.

It's bigger than that.

A league commissioner tried to force someone back into the closet.

 

@BearsForever81

The slurs against Shane made me physically sick.

 

@HockeyDad44

Same.

You could hear how calm Ilya stayed.

I don't think I would've.

 

@LegalEagleSports

The recording is honestly incredible evidence.

Threats.

Retaliation.

Discrimination.

Attempted coercion.

Law schools are going to be using this case for years.

 

@OriginalSixFan

Crowell really said,

"Lie about who you are."

Rozanov responded,

"Here's the audio."

 

@BeantownGirl

Not only that.

He announced his engagement.

Said he was adopting Sofia.

And that he was taking Shane's last name.

He somehow made the commissioner look even smaller.

 

@PuckTalk

WAIT.

HE'S TAKING HOLLANDER AS HIS LAST NAME??

I MISSED THAT PART.

 

@BeantownGirl

You missed several federal crimes too.

It's been a busy week.

 

@HockeyNorth

This whole timeline feels AI-generated.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Recap for anyone who blinked:

• Bears win Cup.
• Ilya kisses Shane.
• Commissioner threatens him.
• Ilya records everything.
• Recording goes public.
• Announces engagement.
• Announces adoption.
• Announces surname change.
• Boston invades New York.
• Baseball commissioner joins the fight.
• Crowell gets fired.
• FBI opens investigation.
• NHL gets a new commissioner.

All in, what...

two days?

 

@PuckHistory

Reading it as a list somehow makes it worse.

 

@SoxNation1912

I would like to publicly thank Roger Crowell.

Without him we wouldn't know that Ilya Hollander has a nice ring to it.

 

@HollanderFamilyFan

"Ilya Hollander."

Yeah.

That's going to take some getting used to.

 

@BeantownGrandpa

Not for me.

If the man wants to take his husband's name, good for him.

 

@PuckBunny95

The Russian Love Machine really said,

"I choose domestic bliss."

 

@BearsForever81

The funniest thing is that hockey fans are still processing the relationship.

Meanwhile baseball fans have already accepted Ilya into the family.

 

@FenwayBleachers

Accepted?

Buddy...

he's under protection now.

 

@PuckTalk

...what does that mean?

 

@GreenMonster1912

Exactly what it sounds like.

 

@PuckTalk

You people keep saying things that sound like threats.

 

@MonsterSeats

They're promises.

 

@HockeyNorth

I'm laughing because every hockey fan in this thread is horrified.

 

@SoxNation24

Good.

Stay horrified.

Nobody messes with Boston's captain.

Not a commissioner.

Not a league.

Not anybody.

 

@PrideAtFenway

The thing that makes me happiest isn't even Crowell getting fired.

It's that some little kid watching all this just learned that one of the greatest hockey players alive refused to lie about who he loves—even when it threatened his career.

That's the story people will remember.

Not the man who tried to stop it.

 

@BearsDynasty81

The NHL finally has a commissioner who believes every player belongs in the game.

After this week, that feels like the biggest win of all.

---

@ShaneHollander24

There are moments in life when "thank you" doesn't feel like enough.

Over the past few days, we've watched thousands of people stand up for us—for our family, for our future, and for the simple belief that no one should ever have to choose between the person they love and the career they've spent their entire life building.

We've read your messages and seen the signs outside Fenway and the Garden.

We saw every rainbow flag, and every homemade jersey.

That kind of support is something we'll carry with us for the rest of our lives.

Boston has given us far more than championships.

This city welcomed two kids from very different corners of the world and somehow convinced both of us that we belonged here. One of us came from Canada, and the other came from Moscow. Neither of us was born in Massachusetts, but somewhere along the way, Boston became home.

Home isn't always where you're born.

Sometimes it's where people decide you're family.

We'll never forget what you did for us.

Thank you for reminding us why we fell in love with this city.

❤️

— Shane & Ilya

Comments:

@RedSox

You'll never have to thank us for loving our captains ❤️

 

@BostonBears

You gave this city everything you had.

Supporting you was the easiest decision we've ever made.

🐻❤️

 

@CityOfBoston

You call Boston home.

Boston is proud to call you family.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Who's cutting onions?

 

@BearsForever81

Yeah, I didn't need my heart today anyway.

 

@DirtyWater617

This city didn't adopt you.

You adopted us.

 

@SouthieMom

I've lived here for sixty-eight years.

I've never been prouder of Boston than I was seeing those crowds in New York.

 

@BostonStrong

The signs weren't for Shane and Ilya.

They were for every kid watching.

 

@PrideAtFenway

Exactly.

This was never just about two athletes.

 

@LittleLeagueCoach

My twelve-year-old son read your message to me tonight.

He looked at me and said, "So, people really can change sports."

Yes, buddy.

They can.

 

@GreenMonsterSeats

You won us championships.

The least we could do was take a bus to New York.

 

@MBTAOfficial

Worth every delayed train.

 

@BostonSportsGuy

The MBTA making it to New York on time?

Now that's fiction.

 

@FenwayFaithful

LMAOOOOO

 

@BaseballDad44

My daughter asked why everyone was cheering for two men holding hands.

I told her, "Because they're good people."

That's the world I want her to grow up in.

 

@BearsDynasty81

Boston has had great athletes.

Boston has had legends.

Very few become family.

You two did.

 

@SoxNation1912

Japan.

Canada.

Moscow.

Boston.

Life is funny sometimes.

 

@NorthEndMaria

You said Boston became home.

I hope you know you have become part of ours too.

 

@BostonEMS

We were at the protest.

Would do it again tomorrow.

 

@MassGeneral

Love always deserves defending.

 

@OriginalSixFan

Years from now people will remember the championships.

I'll remember this video.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Forever our captains.

Forever Boston. ❤️🐻⚾

---

@redsox

Three rings.

Three banners.

Three World Series.

Some victories are measured in trophies.

Some are measured in the people waiting for you when the final out is recorded.

Congratulations, Captain. ❤️

#DirtyWater #RedSox #WorldSeriesChampions #ThreePeat

Photo:

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov stand on the infield at Fenway Park moments after the World Series celebration. Shane is still wearing his home Red Sox uniform, his jersey streaked with champagne and dirt from the postgame celebration, while Ilya wears a Red Sox jersey with HOLLANDER 24 across the back. Between them sits the Commissioner's Trophy on its podium, glittering beneath the stadium lights. Shane cups Ilya's face with one hand as they kiss at the center of the diamond, while the Green Monster and thousands of celebrating fans blur together in the background beneath streams of red and navy confetti.

Comments:

@FenwayFaithful

THREE.

PEAT.

BABY.

 

@DirtyWater617

The Yankees can keep twenty-seven.

We've got Shane Hollander.

 

@BaseballHistory

Someone wrap Shane in bubble wrap.

Do NOT let anything happen to this man.

 

@GreenMonsterSeats

I'm saying this respectfully.

If the front office EVER trades Hollander...

we riot.

 

@SoxNation1912

Not "riot."

We hunt down the GM.

 

@MonsterSeats

Exactly.

 

@FenwayLawyer

I'm a lawyer.

Officially, I cannot endorse that.

Unofficially...

Don't even think about trading him.

 

@BaseballGrandpa

Boston lost Babe Ruth once.

We spent eighty-six years paying for it.

I refuse to live through another curse.

 

@CurseBreaker04

There will NOT be a Second Bambino.

Protect Shane at all costs.

 

@FenwayForever

Give him a lifetime contract.

I don't care if he's fifty.

Let him retire here.

 

@MLBUpdates

Three consecutive World Series.

One captain.

An all-time Boston legend.

 

@BostonStrong

Forget the key to the city.

Rename the city.

 

@SoxFanSince88

City of Hollander has a nice ring to it.

 

@TakeThatYankees

THREE IN A ROW.

TAKE THAT, NEW YORK.

 

@YankeesTears

The silence from Yankees fans is beautiful.

 

@BaseballTalk

Imagine trying to explain to someone ten years ago that Boston would three-peat with an openly gay captain.

Sport really can change.

 

@PrideAtFenway

Every Pride Night sold out.

Every June the rainbow jerseys disappear from the team store.

Every October he brings us another championship.

What a captain.

 

@LittleLeagueCoach

Half my team wears number 24 now.

The other half wants to.

 

@BearsForever81

Bears fan checking in.

Congratulations, Captain Hollander.

Take good care of ours.

 

@BostonBears

💙🐻❤️⚾

 

@PuckTalk

I still laugh every time Ilya wears a Hollander jersey.

 

@HockeyNorth

He won two Stanley Cups.

Now he voluntarily became a baseball WAG.

Legend.

 

@IlyaFan81

Look at him smiling.

I've watched that man play hockey for years.

I've never seen him look this happy.

 

@SoxNation24

The funniest part is that Ilya looks just as proud as if he'd won the World Series himself.

 

@FenwayFaithful

He probably celebrated harder than half the roster.

 

@RedSoxMom

I love that this picture isn't just about the championship.

It's about having someone to celebrate it with.

 

@BaseballAndLife

Three championships.

A fiancé.

And a daughter.

I'd say Shane's winning at life.

 

@SofiaFanClub

I just know Sofia is going to grow up thinking championship parades are a yearly tradition.

 

@BostonSportsGuy

Imagine this household.

Three World Series trophies.

Two Stanley Cups.

One very confused child wondering why everyone keeps throwing parades for her dads.

 

@DirtyWater617

I don't care what anyone says.

This is one of the greatest sports photos Boston has ever produced.

 

@GreenMonsterSeats

Build the statue.

Don't wait until they retire.

Do it now.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Three rings, baby.

Long live Captain Hollander. ❤️🏆🏆🏆

---

@ScottHunter

I've rewritten this caption a hundred times.

Every version either felt too rehearsed or too afraid, so I'm just going to tell the truth.

For years, I convinced myself that if I played well enough, worked hard enough, won enough, people would only see the captain. They wouldn't ask questions about the rest of my life. It was easier that way. Hockey was everything, and I told myself that maybe everything else could wait.

The problem with waiting is that eventually you realize you're waiting for permission that no one can actually give you.

A few months ago, I watched another captain kiss the man he loved in front of millions of people after winning the Stanley Cup. Then I watched him refuse to apologize for it. I watched him stand up to the most powerful man in hockey, protect his family, and choose honesty over fear, knowing exactly what it could cost him.

I also watched Shane Hollander stand beside him through every second of it.

Neither of them knows how much that mattered to people like me.

Seeing two athletes refuse to shrink themselves made me realize I'd spent years making myself smaller than I needed to be.

So today, I'm done hiding.

I'm gay.

To my teammates, the Admirals organization, and the people I've trusted enough to tell before today, thank you for loving me long before the rest of the world knew.

To every kid watching hockey who has ever wondered whether there is a place for them here, there is. There always should have been.

And to Ilya and Shane...

Thank you.

Because you reminded me that courage has a funny way of becoming contagious.

❤️🏒

Comments:

@NYAdmirals

We couldn't be prouder to call you, our captain.

We love you, Scott. ❤️

 

@NHL

Hockey is better because you're in it.

 

@BostonBears

Nothing but respect.

Welcome. 💙🐻

 

@ShaneHollander24

From one captain to another.

Congratulations, Scott. ❤️

 

@IlyaRozanov81

Even old men deserve love.

 

@ScottHunter

Fuck you, Rozanov

Thank you, Hollander

❤️

 

@PuckCentral

This is one of the most important days in NHL history.

 

@HockeyNight

Two captains.

Two organizations.

One league that's finally beginning to change.

 

@AdmiralsFaithful

Our captain.

Always has been.

Always will be.

 

@NYForever

The only thing I care about is whether you keep leading the Admirals into the playoffs.

Everything else is your business.

 

@RainbowRink

"I'd spent years making myself smaller than I needed to be."

That line hit me like a truck.

 

@PrideOnIce

Every player who comes out makes it easier for the next one.

Thank you.

 

@BaseballFan24

Shane really has become the accidental patron saint of queer athletes.

 

@FenwayFaithful

The funniest thing about this whole timeline is that Shane never set out to become a symbol.

The man just wanted to play baseball.

 

@PuckTalk

Can we appreciate how much courage this takes?

Scott didn't have to say anything.

He chose to.

 

@AdmiralsSeasonTickets

Captain yesterday.

Captain today.

Captain tomorrow.

Nothing changes.

 

@SportsWriterCA

I don't think people realize how historic this is.

Within months, the NHL has gone from zero openly queer players to multiple captains.

That's culture changing in real time.

 

@BroadwayBlue

Remember when people said Ilya coming out would "hurt hockey"?

Looks like it helped someone instead.

 

@PuckHistory

That's how representation works.

You don't always know who's watching.

 

@HockeyDad44

My teenage son came out to us last year.

Watching players like Scott and Ilya means more to him than I can explain.

Thank you.

 

@MomsLoveHockey

Same here.

My daughter texted me this post with nothing but three crying emojis.

She feels seen.

 

@OriginalSixFan

This league feels completely different than it did a year ago.

In the best possible way.

 

@AdmiralsLockerRoom

Ride with our captain.

Always.

❤️⚓

 

@PuckBunny95

Okay but can we also appreciate that Scott really said,

"I saw those two idiots in love and decided to stop lying to myself."

 

@BearsDynasty81

Hollander and Rozanov collecting Stanley Cups, World Series, and accidentally collecting queer players.

 

@SportsEquality

The most beautiful part of this isn't the announcement.

It's that Scott's story begins with fear...

and ends with gratitude.

I hope that's where hockey keeps going.

---

The Athletic

Inside the Crowell Files: How the Montreal Metros and Toronto Guardians Became the Face of the NHL's "Old Boys Club"

When Roger Crowell was dismissed as commissioner of the National Hockey League, many assumed the scandal would end with one secretly recorded conversation.

Instead, investigators now believe that recording may have been only the beginning.

Over the past few months, documents obtained through federal subpoenas, internal league correspondence, and interviews with former front-office employees have painted a deeply troubling picture of how two of hockey's most historic franchises—the Montreal Metros and the Toronto Guardians—allegedly became central pillars of a league-wide effort to preserve what one internal memorandum described as "the traditional image of professional hockey."

That image, investigators now claim, was overwhelmingly white, overwhelmingly heterosexual, and deliberately exclusionary.

Neither organization has been formally charged with criminal wrongdoing, but both remain under extensive league review as independent investigators examine years of hiring practices, internal communications, and player personnel decisions. Ownership is reportedly considering selling their respective franchises amid mounting public pressure and the growing possibility of severe league sanctions.

According to several former executives who spoke on condition of anonymity, Crowell's administration quietly rewarded organizations that aligned themselves with his vision for the league. Teams that embraced diversity initiatives often found themselves receiving little institutional support, while clubs perceived as representing hockey's "traditional culture" allegedly enjoyed preferential treatment in areas ranging from league marketing to executive appointments and special-event hosting.

The Metros and Guardians became the clearest beneficiaries.

Both organizations were repeatedly promoted as "model franchises" despite years of allegations involving discriminatory locker-room environments, racially insensitive incidents, and hostility toward LGBTQ+ fans and staff.

Former employees describe an unwritten but widely understood expectation surrounding player recruitment. Prospects were to be evaluated not only on talent, but on whether they would "fit the locker room."

Investigators now believe that phrase carried a far more troubling meaning than simple chemistry.

Internal scouting reports reportedly included coded language such as "traditional hockey character," "safe personality," and "marketable family image." Former scouts allege those descriptions were frequently used to distinguish white, straight players from prospects who were racially diverse, politically outspoken, or simply perceived as different from hockey's long-established norms.

One former scout told investigators that he was explicitly instructed to lower a prospect's internal ranking after learning he had attended a Pride fundraiser during the offseason. Another recalled being warned that drafting too many international or minority players would "change the identity of the locker room."

Perhaps the most disturbing allegations concern the treatment of players who attempted to challenge that culture from within.

League investigators have confirmed that several complaints regarding racial harassment and homophobic abuse were either dismissed outright or quietly closed without disciplinary action during Crowell's tenure. Former players describe locker rooms where slurs were normalized, racist nicknames went unpunished, and complaints were viewed as signs that a player "couldn't handle hockey culture."

One retired player summarized the atmosphere bluntly.

"You didn't have to participate," he said. "You just had to stay quiet while everyone else did."

The investigation has also cast renewed scrutiny on several players whose careers flourished under Roger Crowell despite years of allegations that were either ignored or quietly buried by league officials.

Among the most prominent names are Dallas Kent, Patrice Drapeau, and Gilbert Comeau, all three of whom have now been permanently barred from the National Hockey League by Commissioner Angela Brooks pending the outcomes of ongoing legal and league investigations.

Kent, once considered one of the league's premier centers, had long been dogged by allegations of sexual assault that never resulted in meaningful league discipline during Crowell's tenure. According to investigators, complaints were repeatedly minimized or dismissed, with internal communications suggesting that executives feared damaging the reputation of one of the NHL's marquee stars.

Brooks reopened the files within days of taking office, and after reviewing previously undisclosed evidence and witness testimony, announced that Kent would no longer be eligible to play while criminal proceedings move forward.

The cases involving Patrice Drapeau and Gilbert Comeau paint an equally disturbing picture of the culture that had been allowed to flourish inside certain organizations. Multiple former players have accused both men of participating in—and, in some instances, leading—violent hazing rituals that extended far beyond the realm of so-called "rookie traditions."

Witnesses describe incidents involving forced confinement, physical intimidation, humiliation, and assaults disguised as team-building exercises. What had long been dismissed within hockey circles as "part of earning your place" is now being examined by investigators as conduct that may constitute criminal assault.

According to the league's report, complaints involving both players were repeatedly suppressed under Crowell's administration, with victims allegedly pressured by coaches, executives, and veteran teammates to remain silent for the sake of team unity. Several players who refused to participate in the hazing culture reportedly saw their careers stall, while those who came forward were labeled as locker-room problems.

In announcing the suspensions, Brooks delivered one of the strongest statements of her young tenure.

"For too long, talent was treated as a shield against accountability. It is not. The National Hockey League cannot claim to have entered a new era while continuing to reward conduct that has traumatized players, endangered careers, and violated the basic dignity every person deserves. Winning hockey games will never excuse violence, abuse, or sexual misconduct."

The decision has been welcomed by many current players, who describe it as a long-overdue break from the culture that defined much of the Crowell era. Others have cautioned that the investigation is far from over, with league officials confirming that additional disciplinary actions remain possible as investigators continue reviewing decades of allegations involving hazing, discrimination, and abuse across multiple organizations.

Although none of the three players were ever officially suspended, documents reviewed by league investigators suggest their names circulated informally among executives as individuals who were "not good for the league."

No public explanation was ever offered.

Under newly appointed Commissioner Angela Brooks, that practice has come to an end.

For the Montreal Metros and Toronto Guardians, however, the road ahead appears considerably more uncertain.

Sponsors have begun distancing themselves from both organizations, season-ticket holders have demanded sweeping institutional reform, and ownership groups now face growing calls to either fundamentally transform the culture surrounding their teams or step aside entirely.

What once appeared to be isolated allegations now looks increasingly like a coordinated system that rewarded silence, protected discrimination, and punished those who challenged it.

For decades, many fans assumed hockey's lack of diversity was simply the product of history. The Crowell investigation suggests history may have been only part of the story.

The rest, investigators argue, was policy.

Comments:

@HockeyHistory

I've been watching this league for forty years.

I knew there were problems.

I don't think I ever imagined they were this organized.

 

@PuckCentral

The part that scares me isn't the slurs.

It's the fact that they apparently had a system.

 

@SportsLawWeekly

Exactly.

Individual bigotry is horrible.

Institutional bigotry is something else entirely.

 

@MetroFaithful

As a lifelong Montreal fan...

I'm devastated.

If even half of this is true, everyone involved needs to go.

 

@GuardianBlue

Same.

Keep the logo and colors, but clean house.

 

@OriginalSixForever

Being an Original Six team should mean preserving hockey history.

Not preserving prejudice.

 

@PrideOnIce

Imagine how many careers we'll never know about because someone decided they "didn't fit the locker room."

 

@RainbowRink

That phrase makes my skin crawl now.

 

@SportsJournalism

The coded language is what gets me.

"Traditional."

"Marketable."

"Good hockey character."

Everyone knew what those words meant.

Nobody wanted to admit it.

 

@HockeyMom89

My son is Black.

He's eleven and we've spent years telling him hockey is changing.

Reading this article hurts because it confirms that some of those fears weren't imagined.

 

@YouthCoachOntario

I've coached youth hockey for twenty years.

The amount of damage adults can do with one sentence like "he doesn't fit" is unbelievable.

Kids and parents hear it.

Everyone knows what's really being said.

 

@JusticeForSurvivors

Reading what investigators uncovered about Dallas Kent made me feel sick.

If even half of it is true, he shouldn't be anywhere near an NHL roster.

 

@PuckTalk

The fact that Crowell protected these guys for years is horrifying.

The new commissioner didn't blacklist them because of politics.

She blacklisted them because of rape allegations and violent hazing that should have ended careers a long time ago.

 

@AtlanticHockey

People keep saying, "What a waste of talent."

I'm thinking about the people whose careers, and lives, were damaged because talented players kept being protected.

That's the real tragedy.

 

@QuebecPride

Calling what Patrice Drapeau and Gilbert Comeau did "hazing" almost feels dishonest.

From the article, it sounds like assault.

Maybe it's time hockey stops hiding behind euphemisms.

 

@BearsForever81

Funny how the league suddenly got healthier the moment Crowell disappeared.

 

@PuckHistory

First Ilya.

Now Scott Hunter.

Players speaking openly.

A commissioner who actually wants diversity.

It's amazing how quickly things can change once the person at the top stops fighting progress.

 

@HockeyDad44

I keep thinking about the players who retired believing the problem was them.

When really...

the system was rigged against them from the beginning.

 

@SportsEthics

One sentence from the article won't leave my head.

"Talent should determine who plays in this league."

It's depressing that it even had to be said.

 

@BostonSportsGuy

Crowell really spent years trying to build an all-white, straight league.

Boston accidentally built the exact opposite...

and won championships doing it.

Funny how that works.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Turns out diversity wasn't bad for hockey.

Bad commissioners were.

 

@PuckNorth

I honestly laughed at the irony.

Crowell wanted a certain "image."

The face of hockey ended up being a bisexual Russian captain married to an openly gay Asian baseball superstar.

Life has a sense of humor.

 

@MontrealRebuild

As someone who's loved the Metros my whole life...

sell the team.

Seriously.

No championship is worth carrying this stain.

 

@GuardianSeasonTicket

I've already canceled my season tickets.

I'll come back when ownership changes.

 

@OriginalSixForever

People keep saying,

"But think about the tradition."

No.

Tradition isn't an excuse.

It's a responsibility.

 

@SportsProfessor

This article is really about power.

Racism and homophobia survived because people with power rewarded them.

Take away that protection...

and suddenly everyone starts talking.

 

@PuckTalk

The FBI investigating the commissioner wasn't on my bingo card this year.

Neither was discovering half the league was apparently living under an unwritten blacklist.

 

@NHLInsider

I'm more interested in the review of past draft decisions.

If investigators find prospects were deliberately passed over because they were Black, Asian, Indigenous, or openly queer...

that's going to rewrite decades of league history.

 

@HockeyCanada

How many "busts" were actually victims?

That's the question I can't stop asking myself.

 

@RedSoxNation

As a baseball fan...

I didn't understand why hockey fans were celebrating Crowell getting fired.

I get it now.

This wasn't just a bad commissioner.

This was a man shaping an entire culture.

 

@PrideAtFenway

The saddest part?

If Ilya hadn't recorded that meeting...

would any of this have come out?

 

@BearsDynasty81

Probably not.

One captain decided enough was enough.

The dominoes never stopped falling after that.

 

@MetroFaithful

I don't want my team protected.

I want the truth.

If we're guilty, then expose all of it.

The only way hockey moves forward is by finally being honest about how it got here.

 

@HockeyHistory

Years from now, people will probably remember Crowell as the commissioner who tried to force a captain back into the closet.

I think history will remember something else instead.

He accidentally exposed an entire system that had been hiding in plain sight.

---

@PuckCentral

NHL insiders reporting that preliminary extension talks between the Bears and captain Ilya Rozanov are expected to begin after the season.

Should be one of the biggest contracts of the decade.

 

@HockeyInsider

Makes sense.

He led the franchise to multiple Stanley Cups.

They better pay whatever he asks.

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

I'm already opening Excel.

 

@BruinsGuy88

Can't wait for Hockey Twitter to spend six months pretending we're all salary cap experts.

 

@PuckTalk

As is tradition.

 

@SportsBoston

You all realize this isn't just a hockey contract anymore, right?

 

@PuckTalk

...what?

 

@SportsBoston

If Ilya leaves Boston...

Shane leaves Boston.

 

@HockeyNorth

Why?

 

@FenwayFaithful

Because they're engaged.

 

@PuckTalk

...

OH.

 

@BearsForever81

...

OH NO.

 

@MonsterSeats

Welcome.

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

Wait.

WAIT.

This affects baseball too??

 

@DirtyWater617

Buddy.

This affects everything.

 

@PuckHistory

Surely Shane could just commute?

 

@EntireCityOfBoston

Delete this.

 

@PuckHistory

I'm asking a genuine question.

 

@GreenMonster1912

We don't negotiate with evil.

 

@PuckTalk

...evil?

 

@FenwayFaithful

The sentence "Shane Hollander leaves Boston."

Don't ever put those words together again.

 

@BaseballStatsGuy

I'm already researching NHL collective bargaining agreements.

 

@PuckAnalytics

...why?

 

@BaseballStatsGuy

To understand maximum contract lengths.

 

@PuckAnalytics

You've never watched hockey.

 

@BaseballStatsGuy

I watched a YouTube video.

I'm basically an expert now.

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

Please stop.

 

@RedSoxNation

No.

Explain signing bonuses.

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

Why.

 

@RedSoxNation

Because I need to know how we keep Shane in Boston.

 

@PuckTalk

I don't think that's how hockey contracts work.

 

@FenwayLawyer

Then explain how they work.

Use diagrams.

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

...

 

@HockeyNorth

Guys.

It's literally just one player negotiating.

 

@BostonSportsGuy

No.

It's two leagues negotiating with our collective sanity.

 

@PuckHistory

I don't understand why baseball fans are acting like civilization ends if Shane leaves.

 

@BaseballGrandpa

Son.

We sold Babe Ruth once.

We spent eighty-six years haunted.

Do you honestly think we're risking another curse?

 

@PuckHistory

...

Fair point.

 

@DirtyWater617

You people have salary cap problems.

We have generational trauma.

 

@PuckAnalytics

I'm crying.

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

I've got baseball fans in my DMs asking if front-loaded contracts increase marital stability.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Well?

Do they?

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN??

 

@MonsterSeats

Answer the question.

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

I CAN'T.

 

@SportsLawCA

I've never seen baseball fans collectively learn an entirely different CBA overnight.

 

@BaseballStatsGuy

I'm on page 183.

 

@SportsLawCA

There are pages??

 

@BaseballStatsGuy

There are now.

I printed everything.

 

@PuckTalk

This is becoming unhealthy.

 

@GreenMonster1912

Healthy was three championships ago.

We've moved beyond healthy.

 

@HockeyNorth

Wait...

are baseball fans actually listening to hockey podcasts now?

 

@SpokedWheelPod

Our audience analytics show a 430% increase from Massachusetts.

 

@PuckTalk

OH MY GOD THEY'RE EVERYWHERE.

 

@NHLNumbers

Why is "no-movement clause" trending?

 

@RedSoxNation

Because we're learning.

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

STOP LEARNING.

 

@BaseballHistory

Too late.

We've reached retained salary.

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

WHO TAUGHT YOU RETAINED SALARY?!

 

@BaseballHistory

Reddit.

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

Of course.

 

@HockeyNorth

I have never been afraid of baseball fans before today.

 

@PuckTalk

Same.

I thought they just argued about OPS.

 

@FenwayFaithful

We do.

This is our offseason enrichment activity.

 

@BaseballMom76

My husband walked into the living room and asked why I was watching a forty-minute video titled Understanding the NHL Salary Cap.

I looked him dead in the eye and said, "For Shane."

He nodded and brought me snacks.

 

@PuckTalk

I'M LOSING MY MIND.

 

@BearsForever81

You know what?

I actually respect the dedication.

 

@MonsterSeats

Good.

Now explain escrow.

 

@BearsForever81

...I don't know what escrow is.

 

@MonsterSeats

Neither do we.

Figure it out.

Shane's future depends on it.

 

@PuckAnalytics

This is the most Boston thing I've ever witnessed.

 

@CapFriendlyNerd

I've spent fifteen years trying to explain hockey contracts to hockey fans.

Baseball fans learned enough to argue with me in THREE DAYS.

I'm genuinely horrified.

 

@NHLMemes

Hockey Twitter discovering that Baseball Twitter isn't a fandom.

It's an organized religion with a law degree and unresolved childhood trauma.

 

@FenwayFaithful

Correct.

And if anyone even whispers the phrase "Shane Hollander leaves Boston," we're adding them to the watchlist.

 

@PuckTalk

...what watchlist?

 

@FenwayFaithful

Exactly.

---

Posted by @LuluLives

First of all: FUCK CROWELL.

Seriously.

Fuck that guy.

May every future history book describe him as "that asshole who got fired after threatening one of the greatest captains in hockey because he was in love."

Good riddance.

Second...

I never thought I would say these words in my entire existence.

Good on Boston for invading New York.

Read that sentence again.

Boston.

Invading.

New York.

And somehow...

they were the GOOD GUYS.

What the actual fuck is this timeline?

THIRD.

I owe every single one of my followers an apology.

For YEARS I have proudly declared myself the queen of completely unhinged sports ships.

I have paired teammates.

Rivals.

Olympians from different disciplines.

I once wrote twelve thousand words explaining why two Formula One drivers were soulmates because they stood next to each other in a podium photo.

My credentials are impeccable.

And yet...

I MISSED THE GREATEST SPORTS CROSSOVER OF THE CENTURY.

While I was busy making conspiracy boards connecting Cliff Marleau and Ilya Rozanov because they accidentally smiled at each other during warmups...

THE UNIVERSE WAS WRITING BASEBALL × HOCKEY ROMANCE RIGHT UNDER MY GODDAMN NOSE.

A TWO-TIME WORLD SERIES CHAMPION.

AND THE CAPTAIN OF THE STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS.

HOW DID I NOT SEE IT?!

How?!

I have failed you.

I have failed Yuri on Ice.

I have failed AO3.

I have failed fanfiction itself.

From this day forward...

I kneel before a higher power.

ALL HAIL THE CHURCH OF HOLLANOV.

This is the hill upon which I shall happily perish.

Comments:

@BlueLineChaos

Lulu somehow took the biggest sports scandal of the decade...

...and immediately made it about shipping.

Never change.

 

@AO3Veteran

Boston invades New York.

There are riots.

Crowell gets fired.

The FBI gets involved.

Lulu:

"Guys... baseball x hockey yaoi crossover?"

 

@StanleyMemes

I swear Lulu experiences world events differently than the rest of humanity.

 

@HatTrickHarry

Breaking News:

League commissioner exposed for corruption.

Lulu:

"But have we considered the romantic implications?"

 

@PuckDaddy

"Lulu-it."

There isn't another verb that describes this.

 

@HockeyHistory

This woman could witness the moon landing and somehow conclude Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin had unresolved sexual tension.

 

@PastaForDays

The funniest part is she isn't even embarrassed.

She's apologizing because...

...she shipped the WRONG PEOPLE.

 

@BaseballEnjoyer

Everyone else:

"Crowell finally got what he deserved."

Lulu:

"I have committed a grave shipping error."

 

@SportsAnimeTrash

I have failed AO3.

I'm crying.

 

@ChurchOfHollanov

Our congregation welcomes our newest disciple.

 

@LuluLives

I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A DISCIPLE.

I WAS JUST TOO BLIND TO SEE THE TRUTH.

 

@RedSoxNation

The fact that this relationship united hockey Twitter, baseball Twitter, and AO3 was not on my bingo card.

 

@BostonBearsFan

Honestly...

Hollanov sounds way better than Rozlander.

 

@BaseballPurist

Please don't start a ship naming war.

It will get the fanfic writers involved!

😱

 

@AO3Veteran

Too late.

There are already fifty-three fanfics.

 

@StatsGuy88

FIFTY-THREE?!

They've been publicly together for like...

less than a week.

 

@ArchiveAddict

Twenty-four hours is approximately how long AO3 needs.

 

@IceAndInk

Lulu really saw "major institutional homophobia exposed," "commissioner fired," "historic engagement announcement," and "FBI investigation"...

...and somehow her biggest concern was her shipping accuracy.

 

@PuckTalk

You know what?

Respect.

If you're going to commit to a bit...

commit THAT hard.

 

@LuluLives

I have standards.

If I am going to become delusional...

I am going to be canonically delusional.

 

@FenwayFaithful

"Canonically delusional."

Someone put that on a T-shirt.

 

@ChurchOfHollanov

You have submitted the correct registration paperwork.

The Church of Hollanov now recognizes your sovereignty.

Carry on.

 

@LuluLives

I HAVE BEEN ACKNOWLEDGED BY THE CHURCH.

MY LIFE IS COMPLETE.

Chapter 13: Playlist

1. HOW AM I ONLY LEARNING THIS NOW?? - GOSSIP, by Maneskin.

2. Life had never been that kind to him - It's All Coming Back To Me Now, by Celine Dion. 

3. Oh my god, how did I not put this together?! - Train Wreck, by James Arthur.

4. How can you guys live in Boston and know this little about baseball?! - Centerfield, by John Fogerty. 

5. I'll personally buy you the nicotine patches and the gum - Nice To Meet You, by Myles Smith. 

6. I think I do need help - Family Line, by Conan Gray.

7. That is the first step, and it is the hardest one - Glory, The Score.

8. And just like that, the dark thoughts vanished - Light On, by Maggie Rogers.

9. Took you long enough - New Perspective, by Panic! At The Disco. 

10. There is no 'easier' version of that he would ever choose - Rainbow, by Kacey Musgraves. 

11. BOSTON STANDS TOGETHER - Unkiss Me, by Maroon 5.

12. The Russian Love Machine found love - All We Do Is Win, by Club Danger.